Holding Water in My Hands

July 28, 2016

Those of you who know me know that I am a bit of a freak when it comes to water conservation.  I have rain barrels cluttering up my back yard.  I save my bathwater to flush.  I lecture people on water conservation.

Last night I left the house on after watering the flower pots in the front yard.  It ran all night.  My husband found it this afternoon.  I'm crying.  It's not only for the waste of one of our most precious resources (can't drink oil) but because I forgot.  Again.

It's not the first time, either, though it's the first time for this long.  Once I found water overflowing from one sink to the other in the kitchen.  I couldn't even imagine why I was running water in the sink in the first place.

I was driving across town and my GPS dinged to inform me that I was entering a school zone.  I couldn't remember if school was in session.  What season were we in?  What month was this.  Of course, I eventually figured out it was summer.  It was about 98 degrees that day, after all.

James rarely lets me cook, and he says it's because he likes to cook, though we used to share that job. I have had to look in drawer after drawer in the kitchen to find the flatware.  Luckily, there aren't that many drawers, but that's something that used to be automatic.  Same goes for drinking glasses.  More than a few times I've opened the wrong bottom cabinet door and tossed in garbage.

I think about James, what he's going through, what he's going to be going through if this keeps up.  There is nothing fair about this.  He didn't sign up for this.  I think about my mother and how quickly she went from leaving the stove on to not remembering who I was.  This is what scares me.

I have a small aneurism, which they say has nothing to do with this dementia.  I would much rather have a big aneurism that would just burst as I was dancing or kissing or playing fetch with Margaret or holding my grand babies tightly.  It would be so  much more preferable to fading slowly away.

If I remember, I'll try to continue to post here as I go along.  If the worst happens, Devin, or Patrick or   JaGo (I've decided that's James' hip name) can publish it and perhaps it will help others understand how this feels.

Something that bothers me lately is my mood is a bit uncontrollably nasty.  I get meaner as the day wears on.  I want to think this is a normal reaction to having a bunch of yuckiness hanging over my head - you know - a normal reaction.  I'm afraid it's sundowning.

It's embarrassing to admit to all these failings of my brain, though I don't think it should be.  I mean if I had terminal toe cooties, I probably wouldn't be ashamed of it.  This disease is not my fault.  It's not.

On a lighter note, my hair is sort of grown back.  I had a hair person trim it up yesterday, so though it doesn't look good, at least it looks like it's this way on purpose.  The hair loss had nothing to do with anything except probably stress from watching my mother slide down hill and die.  

This whole situation is peppered with irony.  Not just dementia, but an aneurism that may be too small to kill me, but big enough to make me stupider.  A bit of redundancy don't you think?  My brain, my ability to think has always been my strong suit by a long shot.  Did I get face cancer?  pfffhththt. . . no, I get dementia.  Take away my strength, eh?  And now that my hair is growing back, what do you want to bet that surgeon (should he ever actually call me) wants to do a craniotomy and shave my head!

I'm feeling a bit sorry for my family and I'm pissed as hell, but mostly I am grateful.

The Outing

The Outing

Okay, now that my fam has all been informed, I see no reason not to put it out there (although many of my fam and friends think it's indiscrete or whatever, I reckon I can use all the support I can muster.)

The thing is my neurologist called me this a.m. and wanted to see me today. I said no can do, because I'd have to drive back and if a neurologist wants to see you today, it's probably not to give you an early birthday lava lamp. So I said, "Spill it."

For a neurologist, this person is very human. Very apologetic and sorry to tell me the news, which really sort of scared me for a second. But the good news is my heart is relatively strong and my carotids are clear. Bad news is that I have an aneurism (maybe two) in my brain. The badder news is that this hadn't anything to do with my other symptoms, most of all, memory loss. THAT is due to some dementia, probably early Alzheimer's.

Now isn't that a bitch?

I'm waiting on a call from a neurosurgeon for a consult. Think about that. First of all I've surely seen the only neurologist in the United States with a personality. I've never dated a surgeon with one. So what will a neurosurgeon be like? Not that I plan to date him or her. Just saying.

So I remember discussing with various friends at various times of my life, what would be the preferred way to die. Since adulthood my choices have always been the same: 1. Major heart attack while making love to Eric Clapton. 2. Being struck by lightening while making love to Eric Clapton. 3. Big ol' fat ass brain aneurism. . . . .
NEVER have I thought that dementia would be a great way to go, especially after watching Mom forget me, having her ask me what my name is, etc. I pretty much ruled out Alzheimer's as a preferred COD.

I've never been a great beauty, or a graceful dancer, or Betty Crocker or anything like that. But, I've always been really smart. So the thought of becoming less smart until I stupid my way to death is quite unappealing to me. MUCH less appealing than a big ass aneurism blowing. 

Evidently, Eric Clapton isn't reading in, dammit. (But if you are. . . well, call me)

So tonight I had a party of sorts. I invited a few friends to come over after work and be here as my husband got home from O Canada. I filled in the hubs, and then we had some company and Margaret took center stage getting to know her new Auntie Jonnie and Uncle Monty and remembering her Auntie Jan. Poor James had seconds before people got here to let things soak in. That was probably a poor decision on my part, but dang it, I needed to celebrate.

If I try to think of people I have known who've had more adventures, who've loved better, felt more deeply, or have just lucked out more than I when it comes to fam and friends, I can think of no one. I've had the life most people dream of. 

James cares for me and Margaret. We are such a blessed family. My grands, Bell and Bump are perfect and I love them more than I ever thought possible. My children - in spite of less than perfect mothering - have grown to be far ends of the perfection spectrum. I have friends - I'm talking real friends - around the planet and they will support me and love me through whatever comes. What more could a person ask? 

I continue to make plans and don't intend to let others opinions deter me from bliss, regardless of what initials they have behind their names. I am blessed beyond all reason. I am grateful.

Waiting as a Coping Mechanism

So I waited for a couple of weeks to hear from the neurosurgeon to whom my neurologist referred me. My sister kept saying, call them, call them. I said, that I though no news meant I was uninteresting and thus good news.

I finally called my neurologists's office and found that there had been "glitch" and my referral hadn't actually been sent yet. Okay this happens. But this is also the office that forgot to send me my test results and forgot to tel me about tests that were scheduled and I therefore missed. I'm thinking . . . .. . hmmmmmmm. Weak link there. 

So yeah. Maybe that's why I keep getting more and more unpleasant as the day goes on.

It's just that my friends Helen, and Edith., from a previous life (yes that would be Helen, Edith, and Phyllis) and I had already sort of planned that when we lost it, we'd have adjoining rooms in a nursing home. I mean, surely our names are already on the doors somewhere. We even had our roles planed out. Helen, who is about 6'1" was going to be the one who ripped off her clothes in the middle of the mall during outings. I was going to be the one who terrorized the young orderlies, pinching their behinds. I can't remember exactly what Edith was going to do, but as I recall it has something to do with breaking into the med room and making some interesting switcheroos. But unless Edith gets onto her assigned task soon, I'm going to be the one who gets kicked out for being a pain in everyone's behind.

It's not nice at all to have forgotten really important things. Not only things like what one should do first in the shower, or where the flatware is kept, but really precious things such as the first time I help Bump, and my mother's surprise 85th (I think it was) birthday party. What do you think memories such as those are worth? The more I think about it the angrier I get. Sometimes life presents some suckwad crap to each of us. 

But mostly I think it life has presented me with rope swings under blooming lilac trees, offices in cherry trees from which we could spit the pits at the inhibitors of other cherry tree offices. It's presented me with excellent music, amazing love, creme brûlée that made my eyes roll back in my head. I've held triplet lambs, trying to feed them all with two bottles and a finger, and I've reached under the surreal warmth and softness of a hen to collect uber fresh eggs. 

I've experienced the miracle of feeding my babies with milk made especially for them by my body - the very body that somehow grew those babies inside of it. Think about that! It will blow your mind.

If it pleases you, Mother of All, I would so very much like to hold on to those and a zillion other memories of miracles you've given me. Fireflies with aspirations of becoming stars. Books that have take me to other lives and other worlds, the love of my babies and my babies' babies. 

If it can't be, it can't be. I'll trust you you to know best what lessons I still have to learn. But oh, it's been so good. So amazing. Who could complain if this is all there is? Please forgive my greed for wanting even more in a world were I've had so many times more than my share of bliss. And please, Mother, help my friends understand that iI am fearless in the face of death. It's just another door. But to stay here and forget all your gifts. . . Oh, that would be so very sad. 

I trust you. And I am grateful and I know that it is arrogant of me to ask anything of One who has provided everything. But I am not wise yet. I ask for patience and continued Grace. 

Let it be. Amen. I am grateful.