If I haven't said it recently...

Thank you.

Thank you for being there to listen to me.
Thank you for giving me a chance to vent.
Thank you for the understanding and the caring.

With everything that has been going on in my life.
With everything that's happened, all the changes.
With everything else that I'm trying to come to terms with.

There are those I thought I could count on.
I cannot. That hurts me more than anything else I've been through.

I hope they can find some peace in these troubles times.
I hope they find the strength to come to terms with the truth.
I hope they understand.

And yet, through it all, there were friends who have stood by my side.
Strangers and people whom I have never met who have offered me more support than I ever expected.
More support...more caring...more love than I can get from my own flesh and blood.

This isn't easy.
It will get worse.
Challenges await me that I haven't even begun to see or understand.

And all I can do is take things day by day.
And all I can do is hope I can find the strength I'll need.

Until then, I'll say it again.

Thank you.

A domesticated male

More tales of the new bachelor...

Yes. I will admit. Over the years, I've abused the housekeeping abilites of My Kid. She was more than willing to clean the house, and I was more than willing to let her. Mind you, I did learn how to just about everything pertaining to housework...cleaning, laundry, washing windows, running the vacuum, all that stuff...and I even did them myself for several years before The Kid earned Forced Retirement.

However, there was one thing that I never did, one ability that eluded me: Scrubbing the Kitchen and Bathroom floor.

When I was but a wee child, I watched Mum do it: She'd get on her hands and knees and scrubbed the floor...really scrubbed...but as the years went on and age crept in, she resorted to mopping it down.

So, today, while cleaning the house, I realized that it was now my turn.

Armed with a bucket, a mop and a bottle of Mr. Clean, I stood there, looking at the kitchen floor...

...and I can feel the cringe of every woman, wife and mother who reads this...

...I wondered, what the Hell do I do now.

Being an enlightened male, I do know how to RTFM: Read The F***ing Manual. So I read the directions on the back of the bottle, or at the very least, the first line: Add 1/4 cup of blue stuff to a half-gallon, or bucket, or water.

Simple enough. I did it.

I then grabbed the mop...the manual mop...and dunked it in the stuff a couple times.

Yes, it's a manual mop, and yes, I did squeeze the excessive water out with my bare hands.

I then mopped down the floor. I'd seen pirate movies where they swab the deck, so I knew pretty much what to do: Mop, dunk, squeeze, repeat until done.

So I did it. Looked pretty good, but the floor was really wet.

This is the part that confused me.

What do I do? Let it air dry? Get on my *gasp* hands and knees and dry it? Run away in panic? Find a woman who knows what the heck she's doing and get her?

Before you ask, I'll tell ya. I got one of my old scrub towels out of the basement and dried the floor off. That was probably the wrong option, but it was a multiple choice problem, and I don't always do well on those.

Still...after drying it off and brooming some of the left-over crumbs and stuff out the door, it don't look all that bad.

At least to A Dumb Guy. Odds are, I'd get a woman in here and get dirty looks because I missed a spot or didn't properly rinse or leave a chocolate on the pillow and tip the maid.

But whaddya expect? I'm new at this. I'm learning...

What is this "me time" I seem to have found?

One of the most amazing things I've found, in the midst of everything that's been going on in my life, is that all of a sudden, I have this time to myself that I haven't had before.

I've spent my life up until now being the caretaker. After work, I've come home, picked up The Kid, took her out to dinner, and if there was any shopping to be done, I'd do that (leaving her either in the car if the weather was decent, or at some bench right inside the store, since she couldn't walk around that well), and then come home. The rest of the evening was spent either pecking away at the computer or flopped on the couch watching the TV.

Nowadays, after work, I go down and visit The Kid, and spend an hour or two with her until her dinner arrives. I make sure she's got something halfway edible to eat (volumes could be written about hospital food and the paper they're printed on would taste better), and then...amazingly enough...the rest of the evening is mine to do what I please.

This is a new experience for me.

In the past couple weeks, I've gone out to dinner most of the time, for sure, but I've also skipped dinner one night. Completely skipped it! I've gone to a baseball game (and will hopefully go to another one soon), I stopped at the grocery store and picked up the ingredients for a nice, simple meal. I've picked up a Battleship and had enough for dinner that night AND lunch the next day.

One night, a week or so ago, my feet were killing me. I knew I needed to soak 'em, but I was out of Epsom Salts. In the past, The Kid would throw a hissy fit if I needed to run out to the store at night, but there was no one here to make such a fuss. I hopped in the car, drove over to K-Mart, bought some Epsom Salts and a new tub to soak my feet in. In the past week or so, I've soaked 'em just about every night: Walking 2 to 4 miles each day can wear on the feet, after all.

I know, gentle reader, that you're reading this and you're saying to yourself, "so what?". To you, these things are nothing...it's part of everyday life. To me, however, it's the little things that I've never had the chance to do because of my role as caretaker to someone who's become so frightened of the world outside her door that she locked herself away...and took me with her, after a fashion.

Don't harbor any ill will to her, please. I don't. I stood by her and did these things by my own will, by my own choice. Nowadays, she's somewhere where maybe...just maybe...they can help her with problems that I can no longer help her with, even though I know she longs to come back here to her home and prison. It's just that the safety she found here once no longer exists. What I do, I do for her own good.

As for me? Unlike my Kid, I won't lock myself into this prison once the work day is done. I'll get home...eventutally.

Promises, Promises

I was raised to believe that if you give your word, you don't go back on it.
My word is my bond. My honor depends on it. I rarely give my word on something, but when I do, it's a guarantee that I will keep it. I will not go back on it, and for my life, I have always kept my word whenever I've given it.

That is, until today.

I gave someone my word years ago about something.
Now, I must go back on my word.

This won't be easy.

Please forgive the crypic nature of this blog. Right now, I don't want to go any further. Some of you might know what I'm talking about, most of you probably won't.

Doesn't matter. As I said, forgive the cryptic nature. When I can, I will explain myself.

Ahhh.....

The kid's still in the hospital. She'll probably be there through the weekend, at the least.
Trying to get the infection cleared is the first priority.

Me? Let's see...

I'm sitting on the couch soaking my feet in hot water and Epsom Salts. I'm sipping from a glass of cranberry and black cherry juice, as close as these lips get to wine. Queen's Live at Wembley is playing on the TV. Freddy Mercury was the best, pure and simple.

Updating this blog on the laptop and then I'm gonna close 'er down.

See? I do know how to relax, my dears. No worries about me. I can take care of myself.

And now, a musical interlude.

We interrupt your usual blog with a plug:

WJAS

The above link is to one of the few terrestial radio stations I'll actually listen to. Given my love of music, you'd like that I'd have dozens of stations to choose from, sampling the sounds from various genres and formats.

However, most traditional radio stations, now that they're all owned by the same "Clear" company for the most part, play the same old songs.

I remember visiting New Orleans a few years back, excited that I was visiting one of the true homes of Jazz in the US, only to find pretty much the same crap I hear back home. It wasn't until I found a cool college station, WWOZ, that I actually heard traditional, and damn good, Jazz.

But back to the topic at hand. 1320 WJAS.

It's the station I have on first thing in the morning when I get up. It's one of the few I listen to in the car (although most of the time I've got my own CDs spinning). And now, they're back on the Internet, after legal battles kept them offline for years.

If you like traditional artists like Sinatra, Dean Martin, Perry Como, you'll like this station.
If you like some of the newer artists like Michael Buble and Jane Monheit, you'll like this station.
If you like professional announcers that don't believe they have to insult the audience to entertain, you'll like this station.

Give it a listen sometime, if you're interested. It is based in Pittsburgh, so you'll get local news, sports, traffic and weather, but you'll also get some good music.

Who knows? We might be listening to it at the same time...

A time for...me

Tonight was just for me.

This morning, I did sleep in. Was rather nice, being able to look at the clock at 6:30 and mentalling it to fsck off. By the time 9-ish came around, I decided I wanted to get up.

Just me. No one else. Didn't have to worry about anyone else being up or needing something or whatever.

Got up, did the usual bathroom stuff, the shower thing and all that, and then cleaned the bathroom after I finished. Yes, I was butt naked when I cleaned the bathroom, but no, there are no photos of that. Last thing I want to do is break the camera lens.

Went downstairs, fed the neighborhood birds and squirrels, walked over to get a newspaper, came back home, had a bowl of cereal, and started the laundry. No pressures, no deadlines, no worries.

Got out the heavy laptop and surfed for awhile. Seems I'm causing trouble over at DA again...there are a bunch of comments over there waiting for me. I answered some of them, and some of them...I'll deal with later. Nothing against them, I just decided to walk away from it for a bit.

Cleaned the house (yes, by this point, I was dressed, perverts) top to bottom. Dusted. Polished. Ran the sweeper and did my best to clean some stains off of the rug. Most of them are gone, from the looks of it, but it's dark as I type this and I'm not looking that closely.

Sure, I went down to visit the kid. She's still kinda confused, kinda drowsy, and unhappy to be there. She didn't even bother to get dressed today. I stayed for a couple hours, and my oldest brother and his wife were there for awhile. It was a good visit...she begged me not to leave, but sometimes ya gotta teach tough love, so she's gotta get used to some things.

Then...it was time for me.

I went to a baseball game. Just me. By myself. It's been awhile since I've been able to do this, and it felt nice. No pressures, no worries, just me. Got a seat on the first base line, five rows back. Great seat. Gorgeous view. Perfect night. Not too hot, not cold in the least. Pleasant.

The Pirates won. 3-2. Can't ask for more than that.

Left there, took a leisurly drive home. Stopped at Starbucks on the way. Got a vanilla creme. Sitting here at home and sipping it now.

Today was for me. I haven't had one of these in a long time. It felt...nice.

Sleep is a beautiful thing

If you haven't heard by now, My Kid...my mother...has been admitted to a hospital and will probably there for awhile.

For the most part, I've understood that this was the only logical option. I've really only had one moment of indecision, one moment of wondering if I was doing the right thing, one moment of regret.

It didn't last too long. It only too a phone call to her when she was rather nasty (something she didn't mean and really couldn't help) to remind me I was doing the right thing.

After talking with some members of the family, they tell me that there's a history of dementia in the family. Mind you, most members of her family died well before their 80's, so we have no real way of verifying what exactly is wrong.

All I know is that she's somewhere where they can help her, 'cause I sure as heck did all I could.

Oh, and for those of you who've asked about my friend...we have no real update. There's a chance the cancer might've spread to the bone, but without a baseline MRI, it's impossible to tell. She's putting on a brave front, tho. It's all just a matter of waiting and seeing what will happen.

Now excuse me 'cause I'm gonna go take a nap.

Ten Years After

Boy, this is weird.

It's been a very long time since I've put fingers to keys.  I don't blog any more, hardly ever write.  I've moved from putting words to paper (or screen, as it were) and focus more on photography for self-expression, for a creative outlet.

Yet, here I am.  Ten Years After. 

The date on this entry says 2006, but it's not.  In August of 2006, my life was a wreck.  I was, at this point, existing on around 3 or 4 hours of sleep a night.  I was living back in my old home in Swissvale, taking care of my mother, who was waking me up in the middle of the night, claiming she had to go outside or generally acting up.

See, in the course of the last nine months, at the time, she'd begun to change.  Her baby sister died the previous year, and she wasn't taking it well.  Her personality was...off.  I'd attributed it to one of the many UTI's she'd had, but her doctor gave her a (relative) clean bill of health.  After every test came back clean, he said her problems might not be physical, but rather, mental.

I'd made an appointment with a geriatric psychologist she'd been to, ironically, a decade before, and they prescribed anti-depressants for her.  She'd started to take them, but they told me it would take two weeks for me to see any effect.  We never made it that far.

I don't think I've put the following down in words.  I've told people, but never wrote about it.

Middle of the night on August 7th, My Kid (as I've always referred to her) came into my room and was acting worse than ever.  She was hyper, rambling.  I tried to calm her down, but she was borderline hysterical.  She insisted on going to the hospital, and told me she'd hit me if I didn't take her.  I said she wouldn't, but she insisted. 

The slap across my face...it wasn't a hard one.  But it was enough of a wake up call.

I'd called for an ambulance.  They took her to the hospital in Braddock where they gave her something to sleep.  They'd told me their psych ward was full or else they'd admit her, instead, telling me to take her home and call her doctor in the morning.

Got her home, got showered and went to work. Called her doc, and she said they'd get her into Western Psych, but they didn't know when.  They'd call me when there was a bed available.  It would be another 24 hours before they could take her.

Another night of three hours of sleep.

Tuesday, August 8th, 2006.  I was at work, around 10:30 in the morning, when I got the call that a bed had opened up in Western Psych, but I had to get her there before Noon.  Now, anyone familiar with Pittsburgh will be impressed when they hear I was able to drive from CMU to Swissvale, get her, and get back to Oakland in under an hour.  Speed laws were broken that day.

She left her home of 40 years that day, and she never came back.

It took some convincing for her to admit herself, rather than have a judge admit her.  I had to be the one who finally convinced her to do it.

She wouldn't leave that place for more than three months.

In the beginning, I was convinced she'd be able to come home again.  I'd bring her home after they were able to help her, and we'd go back to the same old routine.  But there was no coming back from this one.

She'd been diagnosed with depression and cognitive disorders, dementia and onset of Altzheimer's.  There was no coming back from this one.

---

You may ask, why am I writing all this now.  Why am I up at 2:30 in the morning, unable to sleep, like I couldn't 10 years ago? 

I remember anniversaries of important dates.  First time I talked to Julie, first trip out to DeKalb to meet her.  Our wedding day.  I remember them all, just as I remember August 8th.

But decades have always been big for me.  I've seen over the course of my life how things have...changed...as each new decade starts.  I've changed, as it were, with each decade of my life.

I think we all change a little every 10 years, or else we experience something new every decade.  We reinvent ourselves, making changes. Some big, some small.

So it's been a decade since my mother left home one last time, went into Western Psych, and ultimately the nursing home where she spent the last two and a half years of her life.

It's been a decade since I accepted she wouldn't come home, that the house was mine, lost my job, met my true love, moved 500 miles from the only home I'd ever known and became a step-father, and a step-grandfather.

Ten years after.

Nowadays, when I wake up in the middle of the night, it's because I'm too hot.  It's not because My Kid came in the room in the middle of the night swearing she had to go next door to the flower shop (that's not there anymore).

I'll get up and go stretch out on the couch until I cool off enough to go back to bed, where the most amazing woman is waiting for me.  I'll climb back in, and she'll reach over and take my hand, and I can sleep for a couple more hours before I have to get up and face the day.

Yeah, it's been 10 years today, and I may seem a little...introspective, but I'm better today that I was back then.  10 years ago, tonight, I came home and I didn't have to worry about someone waking me up because the demons in her head were telling her things.  Maybe tonight, I'll sleep though the night, to celebrate that anniversary.

It's a decade thing, you understand.

Insert "sleep" song title here

Three and a half hours sleep.

That's what I'm working on tonight.

Three and a half hours sleep.

It's amazing what you can accomplish with that little sleep.

Three and a half hours sleep.



And I wonder how much sleep I'll get tonight...

What then?

The human mind is an amazing thing.

Art...music...poetry...so many wonderful things have spawned from human thought, from a three pound lump of muscle.

But what happens when the mind starts to fail? What happens when something you've relied on your whole life, to make decisions, to guide, to provide rational ideas, does the opposite? What happens when the mind cannot stop thinking, and the thoughts you have make no sense...even to you?

What then?

I am bearing witness to the failing of the human mind, even as I type this.

Frustration. When the thoughts running through your mind make no sense...what happens then? Sure, there are medications that might help, but they take weeks to take effect...and there's no guarantee that it will work.

What then?

Sitting. Words you speak that make little or no sense, even to you. You spend hours and days trying to remember something but you don't know what that is but you know that you should be doing something even if you can't do it and it's not your fault but you still can't stop and...and...and...

What then?

I have no answers to that.
I can't offer any advice.

All I can do is sit and watch...and wait.