I looked at CNN online today. A man in Australia threw his daughter off a 17 story bridge. A man in LA killed his wife, five children and himself. A Florida mother is on trial for the murder of her three year old daughter. A mother in Texas on trial for killing her two year old daughter.
When asked directly why I have no children, I told one nosy person that it was by choice.
Her reply was " Oh, I guess you hate kids."
Oh yeah, I'm the one who messed up.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Question of the Day
"Do we want to give your father a medicine that will slow the progression of his Alzheimer's disease?" It won't provide improvement, but, it will slow things down.
A no-brainer, this particular question had been anticipated and discussed.
It was decided that,of course we wouldn't do anything to prolong this disease. If Dad was capable of making this decision, he would say no medication. Right?
The problem with hypothetical discussions is they are hypothetical. Hardwired within all of us is a grasping desire to hold on for as long as we can. Chronic invalids who say, "no extreme measures, don't keep me alive on a machine." Living wills created, distributed to family members. And yet when push comes to shove, we shove back as hard as we can. That breathless nod saying " Yes, give me all the damn help you can. I want to live."
There is also a willingness to let go. The time when someone gently releases their grip and simply expires. I like that word, it sounds like a soft sigh. He died sounds hard. He expired, sounds better to me.
But this isn't about me, it's about my Dad. Would he say," I don't know my children anymore, I can't read or comprehend new things but, I still like to have a beer at 4:00 and I love my dog. That's good enough for me. I could stay here for awhile." Or "This sucks. I'm not me anymore. I want out as fast as I can."
I don't know. I can guess. My intuition says the man who managed to stay alive through the Korean War, through 35 years as a cop, through 29 years of a miserable marriage, who had ample opportunity to check out but chose instead the numbing path of alcoholism, would say" Yeah, it sucks, so what else is new? I'll take the medication."
He won't be starting that course of treatment....
A no-brainer, this particular question had been anticipated and discussed.
It was decided that,of course we wouldn't do anything to prolong this disease. If Dad was capable of making this decision, he would say no medication. Right?
The problem with hypothetical discussions is they are hypothetical. Hardwired within all of us is a grasping desire to hold on for as long as we can. Chronic invalids who say, "no extreme measures, don't keep me alive on a machine." Living wills created, distributed to family members. And yet when push comes to shove, we shove back as hard as we can. That breathless nod saying " Yes, give me all the damn help you can. I want to live."
There is also a willingness to let go. The time when someone gently releases their grip and simply expires. I like that word, it sounds like a soft sigh. He died sounds hard. He expired, sounds better to me.
But this isn't about me, it's about my Dad. Would he say," I don't know my children anymore, I can't read or comprehend new things but, I still like to have a beer at 4:00 and I love my dog. That's good enough for me. I could stay here for awhile." Or "This sucks. I'm not me anymore. I want out as fast as I can."
I don't know. I can guess. My intuition says the man who managed to stay alive through the Korean War, through 35 years as a cop, through 29 years of a miserable marriage, who had ample opportunity to check out but chose instead the numbing path of alcoholism, would say" Yeah, it sucks, so what else is new? I'll take the medication."
He won't be starting that course of treatment....
Monday, January 26, 2009
Purple Caterpillars
All journeys begin with a small step and today I have taken my first small step. Will this journey end as so many others have ended, prematurely and unsatisfactorily? For those who know me, my inability to commit to a project has long been a source of amusement.
The detritus remains, a small ceramic mouse who represents an interest in painting ceramics, a long purple caterpillar who was to have blossomed into an afghan, vials of aromatic oils reflect an interest in aromatherapy. Let us not forget the Tarot cards, the seed trays, and the sketchbooks.
By now you get the point. I am not,as they say, a finisher. However, there is one patient man who never fails to encourage me and it is in his honor that I begin once again.
Here's the thing, I can talk a mile a minute all day long, but, faced with a blank page, I don't have anything to say. O.k. I have lots to say, but, I am too damn lazy to type, proofread and spellcheck the feeble imaginings of my diminishing mind. It's amazing how unimportant things seem when so much effort is required to present them.
And what about my other tools, the tone and inflection of my voice, my body language, and hand gestures. Now this is where it gets really hard, the only tool in my kit is words. It's like being down to one crayon in the box.
Which leads to the memory of the day.
I used to eat crayons. They didn't taste good but I persevered. I believed each color would have it's own flavor and so I tried each one. I tried soap a couple of times, how could something in pastel pinks and whites that smelled so good not be just delicious? Don't bother if you haven't tried it. It will only lead to disappointment. Once I found a candy wafer that tasted like the host. That was scary and well just sinful.
Now paste was a treat, a generous dollop on a small torn square of math paper was heaven indeed. I have never encountered anything that tastes like paste. There is a flavor in wax lips that is reminiscent, but, only in a subtle teasing way. How come you never see paste listed in the Treats from the Past websites? I know I wasn't the only one. Dear God, please don't let me be the only one who ate paste. I feel odd enough as it is.
Perhaps I have shared enough for the present. Let those of you bold enough to hear more from a paste eating girl return another day. That is unless this blog goes the way of the purple caterpillar. Time will tell.
The detritus remains, a small ceramic mouse who represents an interest in painting ceramics, a long purple caterpillar who was to have blossomed into an afghan, vials of aromatic oils reflect an interest in aromatherapy. Let us not forget the Tarot cards, the seed trays, and the sketchbooks.
By now you get the point. I am not,as they say, a finisher. However, there is one patient man who never fails to encourage me and it is in his honor that I begin once again.
Here's the thing, I can talk a mile a minute all day long, but, faced with a blank page, I don't have anything to say. O.k. I have lots to say, but, I am too damn lazy to type, proofread and spellcheck the feeble imaginings of my diminishing mind. It's amazing how unimportant things seem when so much effort is required to present them.
And what about my other tools, the tone and inflection of my voice, my body language, and hand gestures. Now this is where it gets really hard, the only tool in my kit is words. It's like being down to one crayon in the box.
Which leads to the memory of the day.
I used to eat crayons. They didn't taste good but I persevered. I believed each color would have it's own flavor and so I tried each one. I tried soap a couple of times, how could something in pastel pinks and whites that smelled so good not be just delicious? Don't bother if you haven't tried it. It will only lead to disappointment. Once I found a candy wafer that tasted like the host. That was scary and well just sinful.
Now paste was a treat, a generous dollop on a small torn square of math paper was heaven indeed. I have never encountered anything that tastes like paste. There is a flavor in wax lips that is reminiscent, but, only in a subtle teasing way. How come you never see paste listed in the Treats from the Past websites? I know I wasn't the only one. Dear God, please don't let me be the only one who ate paste. I feel odd enough as it is.
Perhaps I have shared enough for the present. Let those of you bold enough to hear more from a paste eating girl return another day. That is unless this blog goes the way of the purple caterpillar. Time will tell.
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