My blog has been depressing lately, though I didn't really mean it to be. But my brother, Wade, just called to slap me upside the head and tell me to get my head outta the dirt and write something upbeat.
Some of you may not know my brother Wade, but when he slaps ya upside the head (always in a loving way, of course) you know your head's been slapped and you'd better straighten up and flight right. (What the heck does that statement actually mean anyway? I'm' not flying right now. And truth be told, if anyone did ever actually physically slap me upside the head, he'd probably be the first one to knock that person right on down.)
So anyhoo, I decided to write about some of the good things that one with dementia experiences. "Good things?" you ask. There is a flip side to every ding dang coin and there are some entertaining things about losing ones memory.
I am so very grateful for the GPS in my car. Of course, I've always been one to get lost, but just knowing the GPS will guide me home is a comfort. Don't get me wrong, I can and do still get lost with GPS, but it allows me to see things I never would have seen otherwise. Just yesterday, I saw an absolutely beautiful house on some odd street on the way home from where ever I was. I can't remember.
Have a an argument with someone? Not to worry. Chances are, you won't remember it tomorrow. All that is forgotten is forgiven.
Anything I've read in the past few years - in fact, even things I've written - are totally new to me. I enjoy them just as much as I did the first time I read them.
Same with people. I just loving making new friends, even friends I've known for a few years. If I've known you for 55 to 10 years, chances are, I'll remember lots about you. Possibly things you wish I'd forgotten. But if you kicked me in the stomach 3 years ago, no worries. As far as I know, unless it left a scar, it didn't happen.
More and more I say whatever the flip in on my mind at any given second. Now, this can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on what time of day it is, and what crosses the fog in my brain. SOMETIMES, I'm just very honest. That of course can be either good or not so good. But SOMETIMES utter bullshit comes right out of my mouth. That's not good. Ooops, sorry, supposed to be focusing on good stuff.
I relish scrumptious dinners that James has made for me a zillion times as if it were the first time I've tasted them.
People don't need to send new Christmas cards or birthday cards. I can just bring out the ones from last year, thus preserving paper.
You can tell me the same joke over and over. I probably won't get it, but I'll laugh anyway.
It's a GREAT excuse for talking to trees and other plants and rocks and soil. . . . . . things I've always done, but without an excuse.
Except for a few special circumstances, I'm fearless. For example, I really think if I were in a store and some nut walked in with a gun and wanted to rob the place, I'd do something like laugh loudly, attempt a cartwheel, or try to kiss him. Surely that would give the clerk enough time to push the button or whatever. And if the crazy person shot me. . . . . ha. . . .. jokes on him.
And most of all, this fading has given me a humongous appreciation of my brain. Dang, it's been a good one. I was so darn smart. I'm sure I'm still smarter than the average bear, although IQ tests are seldom used now, especially with bears, but you get my drift. And for that I am the most grateful a person can be.
So there you go, Brother Wade. An upbeat blog about dementia. Carry on,
It's just a silly phase I'm going through.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Monday, January 30, 2017
Who's to Say?
I know things. I used to know a lot more things. My brain has holes in it and things fall out. Perhaps someone will find these facts and ideas on the ground and pick them up and do something with them.
I know that with dementia (gourd, I hate that word!) comes mood swings. I don't know if one could say what I'm experiencing is swinging actually, since I've fought depression all my life, but lately I've had anger like I've never experienced before.
Anger is a tough thing for a pacifist. It tends to come out in my dreams, where lately I've been screaming at people and even punching them. Even though, when I was young, my brothers tried to teach me how to hit like a boy, I never really practiced, and even in my dreams it's evident. The only person I ever actually slugged was Dr. Korte, when I was in labor. She said she'd been hit harder.
Anyway, my point is that I get really, really angry lately. It seems reasonable actually, in light of what is happening to Earth, to our country specifically, but it isn't very helpful. It is also reasonable, I think, because though I often have hope that this is all a mistake, it's becoming more and more obvious that something bad is going on in my very favorite organ.
Just now I had to read back to see if I could find reference to my story about hitting Dr. Korte. I didn't immediately find one, but if I've written it before, get over it. It's a good story. And sometimes I search a thesaurus or call a trusted friend to find a word or a phrase that used to be right there.
When I read my old posts - old as in ones I wrote last week or two days ago - I'm usually amazed at how well written they are, how clever. But I don't remember writing them. And I'm often ashamed at how many mistakes in spelling and punctuation there are. I don't make those mistakes. Well, at least I didn't used to make them. I'm so grateful that I can still write. Of course, I'm assuming here, that I still write well. It could actually be gobblydee gook.
I'd hoped to write a daily blog about my life with the BBD, but there are lots of days I just can't. Ideas float about in clouds and are often obscured. And sometimes the clouds are stormy ones and then anything I write is full of all three of my curse words.
It's not pleasant to write about me becoming stupid, but I think it's important. And as my ego is shrinking lately, I am less embarrassed. I used to write about depression a lot, trying to educate people that it isn't a failure of character or weakness, but a disease just as diabetes or heart disease. Well, guess what? So is dementia.
Sometimes it's sort of cool to enjoy things I've enjoyed before as if for the first time. And I can remember Mary Ann's rainbow cancans she wore when we were in Kindergarten. I can remember Julie getting her new norange bike, and the smell of the cherry trees I climbed as a child as if I experienced them all yesterday. Who's to say those things aren't much, much better than the things I actually experienced yesterday.
And as my friend Zab would say, there is no yesterday, no tomorrow, only Now. Another friend, Ray, just now told me to ". . . try harder. Focus on being happy." Maybe this is what he meant. What is time anyway?
I'm grateful.
I know that with dementia (gourd, I hate that word!) comes mood swings. I don't know if one could say what I'm experiencing is swinging actually, since I've fought depression all my life, but lately I've had anger like I've never experienced before.
Anger is a tough thing for a pacifist. It tends to come out in my dreams, where lately I've been screaming at people and even punching them. Even though, when I was young, my brothers tried to teach me how to hit like a boy, I never really practiced, and even in my dreams it's evident. The only person I ever actually slugged was Dr. Korte, when I was in labor. She said she'd been hit harder.
Anyway, my point is that I get really, really angry lately. It seems reasonable actually, in light of what is happening to Earth, to our country specifically, but it isn't very helpful. It is also reasonable, I think, because though I often have hope that this is all a mistake, it's becoming more and more obvious that something bad is going on in my very favorite organ.
Just now I had to read back to see if I could find reference to my story about hitting Dr. Korte. I didn't immediately find one, but if I've written it before, get over it. It's a good story. And sometimes I search a thesaurus or call a trusted friend to find a word or a phrase that used to be right there.
When I read my old posts - old as in ones I wrote last week or two days ago - I'm usually amazed at how well written they are, how clever. But I don't remember writing them. And I'm often ashamed at how many mistakes in spelling and punctuation there are. I don't make those mistakes. Well, at least I didn't used to make them. I'm so grateful that I can still write. Of course, I'm assuming here, that I still write well. It could actually be gobblydee gook.
I'd hoped to write a daily blog about my life with the BBD, but there are lots of days I just can't. Ideas float about in clouds and are often obscured. And sometimes the clouds are stormy ones and then anything I write is full of all three of my curse words.
It's not pleasant to write about me becoming stupid, but I think it's important. And as my ego is shrinking lately, I am less embarrassed. I used to write about depression a lot, trying to educate people that it isn't a failure of character or weakness, but a disease just as diabetes or heart disease. Well, guess what? So is dementia.
Sometimes it's sort of cool to enjoy things I've enjoyed before as if for the first time. And I can remember Mary Ann's rainbow cancans she wore when we were in Kindergarten. I can remember Julie getting her new norange bike, and the smell of the cherry trees I climbed as a child as if I experienced them all yesterday. Who's to say those things aren't much, much better than the things I actually experienced yesterday.
And as my friend Zab would say, there is no yesterday, no tomorrow, only Now. Another friend, Ray, just now told me to ". . . try harder. Focus on being happy." Maybe this is what he meant. What is time anyway?
I'm grateful.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Sarcasm and Sensibilities.
Ladies, please listen. There was a time of glory. It has not been so long ago that we can not return to it, In fact, I believe we are on our way. In that glorious time everyone knew his or her place and if they weren't satisfied, at least they were for the most part complacent. Or at least unheard from.
Why should the poor be educated? Not every mind is made for such. Will we not always need workers who will work tirelessly, without regard to time and pay, feeling fortunate just to have some pennies with which to perhaps buy some bread? Haven't we fields to be plowed and walls to be built? And let's face it, we needn't worry at all about birth control, since their conditions, being so poor, will quite naturally weed out the weaker of them - the more useless ones. This is the natural law.
And if we happen to be born to a higher class of people, so be it. We have a noblesse oblige to employ those better suited to caring for us in the mundane - cooking, cleaning, helping us dress, growing our food, etc. We, have an obligation to maintain the social order. Ladies should become skilled in the finer things. We must read only the appropriate literature, lest our minds become conflicted. We should learn the finer arts, such as needlework, music, painting, flower arranging, dance, and entertainment. These are the skills that lubricate the social order so that our men may be free to manage the legacies to which they were born.
Oh, it's well and fine to say that all people are created equal, but the truth is quite different. Some people are made for field work, their darker skin showing less the dirt. Others' hands are made to raise animals, and a few hands - so pale and dainty - must be protected in order to maintain the beauty that is so important in our social order.
Health care really must be rationed. There are so many of the lower classes this it makes no sense to squander precious time and medicines on them. They would hardy appreciate it. In fact, you can't imagine that a poor household welcomes a 6th, 7th, or 9th mouth to feed! The upper classes, however, are prone to some delicate natures that modern medicine can and must attend.
We are right to maintain the social order as God intended, lest the whole of society be turned upside down and we are overrun like the jungles from whence the inferiors originated. It is, indeed, our holy duty.
So ladies, I implore you not to meet in groups to gossip and exchange ideas contrary to your fathers and husbands. Do not be too lenient on your inferiors lest they become haughty. Be always weary of strangers and foreigners, for they seek to dilute our righteous ways. Remember that God made the whole of the earth for us to consume and we should do so with joy.
A woman's mind must not be consumed with manly quests. She must remain free from vulgarity and maintain peace and order in her home by managing her servants well. By this, the Righteous Christian Womanhood, will continue to do our part in maintaining what is just and right in our world
Why should the poor be educated? Not every mind is made for such. Will we not always need workers who will work tirelessly, without regard to time and pay, feeling fortunate just to have some pennies with which to perhaps buy some bread? Haven't we fields to be plowed and walls to be built? And let's face it, we needn't worry at all about birth control, since their conditions, being so poor, will quite naturally weed out the weaker of them - the more useless ones. This is the natural law.
And if we happen to be born to a higher class of people, so be it. We have a noblesse oblige to employ those better suited to caring for us in the mundane - cooking, cleaning, helping us dress, growing our food, etc. We, have an obligation to maintain the social order. Ladies should become skilled in the finer things. We must read only the appropriate literature, lest our minds become conflicted. We should learn the finer arts, such as needlework, music, painting, flower arranging, dance, and entertainment. These are the skills that lubricate the social order so that our men may be free to manage the legacies to which they were born.
Oh, it's well and fine to say that all people are created equal, but the truth is quite different. Some people are made for field work, their darker skin showing less the dirt. Others' hands are made to raise animals, and a few hands - so pale and dainty - must be protected in order to maintain the beauty that is so important in our social order.
Health care really must be rationed. There are so many of the lower classes this it makes no sense to squander precious time and medicines on them. They would hardy appreciate it. In fact, you can't imagine that a poor household welcomes a 6th, 7th, or 9th mouth to feed! The upper classes, however, are prone to some delicate natures that modern medicine can and must attend.
We are right to maintain the social order as God intended, lest the whole of society be turned upside down and we are overrun like the jungles from whence the inferiors originated. It is, indeed, our holy duty.
So ladies, I implore you not to meet in groups to gossip and exchange ideas contrary to your fathers and husbands. Do not be too lenient on your inferiors lest they become haughty. Be always weary of strangers and foreigners, for they seek to dilute our righteous ways. Remember that God made the whole of the earth for us to consume and we should do so with joy.
A woman's mind must not be consumed with manly quests. She must remain free from vulgarity and maintain peace and order in her home by managing her servants well. By this, the Righteous Christian Womanhood, will continue to do our part in maintaining what is just and right in our world
Decisions and Drawing the Line
Since my neurosurgeon's office called and said that his health care system no longer accepted my insurance, there will be no follow up to my aneurisms from his office. The end.
I assume that my regular neurologist will still accept me and perhaps he will scan my brain for signs of any growth in the balloons and then perhaps find a surgeon for me, but I'm hesitant to do even that. I'll keep going to the neurologist because he is treating this memory loss/brain fade of mine with some drugs. Sometimes I think they are working. Sometimes I think the diagnosis was wrong all along and that I'm totally normal for a lady of a certain age, and then I forget where I am and how to get out of my bedroom, and that's a wee bit disconcerting. I maintain that there could be other reasons for such things to happen and that they are much less scary than progressive dementia.
So I've decided to take matters a bit into my own hands. I've been reading up on some natural treatments - alternative treatments - and what the heck. I doubt they'll kill me. Yes, I'm experimenting with myself. Better I experiment than some stranger who really doesn't appreciate just how totally cool my brain actually is.
I don't care to qualify nastiness of various illnesses, but if I had cancer, I'd have an automatic support group around me. I hate cancer, too. It sucks. But when you tell people that you have some sort of dementia, they get scared or confused or just grossed out. My credibility goes from 92 to 3 in the course of a few words. And every little stumble is suspect. This is the reality of it.
So I'm packing things in. I still need to do some traveling, but for the most part, I've contacted all the people in my life with whom I felt the need to make amends. Most have not responded at all. A few have responded negatively, accusing me of all sorts of ill behavior. And while I used to say things such as "I don't care about that, I've done my best, " Now I actually mean it.
I've little time or energy for people who do not keep their promises. Friends who disappear, and the emotional vampires who seem to suck the libido (oh, look it up, it's not just about sex) right out of me. Am I pissy? Probably, but I'm honestly pissy.
I'm determined that kindness be my default, but I'm also becoming determined to no longer bruise my head against brick walls. If you haven't spoken to me in a while, there is a thing called telephone and it works both ways. There's also the marvelous inter web, etc.
I find it so very sad that so many who've said they'll always "be there for me" have begun training for Olympic track events by running in the opposite direction, and while I continue to wish them well, I'm not likely to stand in the rain cheering for them. Maybe that's unkind of me, or maybe it's self preservation.
My heart aches, AND I know I'll be okay. I am so very enough. There are still people in this world who respect me and actually care for me, though I'm realizing that no one is going to "always be there for me" when I need little things. Perhaps that it a silly statement. No one can always be there for anyone else. I suppose the closest would be the sort of marriage I've seen a handful of times.
My sister and her husband, for example. Faerie tale. Not that their lives have been without pain or obstacles. They've had at least their share, but they are the kind of couple, that when you see them, you only see the good, the joy, the bliss. It's exceedingly rare. I have a grand imagination and I can't imagine how that must feel. I'm not an easy person with whom to live in the least and I have so very many (do you mind if we call them quirks or eccentricities rather than neuroses?) that I often can nearly not live with myself.
But I've got a mess of good traits, too. I've been loyal to my friends. I try to be kind to people, other animals, and all of Earth. I actually do care about such things. I think, I'm well worth loving. You may differ if you wish, we all have the right to differ.
Our health care un-system and mega insurance companies can line up to kiss my fine, round, pale behind. One would think that they are made up of actual human beings, but one might be wrong in that assumption.
In spite of the nastiness, terrifying fog that has befallen not only me, but all of Earth, I reserve the right to be optimistic, take chances, have adventures and love myself. I love you, too - if you are a real person or an animal or some identifiable part of Nature - if you are a big corporate machine. . . . well, the best I can say is "fuck off."
I remain grateful.
I assume that my regular neurologist will still accept me and perhaps he will scan my brain for signs of any growth in the balloons and then perhaps find a surgeon for me, but I'm hesitant to do even that. I'll keep going to the neurologist because he is treating this memory loss/brain fade of mine with some drugs. Sometimes I think they are working. Sometimes I think the diagnosis was wrong all along and that I'm totally normal for a lady of a certain age, and then I forget where I am and how to get out of my bedroom, and that's a wee bit disconcerting. I maintain that there could be other reasons for such things to happen and that they are much less scary than progressive dementia.
So I've decided to take matters a bit into my own hands. I've been reading up on some natural treatments - alternative treatments - and what the heck. I doubt they'll kill me. Yes, I'm experimenting with myself. Better I experiment than some stranger who really doesn't appreciate just how totally cool my brain actually is.
I don't care to qualify nastiness of various illnesses, but if I had cancer, I'd have an automatic support group around me. I hate cancer, too. It sucks. But when you tell people that you have some sort of dementia, they get scared or confused or just grossed out. My credibility goes from 92 to 3 in the course of a few words. And every little stumble is suspect. This is the reality of it.
So I'm packing things in. I still need to do some traveling, but for the most part, I've contacted all the people in my life with whom I felt the need to make amends. Most have not responded at all. A few have responded negatively, accusing me of all sorts of ill behavior. And while I used to say things such as "I don't care about that, I've done my best, " Now I actually mean it.
I've little time or energy for people who do not keep their promises. Friends who disappear, and the emotional vampires who seem to suck the libido (oh, look it up, it's not just about sex) right out of me. Am I pissy? Probably, but I'm honestly pissy.
I'm determined that kindness be my default, but I'm also becoming determined to no longer bruise my head against brick walls. If you haven't spoken to me in a while, there is a thing called telephone and it works both ways. There's also the marvelous inter web, etc.
I find it so very sad that so many who've said they'll always "be there for me" have begun training for Olympic track events by running in the opposite direction, and while I continue to wish them well, I'm not likely to stand in the rain cheering for them. Maybe that's unkind of me, or maybe it's self preservation.
My heart aches, AND I know I'll be okay. I am so very enough. There are still people in this world who respect me and actually care for me, though I'm realizing that no one is going to "always be there for me" when I need little things. Perhaps that it a silly statement. No one can always be there for anyone else. I suppose the closest would be the sort of marriage I've seen a handful of times.
My sister and her husband, for example. Faerie tale. Not that their lives have been without pain or obstacles. They've had at least their share, but they are the kind of couple, that when you see them, you only see the good, the joy, the bliss. It's exceedingly rare. I have a grand imagination and I can't imagine how that must feel. I'm not an easy person with whom to live in the least and I have so very many (do you mind if we call them quirks or eccentricities rather than neuroses?) that I often can nearly not live with myself.
But I've got a mess of good traits, too. I've been loyal to my friends. I try to be kind to people, other animals, and all of Earth. I actually do care about such things. I think, I'm well worth loving. You may differ if you wish, we all have the right to differ.
Our health care un-system and mega insurance companies can line up to kiss my fine, round, pale behind. One would think that they are made up of actual human beings, but one might be wrong in that assumption.
In spite of the nastiness, terrifying fog that has befallen not only me, but all of Earth, I reserve the right to be optimistic, take chances, have adventures and love myself. I love you, too - if you are a real person or an animal or some identifiable part of Nature - if you are a big corporate machine. . . . well, the best I can say is "fuck off."
I remain grateful.
Saturday, January 21, 2017
I'm the Shits
Since receiving the BBD, I've had a sense of urgency to tell people whom I love the things I need to tell them, and to finish projects that are important to me. What strikes me is the response people have had to this.
Some people have wanted to be my friend and spend time with me, which is lovely. But it seems that since I didn't die within a certain time frame, they've sort of lost patience with me and have faded out of my life again.
Others have just stopped talking to me altogether. I suppose they are angry at me, though I didn't ask for any of this. Some have been more vocal in their anger and told me I'm just the kid in the class yelling "Me, me, me!" I probably have been at times.
And yet a few, have felt the urgency with me and I know will walk with me to the end.
I am not afraid of death, and like my mother, believe it will be a great adventure. I am, however, more than a little afraid of not remembering which end of the bean to poke into my nose. Even if I don't remember who you are, one day, I hope you remember enough for both of us. I hope you will remember funny things, happy things. And I hope when you think of me, that you'll remember to be kind to Earth, because, after all, you are part of Her.
When you see leaves turn into soil, and the earthworms do their thing, and the Robins eating the earthworms and pooping again to enrich the Earth - think of me. I'm in that bird shit and happy to be there. When you see some lights twinkling where there is no explanation - you know the ones, the ones you dare not tell other people about - just smile and be reassured. There is so much more to this life than can be dreamt of in your philosophies. That's an absolute truism.
And for Mother's sake, don't take yourself too seriously. That makes Jack a dull boy. Rejoice. Seek joy always. Love. Be grateful.
Some people have wanted to be my friend and spend time with me, which is lovely. But it seems that since I didn't die within a certain time frame, they've sort of lost patience with me and have faded out of my life again.
Others have just stopped talking to me altogether. I suppose they are angry at me, though I didn't ask for any of this. Some have been more vocal in their anger and told me I'm just the kid in the class yelling "Me, me, me!" I probably have been at times.
And yet a few, have felt the urgency with me and I know will walk with me to the end.
I am not afraid of death, and like my mother, believe it will be a great adventure. I am, however, more than a little afraid of not remembering which end of the bean to poke into my nose. Even if I don't remember who you are, one day, I hope you remember enough for both of us. I hope you will remember funny things, happy things. And I hope when you think of me, that you'll remember to be kind to Earth, because, after all, you are part of Her.
When you see leaves turn into soil, and the earthworms do their thing, and the Robins eating the earthworms and pooping again to enrich the Earth - think of me. I'm in that bird shit and happy to be there. When you see some lights twinkling where there is no explanation - you know the ones, the ones you dare not tell other people about - just smile and be reassured. There is so much more to this life than can be dreamt of in your philosophies. That's an absolute truism.
And for Mother's sake, don't take yourself too seriously. That makes Jack a dull boy. Rejoice. Seek joy always. Love. Be grateful.
Thursday, January 19, 2017
Puzzling
I've never been good at putting puzzles together, or sewing with patterns. My high school guidance counselor - the same one who told me perhaps I should plan on drawing pictures for medical encyclopedias - told me that I had trouble with spacial relations. I have noticed however, that I seem to be getting worse.
Bell, my two year old grand daughter, has a puzzle of 16 cubes that form a square. Each side of each cube has a bit of a princess picture. So we have to find which side of the cube goes up as well as find where it goes in the picture. This is tough stuff! I'm trying to put a picture together in between paragraphs.
It shouldn't be very difficult since every picture is bordered by a different color. I'm working on purple borders now, and every corner piece is fancy and easily recognized. And I'm smart enough to know that little Disney logo goes bottom right, so that's a gimme. That leaves only four cubes that go in the middle.
But other than the one logo'ed corner piece, the other corner pieces could go in any corner. And just because something is on a border doesn't mean I know where or what border.
This is a toy for a TWO YEAR OLD. And I'm near tears because I can't flipping figure out how to make cinderella's head go on top and her feet on the bottom. And this is one that I did last night with Bump's help. He was very encouraging.
I wonder if he'll remember times like this when he's older and think that Nana Foo was just playing "dumb" so that he could help me. But I want him to know that I don't believe in that stuff. I know it's just my ego that makes me want him to remember his Nana as a smart woman. Because that's what I've had going for me my whole life. I'm smart. I'm not gorgeous, I'm not even very nice. And now I can't put a two year old's toy puzzle together.
I intended to work on various sides of this puzzle today while the kids are at school, telling myself that this brain exercise is good for me. Actually, I just wanted to practice so I could impress them when they got home. It's just not working.
I often tell myself that this dementia DX is just overblown and that everyone looses a bit of memory at some point. But that's not helping me get back the big chunks of my memory that are just gone. It doesn't help me from asking the same annoying questions over and over again, nor lesson my frustration with becoming less smart. I can see in my daughter's eyes when I've said something stupid, and it sort of feels like a knife in my pancreas. I've also noticed that my mood isn't what it could be, although that seems logical since these episodes of loss are so ding dang frustrating. Friends avoid me and I can't really blame them.
Hey, everyone is dealing with something, right? I don 't mean to pour "poor me" throughout the blogs, but I do want to record what's going on. It's not fun to admit these things. It's sort of embarrassing. I know that most of my readers prefer the funny, happy, uplifting posts and I'm sorry that this ism't particularly one of those.
I'm so grateful that I can still write, although sometimes I have to search for a word for a very long time. And it has occurred to me that sometime my blogs don't make any sense at all and that people only comment on them to be nice. Wouldn't that be a bitch?
In the mean time, I'm keeping gratitude as my default.
Bell, my two year old grand daughter, has a puzzle of 16 cubes that form a square. Each side of each cube has a bit of a princess picture. So we have to find which side of the cube goes up as well as find where it goes in the picture. This is tough stuff! I'm trying to put a picture together in between paragraphs.
It shouldn't be very difficult since every picture is bordered by a different color. I'm working on purple borders now, and every corner piece is fancy and easily recognized. And I'm smart enough to know that little Disney logo goes bottom right, so that's a gimme. That leaves only four cubes that go in the middle.
But other than the one logo'ed corner piece, the other corner pieces could go in any corner. And just because something is on a border doesn't mean I know where or what border.
This is a toy for a TWO YEAR OLD. And I'm near tears because I can't flipping figure out how to make cinderella's head go on top and her feet on the bottom. And this is one that I did last night with Bump's help. He was very encouraging.
I wonder if he'll remember times like this when he's older and think that Nana Foo was just playing "dumb" so that he could help me. But I want him to know that I don't believe in that stuff. I know it's just my ego that makes me want him to remember his Nana as a smart woman. Because that's what I've had going for me my whole life. I'm smart. I'm not gorgeous, I'm not even very nice. And now I can't put a two year old's toy puzzle together.
I intended to work on various sides of this puzzle today while the kids are at school, telling myself that this brain exercise is good for me. Actually, I just wanted to practice so I could impress them when they got home. It's just not working.
I often tell myself that this dementia DX is just overblown and that everyone looses a bit of memory at some point. But that's not helping me get back the big chunks of my memory that are just gone. It doesn't help me from asking the same annoying questions over and over again, nor lesson my frustration with becoming less smart. I can see in my daughter's eyes when I've said something stupid, and it sort of feels like a knife in my pancreas. I've also noticed that my mood isn't what it could be, although that seems logical since these episodes of loss are so ding dang frustrating. Friends avoid me and I can't really blame them.
Hey, everyone is dealing with something, right? I don 't mean to pour "poor me" throughout the blogs, but I do want to record what's going on. It's not fun to admit these things. It's sort of embarrassing. I know that most of my readers prefer the funny, happy, uplifting posts and I'm sorry that this ism't particularly one of those.
I'm so grateful that I can still write, although sometimes I have to search for a word for a very long time. And it has occurred to me that sometime my blogs don't make any sense at all and that people only comment on them to be nice. Wouldn't that be a bitch?
In the mean time, I'm keeping gratitude as my default.
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Death and Compost
I'm signed up with an organization that will collect my body, when I'm no longer using it, and use it for scientific purposes. My family won't have to worry about body disposal. They can do a memorial for me, if and when and how they wish. Of course, I'll be leaving very specific instructions and will haunt them if they don't comply. Or maybe not.
Anyway, I've been having second thoughts about this organization, because I'm assuming that they are going to embalm this body and that is really toxic. I'd rather skip the chemicals. Of course, my brain. . . . well, you know the greater scientific community will want to study that sucker. I'd take it with me if I could. I'm really that fond of it.
My sister used to say that she liked the idea of being sprinkled, but she didn't like the idea of cremation. I pointed out to her that it would be really messy to sprinkle without cremation. That was before we went through first our father's death, then a couple of decades later, our mother's. Being close to death, one realizes that the body just ain't the thang.
I mean, sure, it's great. A wonderful gift. Miraculous, even. But it's not sum and substance of who we are. Well, okay, so it's substance, but you get my drift, right?
Mom made very careful plans for the disposal of her body. She even bought a pretty walnut tea box at an antique store to hold her ashes, far in advance of the need. One day, my sister and I were with her, we'd been going through her clothes and her jewelry - Mom was a fashionista - and she said, "It recently occurred to me that I don't know what is appropriate to wear to be cremated."
Without skipping a beat, my sister replied, "Well, certainly nothing flame retardant." Then my sister said, "Mom, you have all this jewelry, we'll just put it all on you before cremation." I said, "Like hell, we will." We all laughed. It was good to be so honest and relaxed about it. There was no need to shroud (oooh, good word choice) the whole thing in mystery or unnecessary ritual. Her ashes were taken back to Illinois and buried next to our father's grave.
When our father died, it was much different. We had the big, elaborate funeral thing for him. Oy! Have you ever been casket shopping? It's horrible. His body was embalmed and viewed in his church. The elaborate, oak casket was put into a vault, guaranteed to be water-proof for some number of years.
Why? Dunno.
I mean that shell, was so obviously not Papa. But it's just what was done.
I certainly want none of that for my shell. I like the idea of green burial, but it's rather a bother. And I think the Bio Urn things are cool, in which one can put cremation ashes and then grow a tree from it all. There are also options of having the ashes made into jewelry or glass things. But again, who really wants to be left in charge of the vase made from Auntie's ashes. It would probably eventually be broken or sold at a garage sale.
I wouldn't mind having my body delivered to some wild animals and allowing them to eat it, thus returning it to Earth without being wasteful, but I'm afraid that my liver might be harmful to them. And, unless I'm living in Alaska or in an Indian jungle at the time, there wouldn't be enough hungry animals around. Not sure what the legalities for that are, so. . .
I guess we're back to plain ol' cremation and dispersing however my kids see fit. I promise, it won't matter to me. Eventually, this shell will go back to Earth. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust and all that. I'd like for it to happen without toxic chemicals leaching into the ground and without grandkids' tuition being spent and with as little fuss as possible.
Earth has a perfect way of taking care of such things. I know. I compost. It's a miracle and I love watching apple cores and carrot peels and crushed egg shells become beautiful soil over time. It's absolutely perfect recycling. I'll be honored to have my body serve Earth in this way.
Anyway, I've been having second thoughts about this organization, because I'm assuming that they are going to embalm this body and that is really toxic. I'd rather skip the chemicals. Of course, my brain. . . . well, you know the greater scientific community will want to study that sucker. I'd take it with me if I could. I'm really that fond of it.
My sister used to say that she liked the idea of being sprinkled, but she didn't like the idea of cremation. I pointed out to her that it would be really messy to sprinkle without cremation. That was before we went through first our father's death, then a couple of decades later, our mother's. Being close to death, one realizes that the body just ain't the thang.
I mean, sure, it's great. A wonderful gift. Miraculous, even. But it's not sum and substance of who we are. Well, okay, so it's substance, but you get my drift, right?
Mom made very careful plans for the disposal of her body. She even bought a pretty walnut tea box at an antique store to hold her ashes, far in advance of the need. One day, my sister and I were with her, we'd been going through her clothes and her jewelry - Mom was a fashionista - and she said, "It recently occurred to me that I don't know what is appropriate to wear to be cremated."
Without skipping a beat, my sister replied, "Well, certainly nothing flame retardant." Then my sister said, "Mom, you have all this jewelry, we'll just put it all on you before cremation." I said, "Like hell, we will." We all laughed. It was good to be so honest and relaxed about it. There was no need to shroud (oooh, good word choice) the whole thing in mystery or unnecessary ritual. Her ashes were taken back to Illinois and buried next to our father's grave.
When our father died, it was much different. We had the big, elaborate funeral thing for him. Oy! Have you ever been casket shopping? It's horrible. His body was embalmed and viewed in his church. The elaborate, oak casket was put into a vault, guaranteed to be water-proof for some number of years.
Why? Dunno.
I mean that shell, was so obviously not Papa. But it's just what was done.
I certainly want none of that for my shell. I like the idea of green burial, but it's rather a bother. And I think the Bio Urn things are cool, in which one can put cremation ashes and then grow a tree from it all. There are also options of having the ashes made into jewelry or glass things. But again, who really wants to be left in charge of the vase made from Auntie's ashes. It would probably eventually be broken or sold at a garage sale.
I wouldn't mind having my body delivered to some wild animals and allowing them to eat it, thus returning it to Earth without being wasteful, but I'm afraid that my liver might be harmful to them. And, unless I'm living in Alaska or in an Indian jungle at the time, there wouldn't be enough hungry animals around. Not sure what the legalities for that are, so. . .
I guess we're back to plain ol' cremation and dispersing however my kids see fit. I promise, it won't matter to me. Eventually, this shell will go back to Earth. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust and all that. I'd like for it to happen without toxic chemicals leaching into the ground and without grandkids' tuition being spent and with as little fuss as possible.
Earth has a perfect way of taking care of such things. I know. I compost. It's a miracle and I love watching apple cores and carrot peels and crushed egg shells become beautiful soil over time. It's absolutely perfect recycling. I'll be honored to have my body serve Earth in this way.
Saturday, January 14, 2017
Passing On Enlightenment
It's very popular these days to say we need to stop thinking and just "be." I'm often told that I need to let go of thought to be enlightened or something like that. It may be very vulgar of me, but I love thinking. It is precious to be able to think - to tumble ideas around in ones mind just for the joy of it. The inestimable value of thinking is especially obvious to me since I'm told I may be losing my ability to do it. I've noticed that the people who write about not thinking, have put a lot of thought into what they write. Or maybe they haven't. Maybe I'm overthinking these essays and memes and paperbacks.
I could, have, and will spend hours and hours thinking about how wonderful water is. It expands when frozen AND when heated. And if it didn't do these remarkable things, we would not have Earth as we know it. Water absorbs and releases heat making Earth livable. It's necessary to all life as we know it. It's just uber cool, is what it is.
And if thinking about water doesn't blow your mind (yeah, that may be a poor choice of wording in my situation, ha) think about time. What the heck is it? Do you know? Do you think you know? It's more slippery than a warm tadpole.
What is sleep? Are we unconscious? Why do we sleep? Why does sleep elude us sometimes? And what about dreams? I love my dreams. They are very detailed and wondrous and I almost always direct them as they happen. But what are they? I think the Australian Aboriginals have it going on when they talk about Dreamtime being as real as any other time. (There we go with that time thing again.)
And don't you just love dancing around with the reality that everything is made of tiny little bits vibrating and bouncing into one another at various speeds and frequencies? It's lovely. Tiny bits of me are exchanging with bits of this keyboard right now. Who is what?
So if I need to give up thinking in order to be enlightened, I guess I'll skip the enlightenment.
I could, have, and will spend hours and hours thinking about how wonderful water is. It expands when frozen AND when heated. And if it didn't do these remarkable things, we would not have Earth as we know it. Water absorbs and releases heat making Earth livable. It's necessary to all life as we know it. It's just uber cool, is what it is.
And if thinking about water doesn't blow your mind (yeah, that may be a poor choice of wording in my situation, ha) think about time. What the heck is it? Do you know? Do you think you know? It's more slippery than a warm tadpole.
What is sleep? Are we unconscious? Why do we sleep? Why does sleep elude us sometimes? And what about dreams? I love my dreams. They are very detailed and wondrous and I almost always direct them as they happen. But what are they? I think the Australian Aboriginals have it going on when they talk about Dreamtime being as real as any other time. (There we go with that time thing again.)
And don't you just love dancing around with the reality that everything is made of tiny little bits vibrating and bouncing into one another at various speeds and frequencies? It's lovely. Tiny bits of me are exchanging with bits of this keyboard right now. Who is what?
So if I need to give up thinking in order to be enlightened, I guess I'll skip the enlightenment.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Generational Learning
Celebrations were in order tonight because not only is Bell, my grand daughter, tinkling on the potty regularly, but she pooped on the potty tonight! Of course, Bump, my grandson, is waaaayyyyyy past all this, having conquered this years ago.
I made a chicken stir fry with lots of veggies tonight to go with some spaghetti squash and an impromptu fruit salad. Bell, I'm sure, ate the equivalent of an entire chicken thigh and a whole kiwi. "More chicken, please, Nana Foo."
Meanwhile, Bump had a hard time. The stir fry looked "gross" and he's having a hard time eating anything but a few standbys. At one point, after being sent to the time out chair for making such a fuss, he very eloquently expounded, with a perfect command of dramatic exaggeration, how no one wanted him or cared about him anymore because, "Oh, yeah, that's right, the new girl is here."
My first reaction was amazement at how Bump commands language to control things. Boy howdy, does he ever. Then I realized the explosion had brought a tear to his mama's eye and I remembered how I'd have felt hearing this from one of my babies. I'm sure I heard things like it many times, actually.
.
I didn't know whom I wanted to hug more. Bell, for eating her dinner so well (and soaking in all the praise for so doing), Bump for such an excellent display of command of the nuances of language, or Devin, for feeling hurt by it.
Of course, I wasn't hurt by his comments that my food looked "gross." He's a five year old boy, who really wanted a visit from the neighbor kids, and whose Nana had just arrived. I just said, "Hard cheese, old man. Eat your dinner." And with some airplane maneuvers and extra attention from Nana, he did. In one of those moments of communication using only eye contact, he knew I had him pegged. A tacit understanding took place.
It's impossible to know, as a mother of small children, that one isn't ruining her child, especially when the child is as articulate and manipulative as my grands are. And I don't mean "manipulative" in a bad way. It is their job right now to learn to manipulate and to live in harmony in their environments.
I never spanked my babies, and my grands aren't spanked either, though I'm not sure that by the end of my stay here, one or the other might experience a slight swat to the butt. I would never hurt them, of course, but I would get their attention. I have the luxury of knowing that they are a a heck of a lot more resilient than parents can realize.
Heck, I'm still neurotic over what may have been poor parenting on my part when my kids were little. But I have no doubt at all that Bump and Bell have excellent parenting. Devin and Tim are often at a loss of knowing how much is too much to take, and when to say when. The fact that they question it and that it is of extreme importance, is what matters. They are tireless in their exhaustion in a way that only parents can understand.
Bump and Bell have no doubts about being loved. (Although Bump knows enough about psychology to know that suggesting he feels loved less than his little sister just might get him a hot dog instead of what's been served for dinner. (Well, it was worth a try, even though it didn't work.)
He knows his word are powerful and as he grows, he'll learn how to use the force for good, I'm sure. But for now it's a balancing act.
I know there is no way I can make my daughter realize what a good mother she is. Why should she believe me? But I know, and her children know. To be a parent is to have ones heart broken. But it's also to have ones heart swell with a sort of love that is indescribably. It's always worth it.
To be a Nana, on the other hand, is to experience the fun and the joy with a fraction of the angst. It is truly a reward for having lived through parenthood.
My babies are perfect. I am so grateful to have this time with them.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Dear Adventures
Tonight I've been a bit blue thinking of all the great things I wanted to accomplish before I die, and unless I give up sleep completely and become faster than a speeding bullet, I' not going to fit them all in this life time. So I've been turning my thoughts the some of the very best things I've accomplished.
Of course, the biggies are that I raised two children. I birthed them and nurtured them and saw them fly off in strange and wonderful directions. And while I constantly fight against guilt because I didn't do it perfectly, I've really no evidence, as my children have turned out perfectly.
I took over ad built up a community clinic for mental health services, substance abuse treatment, and continuing education and job skill straining for people with developmental disabilities. As part of that I turned an old sale barn into a recycling center that thrived.
I raised sheep and chooks on a farmette in Virgina and grew a huge garden. I learned so much.
I brought an early learning center back from the brink of closing, and made it thrive again, while falling in love with lots of babies.
I've kept secrets and promises and mostly been a good friend, sibling, cousin, and aunt. At times, perhaps even an okay daughter.
I've loved passionately and survived broken hearts.
I've travelled about the globe, made friends with Brumbies and kangaroos, gotten lost in mountains, eaten great food in and bargained with market owners in China and piloted a sampan. I've been humbled by ancient places in England including Stonehenge, Avebury Circle, Longbarrow and Glastonbury, and I've tasted cider with the good 'ol boys who proudly made it, turned the corner to see fields of solid bluebells, and got to know the folks down at the pub. I've seen the surf effervesce in Hawaii, and inhaled an indescribable sunset over the ocean at San Diego.
I've canoed up the Eau Claire River to where there were no people to be seen.
I've experienced - even performed - some great music.
I've seen people come into this life and leave it, finding beauty in both.
In my childhood, I was surrounded by great women, single, educated, kind, and patient, who cared for me and treated me as an equal and from whom I learned to many thing.
And I never lost my ability to be awed by Nature from the glory of a dandelion in all its stages to the nightly sky show on the dark prairie. I've been honored by "wild" animals who have trusted me enough to let me hold them, talk with them, listen to them.
I've written books that people enjoy reading.
I've talked some very worthwhile people into sticking around for a while, when they believed, as we all sometimes do, that others might just be better off without us. And I've listened while people have talked me into sticking around.
I've held and loved two grand babies - loved them more than I knew possible. And I allow myself to be loved and amused by them.
So over all, I realize that I have been blessed beyond all human reason. No need to dwell on the things I've not accomplished yet, and don't have enough time to write about all the things I've screwed up. I'll just let them go.
It's enough to know I've accomplished these, and many more things that are worthwhile. I am grateful.
Of course, the biggies are that I raised two children. I birthed them and nurtured them and saw them fly off in strange and wonderful directions. And while I constantly fight against guilt because I didn't do it perfectly, I've really no evidence, as my children have turned out perfectly.
I took over ad built up a community clinic for mental health services, substance abuse treatment, and continuing education and job skill straining for people with developmental disabilities. As part of that I turned an old sale barn into a recycling center that thrived.
I raised sheep and chooks on a farmette in Virgina and grew a huge garden. I learned so much.
I brought an early learning center back from the brink of closing, and made it thrive again, while falling in love with lots of babies.
I've kept secrets and promises and mostly been a good friend, sibling, cousin, and aunt. At times, perhaps even an okay daughter.
I've loved passionately and survived broken hearts.
I've travelled about the globe, made friends with Brumbies and kangaroos, gotten lost in mountains, eaten great food in and bargained with market owners in China and piloted a sampan. I've been humbled by ancient places in England including Stonehenge, Avebury Circle, Longbarrow and Glastonbury, and I've tasted cider with the good 'ol boys who proudly made it, turned the corner to see fields of solid bluebells, and got to know the folks down at the pub. I've seen the surf effervesce in Hawaii, and inhaled an indescribable sunset over the ocean at San Diego.
I've canoed up the Eau Claire River to where there were no people to be seen.
I've experienced - even performed - some great music.
I've seen people come into this life and leave it, finding beauty in both.
In my childhood, I was surrounded by great women, single, educated, kind, and patient, who cared for me and treated me as an equal and from whom I learned to many thing.
And I never lost my ability to be awed by Nature from the glory of a dandelion in all its stages to the nightly sky show on the dark prairie. I've been honored by "wild" animals who have trusted me enough to let me hold them, talk with them, listen to them.
I've written books that people enjoy reading.
I've talked some very worthwhile people into sticking around for a while, when they believed, as we all sometimes do, that others might just be better off without us. And I've listened while people have talked me into sticking around.
I've held and loved two grand babies - loved them more than I knew possible. And I allow myself to be loved and amused by them.
So over all, I realize that I have been blessed beyond all human reason. No need to dwell on the things I've not accomplished yet, and don't have enough time to write about all the things I've screwed up. I'll just let them go.
It's enough to know I've accomplished these, and many more things that are worthwhile. I am grateful.
Sunday, January 8, 2017
Mad As Hell and I'm Not Going to Take It Anymore
You know, I try to steer away from discussing politics here, but I do feel compelled, even obligated to discuss the future. So what I want to know is, what is wrong with us? I mean as a country.
Do you realize whom we just elected to be our president, the leader of the free world? The man loves war. He wants to build our arsenal as if we don't already have enough to blow up everything several times over. He wants to build a wall - yeah worked well for China and Germany, eh? He owns corporations and banks all over the world, including in China - a country he wants us to consider an enemy. He has close ties to Russian government. Though he marries Barbie Doll, non-American wives, he seems to have a hatred for immigrants, and he believes that fame and power makes it okay to treat women as objects.
Are you afraid? Are you scared shitless that he's going to get into a pissing contest with nuclear weapons? Can you trust him with the lives of your children and the future of the Earth?
What has happened to us? We really could feed, house, and educate. We could encourage and heal. We could do anything if we'd stop letting big corporate money run our world. Sure, money has been too involved in campaigns for too long, but now it seems to have bought the whole of us.
Do you think you matter to him? Do you think any person does? Do you think any bit of Nature does? The man isn't well. He is a megalomaniac, narcissistic, power-crazed asswipe and he is going to have his finger on the button. He's going to be in charge of building and breaking relationships with other governments. Governments, not people. I doubt that he's able to create relationships with people. He's like a spoiled, sociopathic child who has all the biggest toys and likes nothing better than throwing them at the heads of other children.
I don't know what to do except to scream WAKE UP.
Do you realize whom we just elected to be our president, the leader of the free world? The man loves war. He wants to build our arsenal as if we don't already have enough to blow up everything several times over. He wants to build a wall - yeah worked well for China and Germany, eh? He owns corporations and banks all over the world, including in China - a country he wants us to consider an enemy. He has close ties to Russian government. Though he marries Barbie Doll, non-American wives, he seems to have a hatred for immigrants, and he believes that fame and power makes it okay to treat women as objects.
Are you afraid? Are you scared shitless that he's going to get into a pissing contest with nuclear weapons? Can you trust him with the lives of your children and the future of the Earth?
What has happened to us? We really could feed, house, and educate. We could encourage and heal. We could do anything if we'd stop letting big corporate money run our world. Sure, money has been too involved in campaigns for too long, but now it seems to have bought the whole of us.
Do you think you matter to him? Do you think any person does? Do you think any bit of Nature does? The man isn't well. He is a megalomaniac, narcissistic, power-crazed asswipe and he is going to have his finger on the button. He's going to be in charge of building and breaking relationships with other governments. Governments, not people. I doubt that he's able to create relationships with people. He's like a spoiled, sociopathic child who has all the biggest toys and likes nothing better than throwing them at the heads of other children.
I don't know what to do except to scream WAKE UP.
Saturday, January 7, 2017
Weather Lens
Upstate television news this morning showed a young reporter in a parka standing on the side of a highway in Spartanburg County, SC warning us about the dangers of the storm. I know that there will be accidents and injuries, but still I couldn't help but laugh all the way through the report, which lasted three minutes - quite a long time in terms of a news report.
He kept showing us how deep the snow was ". . . . a couple of inches at least." He showed us the slush on the roads and how the cars that went by left grooves in the slush. He commented on the fact that some people had dusted the snow from only their windshield and not the whole car, which was a bad idea. All the while he had the demeanor of someone reporting from the midst of the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius.
Only yesterday he warned us that the temperatures were going to be ". . . . bitterly, dangerously cold. . . possibly down to as low as 30 degrees." I realize that this is below freezing and that means ice. There will be blood, and I shouldn't laugh. But my husband is from Canada, I'm from the upper Midwest, and we get a kick out of how people in the deep south react to snow. We joke that both of the state's snow plows are busy today.
But when it's hovering around 100 degrees and the humidity is dead heavy in the summer - which seems to last about eight months here - I can barely move, while my neighbors are out and about enjoying themselves.
Hurricanes get my attention. All that time to prepare and see them coming just gives my anxiety time to get to work. Locals have hurricane parties. On the other hand, while I have a deep respect for tornadoes, I don't get anxious unless/until I can hear one, and by then it's too late to take a xanax.
When I first moved to northern Wisconsin from central Illinois, I shivered when it got to 20 degrees. My boss told me that believe it or not, there would come a time later that winter when I'd consider 20 degrees a heat wave. Sure enough. He was right. It took me a while to get used to people driving their trucks onto the lakes to build their ice shanties. I was amazed at how people got going outside when it got really cold. They'd snow shoe, ski, sled, fish. Ten degrees was just the beginning of Go Time! Minus 15 started to get a bit nippy.
It's just all a matter of what you're used to. For better or worse, our background and experience form a lens through which we see life. If we're lucky, we'll have many experiences and our lens will give us more of a wide-angle view. If we're wise, we'll learn when to remove the lens and just experience things as they are here and now.
It's still snowing and I'm hoping that we'll get enough to cover the ground in white, if just for a little while. I miss the silence and peace of snow - and of course I love to watch the local weather reporters.
He kept showing us how deep the snow was ". . . . a couple of inches at least." He showed us the slush on the roads and how the cars that went by left grooves in the slush. He commented on the fact that some people had dusted the snow from only their windshield and not the whole car, which was a bad idea. All the while he had the demeanor of someone reporting from the midst of the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius.
Only yesterday he warned us that the temperatures were going to be ". . . . bitterly, dangerously cold. . . possibly down to as low as 30 degrees." I realize that this is below freezing and that means ice. There will be blood, and I shouldn't laugh. But my husband is from Canada, I'm from the upper Midwest, and we get a kick out of how people in the deep south react to snow. We joke that both of the state's snow plows are busy today.
But when it's hovering around 100 degrees and the humidity is dead heavy in the summer - which seems to last about eight months here - I can barely move, while my neighbors are out and about enjoying themselves.
Hurricanes get my attention. All that time to prepare and see them coming just gives my anxiety time to get to work. Locals have hurricane parties. On the other hand, while I have a deep respect for tornadoes, I don't get anxious unless/until I can hear one, and by then it's too late to take a xanax.
When I first moved to northern Wisconsin from central Illinois, I shivered when it got to 20 degrees. My boss told me that believe it or not, there would come a time later that winter when I'd consider 20 degrees a heat wave. Sure enough. He was right. It took me a while to get used to people driving their trucks onto the lakes to build their ice shanties. I was amazed at how people got going outside when it got really cold. They'd snow shoe, ski, sled, fish. Ten degrees was just the beginning of Go Time! Minus 15 started to get a bit nippy.
It's just all a matter of what you're used to. For better or worse, our background and experience form a lens through which we see life. If we're lucky, we'll have many experiences and our lens will give us more of a wide-angle view. If we're wise, we'll learn when to remove the lens and just experience things as they are here and now.
It's still snowing and I'm hoping that we'll get enough to cover the ground in white, if just for a little while. I miss the silence and peace of snow - and of course I love to watch the local weather reporters.
Monday, January 2, 2017
First New Year Dream.
In my first sleep of the new year I had quite a dream. I'm sure Freud laughs and Jung is left scratching his head. I hadn't slept for two days and then I slept 12 hours. I'm sure there is significance in this, and perhaps one day it will come to me. In the mean time, feel free to give me your interpretations.
My daughter and I were on a horse in a hotel, riding down the hall, when I realized we probably shouldn't ride through the lobby because we could get in trouble, although the horse came to us, so it really wasn't our fault. We rode outside. Then it was just me riding and I was sometimes on a train. I was heading to a hometown friend's birthday party. She lived way outside of town in a rambling, big house. Many of my girl Shubert cousins were there. Another friend from childhood had arranged the party, which had a spy movie theme, a la the old 007 movies. There was a big monitor with movies going all the time and at one point the birthday girl sang on the piano while my other friend played.
On the way to the party, I saw strange animals, usually two at a time. I'd say "There's a deer and a rhinosorus," or "Look, there's a kangaroo and a bear." but by the time others looked, of course the train had passed. So I said, "Just keep looking, I think it must be a Nature park or something." The others saw and we all stopped to feed the animals.
I had a lot of dried fruit and I fed various animals. Then a giraffe, or some tall animal said, "Why don't we all go feed the humans?" I thought that was only fair. So this giraffe brought me a piece of dried plantain. It was very good.
Then we were back on the way to the party. We arrived and I realized I wasn't wearing a shirt, but it didn't bother me too much, just a little. I sat on a balcony sort of thing between the first two friends I even had, Julie and Kathy. Besides my cousins, they were the only people there I knew. At one point the birthday girl looked out the window and saw someone coming and said "Uh oh," and a guy with a Brit accent came in, rushed through the crowd, saying, "Noah, my favorite Noah," to a little boy who ran to him. Then a snitty argument ensued between the man who was with the boy (he also had a British accent) and the man who came to pick him up. It was obviously a divorce, custody thing. Everyone sort of tried to ignore it.
I was looking at the ceiling and I noticed how intricate the trim was on your walls. My friend, the owner of the house, had painted incredibly detailed things along all the trim. Sometimes sayings, sometimes pictures. Just beautiful. I thought about how very talented she was.
Then someone said something about her, like a toast, and said something about living forever. I knew that wasn't true and I said, "Why do you say that? You know she won't live forever and why should she want to, blah, blah, blah" And then I went into my song and dance about since my BBD (Big, bad diagnoses) I've been living like I'm dying and that the birthday girl is doing the same thing, which is the way EVERYONE should live. And she agreed with me, but I noticed she was crying.
So I realized I should really shut my fat mouth, especially in light of the fact that I was topless. Then someone came in and gave my cousin, Jill a necklace and said John, the brother of the birthday girl, said to give it to her. That's she'd left it at his house when they were teenagers. I butted in and said, "Well it's probably for her sister, Trisha, then because Trisha is closer to John's age. Then it hit me and I said. "Oh, I'll bet it's for Renee! (who dated John) and she isn't here.
Then Kathy asked me, "So are you coming to the wedding?" I asked when it was and she said, "Tomorrow in the morning," which I knew meant they didn't know the date yet. Then I noticed her boyfriend sitting next to her. She told me they were registered at some place in Keokuk. I told her I didn't realize people still did stuff like that - registering for china etc. Her boyfriend said, "Well, we're going to get it while we can." Everyone laughed.
Then my cousins and I got into a big discussion about one of our boy cousin's wives whom we didn't like. In my dream she was a psych nurse and I made some comment about her knowing better who was crazy and who was not, since I'd been out of the field for so long. I played a sort of volleyball with a balloon with cousins who sat across the room.
One cousin, Sara, asked me if I believed in Jesus. I said, "What does that mean - believe in Jesus?" Do you mean do I believe he's the son of God or that he's my personal savior or what?" Then I said, "I'm not of Christian, if that's what you mean, though I hope I am Christ-like." It made sense at the time and it meant that I didn't go to church.
Then it was time to leave and I walked out on to the deck with Julie, who said, "Oh, I just love the night air. I finally feel so free!" And someone said they were forming a car pool and so I started to go to a car.
Then Margaret my dog started kissing me on the face and I woke up.
I'm not sure what any of this means, if it means anything other than one really should try to regulate ones sleep. Of course, the train and the horse and the rambling house could all keep some of my psychologist friends wondering..
What I got from this is that even in my sleep, I'm aware of the BBD and the life changes it has brought about, that I love animals and see them as at least my equals, and that my cousins, and a couple of childhood friends are really cool people whom I love. Overall, it was a happy dream and one that for some reason seamed significant. Usually, once I write a dream, I get some message from it, but not so big a message this time.
So put on your Dr. Freud secret decoder rings and have at it. I'll await your interpretations and be grateful for them.
Amy, thanks for inviting me to your party.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)