How do you say good-bye?

It doesn't come up often in my regular life. As a matter of fact, aside from the knowledge that my mother, who lives with us, has a debilitating, terminal illness, I don't have to think about dying people very often. At least, not up close. I get plenty of the same kind of public exposure that every wired-up, plugged-in person is subjected to, but there's a fundamental difference between reading about people dying in a storm or a bombing, and visiting the hospice room of someone I've hugged, laughed with, had earnest talks with, commiserated with.

She is not my best friend. More like a warm acquaintance of many years. The ovarian cancer that is killing her has been part of her for all the time I've known her. She and Jill have shared the bond of being cancer survivors, being well and whole, then unexpectedly without assurance, then well again, however tenuously. It has come up to bite her over and over, a pattern of advance and retreat, until now the journey is over.

How do you say good-bye to a world that will go on without you? How do you look at a Carolina spring, achingly blue sky, embarrassing riches of blooming trees, swirling blossoms, every shade of green bursting from trees, bushes, grass? How do you say good-bye to the people who have tickled you into fits of giggles at work, stormed out of the room in a burst of anger, cried out for you in pain, offered to hold your hand and give you comfort in despair?

There is no reason, no justification for this. The day has come for her to say good-bye to everything she has known, a natural part of life, they say. Everything has a beginning and an end. Never mind that she is younger than I, has yet to see her own child settled in life, has unfinished business with people she has loved. It makes no difference for any of us, does it? The day will come for you, for me, for all of us.

I actually think about this a lot. Sometimes it distresses me. Often it surprises me. So many people I have known and loved have already gone, but where? I look at a photo and they were alive when it was taken and now they're not. I look at pictures of my children when they were young and even those children are gone, only a memory, just as surely as if they had died. There is no more Andrew in a Superman suit, no more Ashley in a purple, spangled tutu, dancing around the kitchen table. The adults they grew to become are here, thank goodness, and I can talk to them and hug them, but the children have disappeared.

My mother is fading before my eyes. An unimaginative characterization of her dementia is of a photograph gradually fading away. But actually the parts I knew best have been gone a long time. She was the 32 year old who wore glamorous clothes and smelled lovely as she breezed past me, her spike heels clicking on the floor. She was the conspiratorial comrade, partner-in-crime with a drink in one hand and cigarette in the other, impulsively jumping in the car for a midnight ride to excitement. She was the fifty-year-old who still looked 35, torn jeans and scoop-neck knit shirt, herding kindergartners, directing plays, meeting me for drinks and bingo at the officer's club. But that woman no longer exists. She doesn't even remember any of that.

Jill and I get to deliver the flower arrangement. The advantage of being retired is that I get to run the errands, order the flowers, pick them up. Everyone at her work has contributed, but somehow I got to make the decision. The "Butterfly Basket" seemed right to me, the metaphor being apt and the picture appealing. When I picked them up, I buried my face in the blooms, breathing in the sweetness, imagining how I might feel to smell flowers at the end of my life. My practical self, the unromantic part, was critical of buying cut flowers ---- they're so expensive and they're just going to die. But when I put my face into the pinks and purples, breathed in the extravagant perfume, I knew that this is what I would want, of course. What could be better?

Sue, there is no way to say good-bye, but there is no way not to. You have been loved by people you don't even know. Your life has been worthwhile. You are, and will remain, a beautiful person. Bon Voyage.

My, my, is that a fact?

Back when I was teaching, one of the second grade objectives was to teach the difference between fact and opinion. That's not as easy as it sounds, especially when you're dealing with little people who sometimes believe there really are monsters under the bed.

I'm reminded of this during all of the political debate that's going on during this election year. I often read the opinion that one or the other party/politician can't be bothered with facts. It made me think about facts and how they relate to the nature of reality.

See, I'm very taken with the idea of perception. So while a fact is clear cut by definition --- (see dictionary.com below) ---- it might not be so black and white after all. Alas. Especially by one of the definitions which explicitly declares facts can be determined by experience or observation. Really? There's a lot of wiggle room in that. Just take a look at all the higher numbered channels on cable tv. We've got ghosts, flying saucers, conspiracies, unsolved mysteries ... those are facts, observable facts, to the people involved.

So you have a group of people who passionately believe they have the facts, who spend gazillions of dollars on ads that create nausea in some portion of the viewing public, and another group of people who counter those "factual" ads with facts of their own. Whose view of reality will prevail? The ones with the loudest voice? Deepest pockets? Most reasonable arguments? Facts may not have much to do with it.

When my son was little, 4 or 5, even though he dressed like Superman most days and flew around the house with his cape streaming along behind him, at bedtime he was scared of the monsters in the closet or under the bed. No amount of examining the closet, lying on the floor to peer at the dust bunnies, or reasonable and logical argument could overcome the fear. It was only when I gave him the weapon of a flashlight --- it runs in my mind it was a Mickey Mouse flashlight, which hardly seems like a fierce monster weapon --- that he was able to calm his fears and go to sleep easily. Then he had logic + power.

There are some pretty hoary old monsters under the bed this election cycle. For whatever reason, some of the crypt-keepers have unleashed demons from decades and centuries past, like birth control, religious liberty, family planning, (Anybody else remember the slogan "Every child a wanted child"? Whatever happened to that?) These are the side dishes, to accompany the usual liberal vs. conservative economic cant. It's like a really big state fair where the midway is nothing but freak shows. Where are the rides and cotton candy?

All right, enough mixed metaphors.

I have strongly held opinions based on what I like to think are solid facts: Women give birth. That's a fact, right? When women give birth, their bodies go through very intense physical changes. Fact? No disputes there? When a baby is born, it must be cared for or it will die. No argument there. Babies are not self-sufficient. They're not rugged individuals. Someone will have to feed them, change them, clean them, and hopefully hold, cuddle and love them. Otherwise they die.

Given those facts, and the fact that we (collectively) have available to us various means of preventing an unwelcome pregnancy, and therefore the birth of a baby who may not be well cared for, it should (here's the opinion, should being the operative word) be the woman's choice whether or not to go through those intense physical changes and take on the responsibility for keeping a completely dependent human being alive and healthy.

As for sex, which is inextricably linked up in here, human organisms --- yes, that's us --- are endowed with an inborn urge to procreate, just like other species. Otherwise we wouldn't be here to try to figure out facts and opinions. How that instinct is engaged is dependent on many factors, most of which are based in opinion, (Hello!--morality is opinion, not fact) but rest assured that it will manifest, because it must. Our continuation on the planet depends on it, and it is not going away.

BIG OPINION: I have no use for people who want to tell me what to do with my body. Never have, never will. Especially men. Especially old white men. Lay off! It's not a battle you're going to win and if you manage to piss off all the women, who are in the majority, I remind you, it will not be pretty. Carry it to its logical extreme --- blood running in the streets, men vs. women in mortal combat. That's not what you want. See paragraph above. So short of violence and mayhem, what are you going to do? Lock us up? Put us in burkas? Good luck with that.

We'll let you keep playing in our playpen, but you're going to have to learn some fucking manners. Got it?

If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. End of opinion.

fact

   [fakt]  Show IPA

noun

1.

something that actually exists; reality; truth: Your fears haveno basis in fact.

2.

something known to exist or to have happened: Space travelis now a fact.

3.

a truth known by actual experience or observation;something known to be true: Scientists gather facts aboutplant growth.

4.

something said to be true or supposed to have happened:The facts given by the witness are highly questionable.

5.

Law . Often, facts. an actual or alleged event orcircumstance, as distinguished from its legal effect orconsequence. Compare question of fact, question of law.

It must be the flu, or the plague

I heard part of a story on NPR this morning about the overuse of antibiotics. It's not a new story, but is of increasing concern. It got me to thinking about sickness and work and how we view them both these days.

At the risk of generalizing too much from my own experience, do you remember when you were a kid and you woke up feeling kind of tired and yucky but not really sick, and you complained to your mom? There was the hope that she would say, "Aw Honey, you don't look too good, why don't you just stay home from school today?" Freedom! I might not be sick sick, but I needed a day of respite from life, maybe to keep me from getting sick.

Of course, more often she would give me that slightly concerned, mostly exasperated look that said she had to go to work and couldn't stay home with a maybe sick kid. I never had to go to school really down and out sick, but there were plenty of days when a tummy ache or sniffly cold was not enough to warrant staying home. So what did I learn? Don't pay attention to those signals. If you're not dying, get yourself up and get moving. Responsible people ignore ill health ---- or any health, for that matter ----- and don't let their classmates/teachers/teammates/co-workers down. The corollary of that is, take this pill or medicine or powder or syrup and just keep going. There's a remedy for everything and staying home is for sissies.

It's probably not a far reach from never admitting illness to always being fine. "How are you?" "Fine, fine." If I don't feel fine, I can always take a pill, take a drink, yell at someone, bitch and moan about other people's incompetence. . . There's some sort of remedy out there, something to take my mind off of the pain.

I've been researching some diseases lately to include them in my current novel. Smallpox, diphteria, measles, whooping cough, malaria, scarlet fever, polio . . . there's a nearly endless list of the conditions that killed generations of our forebears. Disease was a constant threat and could strike at any time. Because there was so little reliable medicine available, people had a respect for sickness that we don't share anymore.

Antibiotics and other medicines have created a revolution. The epidemics that used to wipe out whole families and entire villages, have been largely controlled or extinguished, at least in the industrialized world. Now we succumb to chronic, lifestyle diseases ---- high class problems, as we say in AA. Too much food, too much alcohol, too little hard work and exercise. They'll kill you just as certainly.

I have not been infectiously sick since I stopped teaching a year ago. We have a remarkably healthy household, and I'm grateful for that. I harbor a lot of superstitious behavior and beliefs about that, but cut me some slack. It seems to be working. Probably the biggest thing, though, is that I no longer have to be around children and co-workers who have learned the modern protocol for sickness ---- if you're not on death's door, go to work! After all, the world can't get along without you.

Not demented yet

Today I went for what used to be my annual session in a longitudinal study on memory, health and aging at Duke. It had been 18 months since the last time because funding has run out. They scrounged up some bucks to do one last session but since science is no longer a priority in our society, I guess that's all she wrote. Who needs science when you got religion, right? Never mind that the baby boomers are going to start overwhelming the healthcare system in a big way in the next few years, and no small number of us will develop Alzheimers Disease or some other sort of dementia. No problem. No need for research.

Anyway, I've had the feeling that since I left the workforce a year ago, got good intervention and treatment for depression, and generally got a new lease on life, I've felt like some of my cognitive abilities have been returning. That is an enormous relief.

They do a pretty comprehensive evaluation for this study, including neurological, cognitive, memory and psycho-social. It's broken down into many different tasks that test specific parts of the brain and I'm usually there for about two and a half hours with the interviewer. I don't get actual results, but since I've done it several times and I am reasonably self-aware, I have my own measure of how easy or difficult the tasks are to perform. Today, I think I did them better than I ever did. I even asked him about that, because I wondered if it skews the results to be a repeater. That, apparently, is figured into the scoring. There is assumed to be some learning over time --- unless there's a problem.

When my father was diagnosed with AD in 1998, I started worrying about whether I would get it. When Mom was diagnosed in 2005, I pretty much threw in the towel. The strong possibility of developing dementia in my late 60s or early 70s has been part of all my decision making since. Participation in this study was one way of easing my mind, since I knew I was being tracked. Now, even with this avenue at a dead end, I'm still more reassured than I have been since it first came up.

Today I whizzed through listing animals and vegetables, came up with really great words, did better than before with numbers and using new strategies for the task, remembered details, copied figures ---- it was actually fun. And that's how it has felt in my daily life. I have more brain power available. I don't have to grope for words as much, I remember what I'm doing, where I put things. My writing is strong and flows easily.

Having Mom come to live with us has helped. Even though she has severe AD, living with it day in and day out has made me less afraid, rather than more. Seems strange, I know, but it's true.

If I'm going to get it, I'm going to get it. But for now, as was documented in my depression screening today, life is full and I feel mostly happy, content and fulfilled.

Moderation, you say?

Moderation has slyly crept into my life, almost unnoticed. I've always known I have a severe allergy to moderation and structure but somehow, perhaps from sheer exposure, I've begun to reckon with it. Embrace would be too strong a word, tolerate implies too much consideration. It's more like catching a movement from the corner of your eye, whipping around to see what it was, and a bit of color disappears around the corner. It's there, but hard to substantiate.

You see, there are many so-called virtues that I have spent a lifetime avoiding --- organization, structure, moderation, and foresight were at the top of the list. Look before you leap? Hell no! Leap first then holler all the way down. More? Yes, please. I'll take as much as you'll give me and still want more. I'll find something I like, that makes me feel good, and do it until it doesn't. Once an addict, always an addict, I guess.

So what's with all this stealthy moderation that seems to be creeping in? Is it simply that I'm getting old and tired? Very possibly. Finally realizing that if I cool it a little, I might be able to avoid some pain? I guess that would fall into the category of learning from experience. Not one of my strong suits, but also not unheard of.

I better be careful. Next thing you know I'll be preaching delayed gratification. . . Planning ahead . . . Decluttering. If it gets to that point I better avoid mirrors, because I would not recognize myself.

Brrrrrrrr. A shiver just hit. Somebody walking on my grave, the old saying goes.

Maybe I oughta have a cookie and think about this some more.

Off the field

Last week there was some sort of game on tv that got everybody all bunched up. Everybody except me, I guess. See, I'm not just uninterested in sports, I'm borderline hostile. I know, I know. That's sacrilege in the US of A. But it's just not in my genes, and so much of it I find offensive.

I've heard all the arguments, how participation in athletics builds character, teamwork, competition and cooperation. Wait, what? See, that sort of contradiction is part of the problem.

I come from a long line of non-athletes. Musicians, artists, writers, dancers, actors, and educators ---- the family is rife with folks of that ilk. The only calisthenics to be found in my family of origin were intellectual. We read aloud at the dinner table. We played word games, spelling games, information games. One of my favorites was being given a subject to look up in the encyclopedia and report back something I learned. I didn't learn to ride a bicycle, but I sure knew how to use a dictionary.

Being the oldest of 4 kids in 5 years, I had a built-in repertory group. We staged elaborate productions in the living room or basement or back yard. Since we were enrolled in dance classes, the choreography was a breeze, often developed by the sister who had staked out dance as her specialty. Sword fights bloomed in my brother's capable hands, whose biggest hero from the age of three had been Zorro. My youngest sister was most versatile, taking on roles from baby to prince to monkey queen.

It caused me some trouble at school. I couldn't throw a ball (still can't), return a volley, or shoot a basket. It's not that I particularly wanted to. Left to my own devices, I rarely would choose to play a sporty game. But in school, you were forced to play and watch sports, and the athletes were adored in a way that smart kids never would be. It was not a social advantage to be able to recite the states and capitals or write a poem.

I tried to make up for it by working magic onstage. I sang in small groups and large choirs. I wrote, acted and directed plays. I played clarinet and oboe in the school orchestra. It was not like playing football or being a cheerleader, but it helped fulfill a need to be recognized.

I was lucky to have gone to college during the years that education was not only encouraged by the larger society, it was affordable. Accepted to several colleges, I don't remember money being a large part of the decision. I married young (18) and we both needed to go to school. He had GI Bill but we would have to pay for my college expenses. We wound up at the University of Illinois. The state had a tuition waiver for in-state students whose grades stayed high enough. Mine did. Kids today are not so lucky. An athletic scholarship is the only way some young people can ever hope to go to college, but is that the best way to support their education? And what about the many youngin's who are like I was?

The money in sports and the money in politics fall into the same category to my way of thinking. Wasted resources. That money could be so much better spent to make up for the losses to public education, for after-school programs, preschools, quality daycare centers, health clinics, affordable housing. We have many people who are hurting, are even going hungry. The amount of money in big sports and big politics is positively obscene in the face of hungry and homeless people, working people who cannot afford healthcare or daycare, elderly people who live on social security. (By the way, check to see how much SS you would be getting if you were old, and see if that's a living.)

If people love to play pick-up soccer or basketball games with their friends, if children who like to play games are able to get together with friends and play at the park, more power to them. It's not my choice, but whatever floats your boat. I can understand the fun that sports can generate. What I find offensive, objectionable, obscene is the business of sports, the deathly competition that creates hooligans, the resources in time, money and effort that are siphoned off from other needs.

And please, don't tell me that the Met siphons off money, too. I know that. I can't afford to go to Broadway. Hell, I can hardly afford to go to Raleigh Little Theater. But when was the last time everyone gathered at work talking about the big opera that was on last night? Sorry. No comparison.

Oh wait, does this make me some sort of elite, smarty-pants, liberal? Yup. All my life.

Tea and Cookies

Jill is on a baking jag. Until now, I've always been the baker in the family. A few months ago, she took it into her head to begin baking pies. She's done apple, peach, strawberry and, I think, pumpkin. In spite of the well-known fact that I have the best pie crust recipe in the world, she insists on using her own. It's remarkable that she can make such a good crust from an inferior recipe.

Now, it's cookies. Until about ten days ago, she had never made cookies. Think of that. Never made cookies! I think I started baking cookies when I was in fourth grade --- on my own, that is. Before that, I helped my mother. Baking cookies was a favorite Saturday pastime for my friends and me in Jr. High. That was well before sports for girls, so no, I wasn't ever on the soccer field. Not that I ever would have been anyway. Sports. Ick.

Her cookie debut came in the unexpected form of molasses cookies. Since her favorite has always been chocolate chip, that would have seemed like the more obvious choice. She followed the recipe to a T and the results were delicious. When she hauled out the butter and molasses again the other night, I made a tiny request for a little more ginger. The result? Even more delicious. Too delicious to leave sitting there in the cookie jar, calling to me, sweet siren song of confection. What's a girl to do?

Hot Typhoo Tea. Peeled Juicy Orange. Ginger-Molasses Cookies. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh

Maybe I can get her to start on quickbreads next.