In the past few weeks I’ve been mostly off the grid; only recently have I started taking baby steps to rejoin my favorite online communities. After my last post, I began to mentally prepare for a trip to see family in central New York State. It had been almost a year since my sister Shirley died. While I was looking forward to seeing her family, I also knew it would be painful. So I gave myself two weeks to plan and pack.
Adding to my anxiety was an invitation to speak at a Celebration of Life for my cousin Elaine who had died a month before my sister. Her daughter Lia, her only child and her primary caregiver when she became ill, asked me to speak. I couldn’t say no. A few months before Elaine died, Lia gave me the opportunity to share memories with her through email. Elaine and I have an interesting history. She is why I moved to California. For a few years, she was my employer, and it was at her candle factory that I had an accident that upended my life. (You can read about the accident here.) It’s a memory that haunts me, but it wasn’t what I wanted to share with Elaine.
For the event, I revised what I did share with Lia and Elaine. I printed it out, in large type, fully prepared to read it calmly. When we got to New York, I was distracted by family issues and didn’t think about the event until the morning of. And then I thought I would simply fall apart.
They held the celebration in the visitor’s center of the Auriesville Shrine, the gift store on one side of the low round building, a cluster of tables and chairs on the other, facing a bank of windows that looked out onto the Mohawk River.
It was a true celebration of Elaine’s life with her sisters, her daughter, and our cousins taking turns sharing memories, often through tears. There was singing and music and a slide show highlighting moments of Elaine’s life.
When it was my turn to speak, I tried to be relaxed, greeting the crowd with “Hey, everybody.” But with the first two words of my speech, I started crying. I thought I wouldn’t be able to read it at all. But I got through it. It was important for me to do this for Elaine and for Lia. Here’s what I had to say:
Elaine and I have so much history together and yet so little compared to others. I don’t remember Elaine from before I was 15 and she came to NY from California for a visit.
My memory is not good, and others’ are likely better than mine, but this is how I remember it:
We were all at my sister Shirley’s farm, having some big family get-together.
At some point in the evening, Elaine sat outside with us “kids” in a circle and told us stories about her life in California.
I remember feeling in awe of her, this warm, smiling woman who had managed to escape small-town life and survive.
She was living in California, a place as exotic in my imagination as France or Spain would be in real life.
She must have had the candle factory starting up because I said something to her about working there. She invited anyone and everyone to come work there.
After a few years, I took her up on it and our history began.
While those years in the beginning were rough for both me and Elaine—she was trying to keep her business afloat, I was trying to keep myself afloat—because of it all … because of Elaine, I eventually met the love of my life, my best friend for life, the man I’ve been with now for almost 40 years.
What a gift Elaine gave me when she said, “Sure, come on out to California.” She helped set my life in motion. She set me on the path I needed to go on.
And what a gift she gave the world in the form of her beautiful, brilliant daughter Lia.
That’s what I’ll always remember about Elaine, the gifts she gave.
Elaine and me in 2007.
When I came back to my home in Florida, I found out that a piece I submitted to Visual Verse had been accepted and published. You can read it here: Still Life. Of course, it’s about cats. Here are my muses:
Wendy
Raji
Junior with his catnip-stuffed sock. Taken on July 6, 2023.
I wrote this post in 2019 and reposted it in 2022. I’m doing so again this year. Every Memorial Day (and most days in-between), I think of Ted Albers and how much I miss him. While Memorial Day is for remembering those veterans we’ve lost, do me a favor and also hold close the ones who are still here.
I wasn’t born yet when my family moved in next to you.
My older sister got your heart first. You still had dark hair. You often told me how pleased you were when my family moved in. You never had children of your own. You never married. My family came ready-made for you.
Did your heart sing when I was born? Perhaps more than my mother’s heart?
Anyone looking would see how you took possession of me like a blood relative, like a grandfather aching for a child to caress and teach and spoil.
Your hair is now gray at the sides. I don’t remember this photo (I was only a year old) but it doesn’t surprise me to see myself as full in the moment, on your lap, feeling loved.
You wouldn’t miss my birthdays. Somehow it seemed that you enjoyed them more than anyone else, maybe more than me. I felt like everything I did interested you, entertained you. Even simply opening a gift, my self-consciousness starting to show, the one-year-old’s glee giving way to the four-year-old’s apprehension.
You let me be wild and plastic where my own family wanted me quiet and still. I didn’t have to be still around you. I could, as I often did, suspend myself between your refrigerator and chair. I wore dresses but acted like a tomboy, flashing my cotton underwear. I was too young for anyone to think twice.
You let me play-act. I’m a famous movie actress enjoying a drink by your pool. I spent more time in your house, your backyard than in my own.
It seems sometimes I hung on to you for dear life.
And we might have both liked cats … at least I did.
You served your country. You were inducted into the Army on March 9, 1942, a few months before you would have been considered too old to serve. Earlier they had rejected you because of your varicose veins, but then they changed their minds, as the bodies came home or soldiers went missing.
You told me how the other men called you “Pop” because of your age, how you wrote letters for the ones who could not write, protected the vulnerable from the bullies in the camps. You cooked, something you enjoyed anyway, until August 1944, when you were attached to General Patch’s Seventh Army. You never told me how you saw your friend shot in the middle of the forehead while you were both fighting from a foxhole. You never told me how you went into shock, had to be hospitalized, and then was sent back to the Front.
You did tell me you were captured by the Germans.
From a local newspaper: George Albers has been notified by the War Department that his brother, Corp. Theodore Albers has been reported missing since December 23, 1944 in Belgium. The last his family heard from him was December 15, 1944.
You remained missing until Germany surrendered and you were found in a POW camp. You were quiet about your experience, only saying that often you subsisted on only black bread and water and that you had to be deloused before leaving Germany.
As you saw the end of your life growing near, you talked more.
They would only feed us every three or four days. And we had to work in a steel factory. One day I said, “I won’t work if I can’t eat.” Well, that was the wrong thing to say. They wore these long, thick leather gloves and the guard hit me across the face, knocked my glasses off. Then he kicked me where I shouldn’t be kicked and beat me so bad I was in the hospital for, oh … five or six months. I don’t remember where they took me. Just I was gone for five or six months.
You got smaller over the years, and I got taller. The last time I saw you, the last time we hugged, your head rested on my chest.
You died on April 5, 1994, but you still live in my heart.
RIP Theodore Albers, World War II veteran, former Prisoner of War. Thank you for your service, but more than that, thank you for being the best part of my life.
I was only nine and you were nineteen when you married and left the family home.
As you took your vows, I sat in the pew, steeling myself to be quiet,
voiceless cries whirling in my head: “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”
I was only nine and, although you left, you didn’t leave me.
Instead, you gave me
the gift of a strong, silent, and steadfast brother in your husband,
the gift of three tall, handsome, and intelligent nephews,
the gift of eight beautiful and gifted grandnieces and grandnephews.
You never left me. You never let me go.
I was the one who left, who packed up my few things and moved across the country,
first to the West, then to the South, never back to the North.
You never let me go. Your letters followed me everywhere.
If only I had thought to tell you that I kept all the letters and cards you sent me.
Over thirty years of missives about the weather, the farm, the boys, your work, your life.
If only I had thought to remind you of your funny stories,
like that time in a hotel when you got locked inside a bathroom
and it took four men and how long to get you out
while you sat on the toilet and patiently waited.
Or how you used to joke about wanting to experience an empty nest as
your two oldest sons cycled through your house as they cycled into adulthood,
first one and then the other,
rinse and repeat,
testing your patience but never your love.
You were always there for your sons,
for your husband,
for our father,
our neighbor,
your friends,
our mother,
our siblings.
For me.
Family was your mission in life.
I could have been a better sister.
I am afraid of life without you.
I wanted to take for granted that you would always be here for me,
that you would never leave me.
When your husband called to say you were in the hospital again,
I felt that nine-year-old girl uncurl in my heart,
her hot fingers clenched as this time she screamed the words, “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”
You are gone. Not from my heart, not from my memory, but from my future.
I could have been a better sister.
But I could never have been a better sister than you were for me.
In memory of Shirley Marie (Bailey) Auspelmyer
August 2, 1946–July 1, 2022
I am going to take a hiatus from blogging and writing online. Not that I’ve been doing much of either lately but why not make it official.
Here’s the deal: my sister Shirley is dying. The sister with Parkinson’s. The sister who has been dodging health curveballs most of her adult life. The only one of us four who went on to have her own family: three sons and eight grandchildren. The sister who wrote letters to me after I left home. Long letters that I’ve collected in a box for over thirty years.
We visited my family in May for a few days. I hadn’t seen Shirley in almost seven years and wasn’t prepared for how Parkinson’s had altered her. Cognitively, she was still with it. We had conversations, cracked jokes. Still, I was terrified watching her walk about because she was a fall risk. I’d hover, sometimes holding my breath until she sat down and was, in my view, safe.
A few weeks ago, she was admitted to a local hospital for a UTI. Then she was discharged. Then she was readmitted because the antibiotics hadn’t worked. And it has just gone downhill from there. One week ago, we were all worried about her having an antibiotic-resistant infection. The doctors proposed sending her to an infectious disease center. Before they could do that, they had to do a couple more tests to determine if anything else was causing the infection.
They found a large mass in her abdomen; a biopsy confirmed it was cancer.
Here’s where the rage kicks in. Shirley has been under the care of SEVERAL doctors for SEVERAL years and yet this large mass just appeared? The attending doctor suggested that it might have been growing in her abdomen for at least a year. Seriously?!
But it’s too late for rage. The mass is there, it’s malignant, and treatment is not recommended because of her condition. She hasn’t been responsive for a while so her husband and sons have to make all the decisions. She’ll receive hospice care at the hospital.
I don’t want her to go, but I know we have no choice. I only hope that someday I’ll have the strength to write about her and share my memories of her.
I’ve been inspired and comforted by this essay by Eileen Vorbach Collins: My Grief Goes On: A Letter to My Late Daughter. I can and will grieve for Shirley as long as I’m alive. Just like I still grieve for so many other friends, family members, and furred children that I’ve lost. I haven’t lost the memories, though. The memories are my comfort.
Comments are closed because I need to step away for now. I can imagine what you all would say, though, and, believe me, I appreciate it.
So now, find a loved one–whether furred or hairless or both–and hug them tight.
I always feel apprehensive when reviewing poetry, maybe more so than when I’m writing the poetry myself. Some time ago, I took an online writing course, and the instructor mentioned in passing that she liked writing poetry because you didn’t need to explain poetry like you would explain a story or an essay. While that idea frees me to write poetry, it definitely makes it more difficult to review poetry.
Poetry is like music, like art. You can admire the technique, the skill in putting words (or notes or paints) together in a pleasing way. But the poetry I’m attracted to does more than please me. It lifts me out of myself and sets me to ponder ideas and feelings I either hadn’t considered or had been afraid to acknowledge. So ends my long introduction to this review of Merril D. Smith’s book, River Ghosts.
Cover art by Jay Smith
But before I begin my review: Just look at that cover! River Ghosts is published by Nightingale & Sparrow, and what a gorgeous book to hold in my hands. When I first saw the cover on Smith’s blog, I knew I had to have a printed copy. I have not been disappointed. In fact, when I wasn’t reading Smith’s lovely poetry, I had her book displayed on a bookshelf so I could enjoy seeing the cover.
The first poem in this collection–“River Ghosts”–sets up the reader for a journey into the past and present, into if and when, with “echoes / over the river.” The reader is invited to “Observe again.” but also to “Now solve the problem.” And that’s just in the first two poems. Smith might not intend for the reader to “solve the problem” presented in all the poems, but she definitely intends (in my humble opinion) for the reader to observe again and again, whether she is observing “a train to hell,” a first love or dark matter. Like a river, these poems meander–at turns edging toward grief (“our mother stopped eating before she died, / now I hear her ghost-laugh in my dreams”), then sisterly fun (“we rubbed the laughing Buddha’s belly for good luck”), but always listing toward the mysteries of the universe, encompassing life and death:
Once some brilliant star breathed time
in the after-wake of explosion and danced across a universe
exploring eternity
The poems were compiled after Smith’s mother died of COVID-19 in April 2020, and so a number of the poems feature her mother in her youth and old age. She (and others long-deceased) also features as a ghost; not a scary, haunted ghost, but:
Not living,
no longer here,
yet not completely gone.
In her poem “Family Ghosts,” Smith makes clear her calling and intent:
Subsisting, existing
their ghost voices sing to me
I hear them
I feel them–ancestors calling me,
this is what we do, generate, create the songs of our hearts forever.
These are poems I will be turning to often as I seek comfort when my own family members become “not living, / no longer here.” I will find comfort in knowing that they are “not completely gone.” Smith demonstrates how a writer could (and, perhaps, should) allow ancestors to speak through her, echoing through the years, so we always remember not just when but if.
In a New Yorker article (September 13, 2021), author Amia Srinivasan made this observation: “[…] the Internet, […] has simultaneously given us too much to read and corroded our capacity to read it.” The context was feminism and what we think we know about it, but her description of how the Internet has impacted reading applies far beyond her subject.
It’s something I struggle with every day. So much to read, especially online, but also on my Kindle and my bookshelves, the dining room table and the living room desk where magazines pile high. And yet I’m supposed to be writing.
I know I’ve been going through a stressful time. Which requires a couple of updates:
My sister’s cast was removed last week and she was fitted with a walking boot. She’s still at the facility, but she’s been having more good days lately than bad days. The facility change was definitely a good move. Still, the uncertainty as to when she’ll come home and what kind of help my brother-in-law will given as he continues care for her subdues my efforts to be positive. We all just keep saying, “One day at a time.”
Maxine, our feline dowager, has been more her old self lately. Spunky, willful, and talkative. She’s been handling our handling of the twice daily antibiotic injections and every-three-days subcutaneous fluids quite well. My husband has even been able to give her the antibiotic injection by himself, that is, without me having to hold her still. Unfortunately, she has “good” days and “bad” days: good days are when she limits her pee and poop output to a litter box or a potty training pad; bad days are when she and Junior get in a tussle and, in her excitement, she poops on the kitchen floor (this morning) or when she sits on the potty training pad but still pees on the floor (also this morning).
I’ve been working through my stress not by writing, but by gardening (healthy activity) and binging on a podcast call Casefile (maybe, maybe not healthy). If you enjoy true crime stories (is enjoy the right word?), check out Casefile by clicking here. A few things I like about the podcast:
The narrator is anonymous. He wants the audience to stay focused on the survivors and victims in these stories; however, his fans call him Casey.
The podcast has no dramatic reenactments, no roleplaying, no editorializing, no aimless, mindless banter. Casey narrates in a steady, calm voice. Occasionally he narrates dialogue, which can sometimes be humorous with his Australian accent.
I say no editorializing, but Casey’s empathy toward survivors and victims is real. At the beginning of each podcast, he cautions the listener in case the crime is of a particularly disturbing nature, such as crimes against children. For example, I chose to not listen to the episodes on The Moors Murders because Casey admitted he had to stop recording a couple of times because he was so disturbed by the abuse done to the children.
He has, on occasion, expressed frustration with law enforcement responses (or lack thereof) to violence against women. But he doesn’t rant, he doesn’t rail. He just points out when injustice is being served.
The episodes do not focus gratuitously on details of crimes. Casefile only shares what is necessary to understand the seriousness of a crime, which doesn’t require a second-by-second account of an assault or a murder.
The podcast often includes interviews, audio clips and other materials, providing a deeper context of the crime.
The effort Casey and his team put into their research and production is impressive. Links to their sources are provided with each episode.
My most recent binge from Casefile was several episodes on crimes committed by the The East Area Rapist, the Original Night Stalker, and the Golden State Killer in the late 70s to mid-80s who happen to all be one man–Joseph DeAngelo. The best episode was the last one where Casey read or played clips of survivors’ impact statements at DeAngelo’s sentencing hearing. It was the best episode because too often, justice is not found. In this case, it was. A little late, but that was due to the limitations of forensic testing at the time, the fact that DeAngelo was a former cop and knew how to avoid capture and identification, and lack of communication among the various law enforcement agencies involved.
Finally, if you write crime fiction, this podcast will teach you a lot about crime, the justice systems in the U.S. as well as other countries, and how law enforcement, even with truly dedicated officers, can be hampered in their efforts to find and bring the perpetrators to justice.
Now, what about my novel, which is about a murder?
I don’t consider myself a gardener really, but I might allow myself to wear the label of amateur gardener. I am thrilled when one of my plants starts to bloom. Why, hello there, Georgia Aster! I’m so grateful to have a fall-blooming plant.
Georgia Aster. Photo by Marie A Bailey.
My red penta is still going strong, and I’ve planted a lavender penta and a red-yellow lantana in the front yard. Fingers crossed that I can keep them safe during the winter. The following Ruellia or Mexican petunia was an impulse buy.
Ruellia simplex. Photo by Marie A Bailey.
We had gone to Home Depot to order a new dishwasher (a whole other story, but let me just say that we’re never buying GE appliances again). I needed a couple of pots so we went to the gardening section. This lovely purple plant caught my eye. We’ve seen it around our city so, hey, let’s get a pot and see what happens.
What happened was I did some research since the pot only said the plant was Ruellia. Well, according to the iSeek app, this is Ruellia simplex, a highly invasive plant.
WTF.
Through my research (and panic … what does one do with an invasive plant and why was it being sold at Home Depot????), I found the distributor (Costa Farms) who claims: “We sell sterile Mexican petunia varieties that don’t spread by seed. However, these are often vigorous plants and can colonize quickly in gardens and landscaping beds and borders — especially when grown in rich soil.” Okay, fine. The Ruellia I see around town seem well-controlled, but I’ll have to think long and hard about this. It’s so tempting to plant just this one in the front yard, yet perhaps I should keep it in a container.
Meanwhile, there’s that novel I should be working on.
One of the joys of gardening is discovering critters who like to eat my plants. I have three Black Swallowtail larvae on my Rue which is fine because that’s what Rue is for.
Larvae for Black Swallowtail. Photo by Marie A Bailey
More Black Swallowtail larvae. Photo by Marie A Bailey
I’ve also been knitting. Finally finished this wool lap blanket so I can put it away in my cedar chest since cold temperatures won’t be arriving down here anytime soon.
Teal and purple wool lap blanket. Photo by Marie A Bailey.
I’ve started crocheting granny squares for a larger blanket in a desperate effort to use up my stash.
I have a punch needle kit and a cross-stitch kit as well as three knitting projects waiting for my attention. And sewing? Did I mention sewing?
And then there’s my novel. Oh, boy. You see what I’m doing here?
I’m avoiding my novel because I’m intimidated by the idea of writing from the POV of three narrators. My instinct (these days anyway) says to stick with one, that it will be enough of a challenge to write in first person. I’m trying to work through that. I’m trying to get my writing groove back. But I’m a bit overwhelmed.
Going back to the quote at the beginning of my post, I am realizing that I’m my own worst enemy when it comes to being distracted and drowning. I need to develop some discipline if I’m ever going to finish my novel.
So what do you all do? You publishing writers out there: How do you organize your time? I see a lot of you engage in social media. How do you manage to do that AND work on your writing? Is it just a trick of the Internet that you all seem to be out and about on social media all the time? How do you manage to stay engaged and yet productive?
Thank you for reading, and thanks in advance for any advice you wish to share.
Bonus cat photo: Junior, the green-eyed bully who harasses Maxine until she poops.
Junior, green-eyed monster. Photo by Marie A Bailey
You know I had to read my last post to see where I left off. Lol.
Apologies for my absence from the blogosphere, not so much for not writing as for not reading. Whoa, I am so behind that I might not bother to try and catch up.
Update on my sister: Last week she was moved to a new, better and closer-to-home facility. She even has a private room. She is still on schedule to see the surgeon and (hopefully) get her cast removed on October 7. Still, we’re all taking things one day at a time. She has good days and bad days which means her husband and sons have good days and bad days. My brother-in-law met with a doctor at the facility who explained that given the trauma my sister experienced (breaking her leg) as well the subsequent surgery, anesthesia, changes in environment, etc., it’s expected that she would have good days and bad days. Maybe her Parkinson’s is getting worse, but maybe also she is still recovering from her fall. Right now we’re all just grateful that she’s in a better facility getting better attention and that her husband, sons, extended family and friends can visit more often. Everyone is staying positive.
Update on Maxine: Two weeks of twice daily injections of antibiotics have cleared her UTI (good news!), but our vet wants us to do another two-week round (ugh!) and then a recheck to be sure. Her kidney enzyme values (creatine) have decreased by one point (from 6.9 to 5.9 for those well-versed in feline kidney disease) (also good news). We will continue to give her subcutaneous fluids every three days which is a nerve-wracking experience for both of us (more for Greg because he has to insert the needle while I hold onto Max and close my eyes) … but it helps her so it’s worth it. Plus, today we tried out a “harness” for the first time, and Maxine just relaxed on the couch while she got the fluids. I didn’t have to hold her. The harness is simply a velcro belt that fits around her hips and keeps the IV line in place so she can move around if she wants. Today she just laid on the couch and enjoyed having her head scratched while Greg administered the fluids. Max isn’t “out of the woods.” Previously our vet had said that if the antibiotics worked and the fluids helped, we’d be looking at another several months to a year with Max. I’m inclined to think that’s optimistic, but I’ve been rather pessimistic of late. I hope to be proved wrong.
So the beat goes on. You know, I loved the Sonny and Cher show way back when. Good times.
Here’s recent photo of Max, looking wide-eyed and alert and as willful as ever, living up to her nickname, “She Who Must Be Obeyed.”
Comments are closed because I am SO far behind in writing and reading. I’m retired but there’s still not enough hours in the day. Go figure.
Earlier this week my brother-in-law called to give me an update on his wife, my sister. (If you’re reading my blog for the first time, here’s links to my two earlier posts about her: Waiting, but not for Godot and Waiting for Good News Sometimes Pays Off.) He had just come home from visiting her and said that she was very confused that day. Then he dropped the bomb: someone at the rehabilitation facility tested positive for COVID so now all visitations are off.
Because of her current condition, my sister cannot advocate for herself, and now her husband and sons can’t see her and advocate for her. I am so angry that my brother-in-law and nephews can’t see her. They are all vaccinated and they wear masks. I understand that, for liability reasons, the facility has to shut down visitations if they have a case of COVID, but I can’t help but wonder if that case was brought in by an unvaccinated person. I can’t help but wonder and be enraged.
We are very worried about my sister. A couple of weeks ago she had to be moved to a real hospital and fitted with an IV for a few days. She had become so dehydrated that she needed IV fluids, y’all! When she was returned to the rehab facility, she was perky and talkative and upbeat. Since then, she has progressively worsen, becoming confused, slurring her speech. Her urine is dark, prompting a urinalysis (for which we don’t know the results yet). I don’t know why the rehab facility is allowing her to deteriorate. My brother-in-law mentions that they are short-staffed and when the social worker told him not to worry, saying “we’ll take care of her,” he assured her that he will worry.
I struggle with being positive, with believing that although my sister is in an apparently substandard facility, she will get through this. She is scheduled for a re-examination of her broken leg at the end of this month. I’m hoping that she can be released after that.
My 97-year-old mother keeps saying my sister “has so much against her” and “won’t be the same after this.” I bite my tongue because she has to deal with her fears and worries in her own way. My mom’s comments have provided some illumination, though: now I know where I get my propensity to always imagine the worst scenario.
Meanwhile, our oldest cat Maxine has a drug-resistant UTI. Rather than put her on a regimen of twice daily injections that could last months without a guarantee of effectiveness, our vet recommends monitoring her kidney enzymes for now. Maxine is currently at Stage 3 kidney disease, but she has a good appetite, drinks water, and pees and poops normally. She sleeps a lot but when she’s awake, she’s alert. Still, at times there’s a sense of her health careening out of control.
Meanwhile, the Atlantic continues to churn up hurricanes.
I want to be positive. Maxine acts like she still rules the household and that gives me joy.
I want to be positive, but there’s still too many anti-vaxxers out there ruining it for everyone else.
I want to be positive, but when it comes to my sister, I won’t be until she’s out of that place.
***
If you’ve read this far, thank you. Again I hesitated about writing an unhappy post, but I need to write and I need to be honest. Meanwhile, I take my joy where I can find it, like with these two:
You all were so kind with my last post that I want to give you a brief update. Bear with me because the news starts out as not-good.
My sister had a setback on Saturday. She was moved back to the hospital and given IV fluids. We were all very upset, not understanding what was happening to her, and I still don’t know what happened. But the IV fluids worked! Early this morning my sister called her husband from the hospital and talked to him for 20 minutes! He reported that she was lucid, doing well, acting like her normal self. Since this morning, I’ve been getting texts from my nephews as they visit her and share their joy.
My sister was transferred back to the nursing home today, and I was able to talk to her this afternoon. She doesn’t remember anything about the weekend except that she had weird dreams. She chatted about how much she needs to get her hair washed and what clothes her husband should bring her since she’ll be in rehab for a while. She laughed and complained that her roommate had the TV on too loud so she wants someone to bring her ear plugs … otherwise she’ll go deaf. She laughed, and I was flooded with relief. She’s going to be okay.
As for my cat Maxine: after two weeks on antibiotics, she still has bacteria in her urine and elevated white blood count so a culture was sent off to a lab. We went through this with her a couple of years ago, trying different antibiotics and then a different vet (heh heh). We learned that an old cat such as herself could have a UTI that is untreatable by antibiotics. The thing is, she seems just fine. Aside from being hit-and-miss with the litter boxes, she’s spunky … like my sister.
I’ve always been indecisive, sometimes very indecisive, but never not indecisive. I wonder if indecisiveness is related to procrastination because I’m afflicted with both conditions.
I have worked on my novel a bit here and there, but I’ve been spending the bulk of my creative energy learning punch needle work and knitting up some old yarn into a blanket.
This here is my first-ever punch needle project. It was fun although I had some difficulties with the tools. I bought a kit, and the yarn provided was thick (and forgiving) wool.
I’ve since bought another kit but … surprise! … the yarn provided is cotton floss, what I would expect to use in embroidery. Because of that, I bought a different punch needle and now I’m scared. I’m intimidated by the project and am going to have to clear away a lot of space in my brain before I get to it.
Meanwhile, when the going gets tough, I go to my knitting. This here will be a lap blanket once it’s all done. The yarn is 100% wool and quite old. I either brought it with me from California thirty-some years ago, or I bought it soon after moving here. I can’t remember. In any case, the yarn has been stored in a cedar chest for many years. It’s past time it became something.
I have enough of the same yarn in different colors to make a second blanket. Times like this I wish I lived back where I grew up, in north-central New York where warm wool items are valued and used more than they are here in hot, humid Florida.
I procrastinate when I am waiting. But waiting for what? Good news? Is there such a thing?
Our 17-year-old cat Maxine has been wreaking havoc by peeing and pooping outside the litter boxes most of the time. We’re treating her for yet another UTI, but I think it’s her wobbly back legs and diminished eyesight that’s causing the havoc. I bought new litter boxes designed for cats with arthritis, and I have puppy training pads around them to catch any “overflow.” As well her kidney disease seems to have gone from a stage 2 to stage 3, according to her latest lab results. Fortunately, the steroids she’s taking keep her appetite up. At this point, the good news is that she still does her business in the vicinity of the litter boxes. She’s also still spunky, so two bits of good news.
My previous employer thinks I’m dead. Last month they refunded “the deceased policyholder” (i.e., me) for overpayment of my health insurance premium which had been automatically deducted from my pension, as it is supposed to be. I got it sorted out, but now it looks like it’s going to happen again this month. I can check my premium payments online so I guess the good news is I’ll be able to handle this before my premium is past due. Still, I don’t like being addressed as a deceased policyholder. Creepy.
My sister in New York is in a rehab hospital. She fell and broke her leg a couple of weeks ago. She’s been living with Parkinson’s Disease for several years, and falling is one of the symptoms. I’m struggling to find good news here. All I can think is how unfair it is that she, of all of us, has been saddled with this disease.
My sister has been a caretaker all her life. When our mother divorced our father (RIP), my sister stepped in and had him stay at her house when he came for visits (long story short: my father was mentally ill and during that time was living in a group home). When our father became ill, my sister pulled out all the stops to get him into a nursing home near her so she could visit him on her lunch breaks. When our elderly neighbor (RIP) was in failing health, she did the same for him.
My sister and I used to talk about how our mother would come and live with her. Our mother will be 98 in a couple of months. She lives independently and is in better health than my sister, so living with my sister is not going to happen. While my mom’s health is good news, I still struggle to find any good news about my sister.
All I have is this: she’s been married for 55 years to a wonderful man who loves her deeply. My brother-in-law is the epitome of “salt of the earth.” She has three sons who love her deeply. She has seven grandchildren who give her much joy and pride. This good news will have to do.
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Thank you for listening reading. I’m always hesitant to publicly write about my family, but, hopefully, I’m not crossing any lines here. Plus, I’m pretty sure few of them (if any) read my blog. Here’s a prize to all of you who have read this far: Raji in his “safe place,” which is our closet, on top of my husband’s clothes.
Did your heart sing when I was born? Perhaps more than my mother’s heart?
Marie at 1 Write Way 