Cycling through Life

No, not that kind of cycling. Being a devotee of sloth and a delicate flower of femininity, I didn't learn to ride a bicycle until I was 15. At that point, I thought it would be fun and cute, in a Gidget sort of way, to have my boyfriend teach me how to ride. I never got past wobbling down the street trying not to fall off and bust my ass. 

I tried the same thing three years later when I reached the driving age in Spain, where I lived, and recruited my sailor boyfriend to borrow his friend's sports car and teach me to drive. I promptly massacred a young pine sapling. He married me anyway.

The cycling I have in mind today is of the "going around, coming around" variety. The cycles of life. Beginnings and endings. Reaping what you sow.

My mother, Nancy, has entered a new phase of this very long Alzheimer's Disease journey. As long as she was able, after her diagnosis, she was pretty matter-of-fact and proactive about the illness. She set the example that it was not a tragedy, it was something to deal with as you would any other change in circumstances. She took care of the legalities. She divested herself of the house and belongings, converting it all into the money it would take to cover her care. She moved into a senior living place and whooped it up and fell in love and told everyone she talked to that she had never been so happy in her whole life. And I believe it was true. She voluntarily gave up her car. She dived wholeheartedly into the activities in her community, even trying new things she had been too self-conscious or afraid to try before. She suffered the memory losses, and knew full well what was coming; she had just finished caring for my father through his prolonged trip down the same path. She was 75 years old and had a death sentence of excruciating decline and debilitation.

Alzheimer's is not merely a disease of memory loss. That often seems the most visible to outsiders, and cognitive loss the most horrifying to those in fear of developing it. Though memory blanks are frequently the first clues, that is only a starting point. As it progresses, slowly and inexorably, there are starts and stops, sometimes relatively calm plateaus followed by precipitous loss. The entire body is affected ---- coordination, visual perception, continence, touch, movement, speech. The brain disorder shows up differently in each person, with a general progression which can sometimes be predicted, but not a solid timetable.

Nine years post-diagnosis, Nancy is in the end stage now. Her legs are drawn up to her chest. Her speech is gone and her attempts to communicate come out as drawn out yells and screams. She often appears to be afraid or anxious. Her medical caregivers say she doesn't show signs of pain, but is in some sort of distress, and they are trying to find meds and environmental ways to address it. Sometimes, she still seeks eye contact and smiles. 

My mother took care of me when I was pre-verbal. I couldn't express myself except by cries, which she learned to interpret and hoped she got right. I could not walk or feed myself. I couldn't control my movements with any degree of certainty. I had to have my diapers changed. I expect that she would lie beside me on the bed and cuddle me against her body, as I did with my children, as I do now with her. I'm certain she spoke softly to me, sang to me, reassured me that everything was okay. I did that with my children. It's what mothers do. And now, I find, it's what daughters do, too.

My sister asked me the other day if I had watched Mom sleep and seen her lips sucking while she slept. I have. I used to sit with my babies on my lap and watch intently. I loved when their lips would move as though they were trying to speak. "Talking to the angels" some people call it. And the tiny sucking movements as they slept, during those first few months of life, were utterly precious to see. 

In many ways my mother has returned to infancy. Much of that instinctive behavior we see in newborns is present again. Often it makes me cry, but at the same time I'm so very grateful to be able to be with her as the circle closes. It seems a fitting end.

I Killed a Bug and I Liked It

Last night, about midnight, after Jill was asleep and I was going around making sure the lights were off and doors locked, I almost stepped on a bug in my bare feet!

In the Southland, we've got some bugs of unusual size. People who know me, know that one of my most enduring characteristics is a lifelong fear of bugs. Okay, not fear. Phobia. Twice, over the years, I've become so incapacitated by that fear that I've had to go for treatment. It's not that I think they're annoying, or ugly, or symbolic of everything evil in the universe. It's all that and more. They have all those skinny little legs. They move so fast and unpredictably. Sometimes they fly and even get ON you. And they crunch when you step on them. I could go on.

It's only been a matter of a month or so ago that I was doing the late night circuit and came upon one of those midnight visitors. As usual, I screamed uncontrollably and started doing the tiptoe dance, which brought Jill out of her much-needed sleep. She sighed and took over. She knows her job well. I cowered in the other room while she destroyed the creature, which really was THIS BIG, regardless of what she says, and worried about whether she would properly dispose of the carcass. It's a demand that goes unspoken, but has great repercussions because it can affect the next few days or longer. Unfortunately, she put it in the kitchen trash, right there on top in front of God and everybody, but since I had already ruined her slumber and she had to get up for work at 5:15, I stayed mum and sucked it up like a good soldier. First thing in the morning, I stepped on the trashcan pedal, averted my eyes, and put several perfectly good, unused paper towels on top of the monster.

I have never actually killed one of these creatures myself ----- until last night.

It's true that when I finish writing a novel, I plunge into an abyss. I don't quite know what to do with myself. I cast about for things to do, try to catch passing ideas and see if they'll spin out into some sort of narrative, read and scrabble around on the internet machine, and generally start to feel that I have no particular use in the world, or excuse for taking up oxygen. That can lead to very bad places if left unchecked. And in its wake, fears and phobias are able to resurface from their ever-present hiding places. Kind of like bugs in the walls and crevices.

I've been introspective, off balance, a little weepy, not in the pink, I guess you could say, ever since I finished the last book. In fact, I have two unopened cartons from CreateSpace sitting in the front room, with books inside. So when I encountered that wanton, six-legged varmint last night, I immediately started to freak out and dance around ----- but I didn't scream. Perhaps that is the beginning.

I made a split-second decision not to wake up my blissfully sleeping wife and take on this threat my own self. Our big, brave 55 pound dog looked on as I cast about for a weapon. Spray was my first thought, but that would involve going out to the garage, which could give this thing time to slip into a crack and disappear, and then I'd never get to sleep. No, it had to be immediate and decisive. I would have to use a flyswatter. That's what they're made for. But where was it? Not in either of the two places I usually hang it in the kitchen. Then I remembered hanging it from the cafe rod by the table. That would mean crossing in front of the beast, which would give it an opening to attack, but I had to take a chance. I leaped like a creature of the forest to the other side of the room, grabbed my weapon and ------ no. I could not come at it from the front. That would never do. It would mean not only that it could charge me, but I'd be at a disadvantage having to use a cross-body swing. I was certain to miss. 

With another heroic leap, I gained a foothold to the left of my quarry and slightly behind. Pausing only to blur my vision enough to aim for the moving spot on the floor without being able to distinguish the disgusting legs, I swung. Splat! A near miss. It shot in the direction of the refrigerator and I swung again. I was determined not to let it out of my fuzzy vision. The third time I slapped pink plastic against the kitchen floor, I winged it. It was no longer running, but wiggling in its tracks. A final swoop of the flyswatter and the deed was done. I was victorious!

I knew I had reached my limit. The clean up crew would have to take care of the remains. I left the flyswatter across the trashcan as a symbol of my triumph, and hoped that neither the dogs nor the cats would decide to munch on the carcass. It took awhile to go to sleep; I felt an odd mixture of pride and horror at the evening's adventure.

This morning I woke up long enough to announce my feat to Jill.

"I killed a bug last night!"
"So did I."
"In the kitchen?"
"Yeah."
"That's the one I killed."
"Oh, I killed it again. I thought it was just resting."

We're an unstoppable team.