Over the course of the last week or so, I’ve managed to largely avoid thinking about my mom. Part of me feels guilty for turning away from her in the final stages of her dying, but another part of me has needed the time to regain my strength for what lies ahead. By not calling Decatur as much it is easy to pretend that everything there is okay, by not calling Decatur I can focus on the chaos of my own life without adding the chaos of my mom’s impending death or my dad’s increasing sorrow.
In the past few days I have felt the focus of my emotions shift from my mother towards my father. I am painfully aware that his morale, energy, and general well-being has taken a large hit recently. As my mother descends through the layers of depression and paranoia that plague the terminally ill, the acts of love and kindness he performs for her subject him to an unbelievable difficult roller coaster of emotions.
Coming so soon after Michele’s death, accepting my mother’s death is more than I can take in all at once. Living six hours drive away has been a blessing in that I can’t always be there; I’ve been forced to spend time away from the situation, which has allowed me to take it in at a rate that won’t overwhelm me. I wish there was a way for my father to get the same kind of break, but I suspect that even if it were offered, he’d stay and stick it out.
Being here most of the time, and there only a few days at a time has allowed me to maintain a state of denial about this, when it is helpful to be in denial. I have been able to function (more or less) normally only by setting aside what I know to be the truth through denial. The truth always comes back, however, and those moments are difficult. When I realize that I haven’t been focused on my mom or my dad and I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Thankfully I can still hear Michele’s voice in my head telling me that I have to take care of me first before I can help anyone else.
Staying here this weekend is a part of this denial. I’m gambling that she’ll survive for another week, allowing me to see her again over the Memorial Day holiday. Staying here this week is vital to my mental and emotional health. Staying here this weekend is denying that my father needs companionship to lean on, and that I might not see my mom alive again.
This morning was my first full kendo workout, and basically the first workout I’ve had in months. Last November I took a run at restarting karate only to falter and stop after just two workouts. While the pain in my knees and back from not having been physical for so long certainly played a part in my stopping, realizing the distance I’d fallen in eight years of inactivity was harder to take.
Certainly kendo isn’t going to be a pain free workout. This afternoon, after roughly two and half hours of workout, I am stiff and sore from the soles of my feet to my upper shoulders and elbows. Not having a personal history with kendo will be the difference I think. My expectations aren’t set so high that I’ll beat myself every time I perform any technique.
The workout began with several hundred practice cuts with the bokken. The finishing technique (whose name escapes me now) was very aerobic. Next we worked with partners on men (head) and kote (wrist) strikes. Finally while those students with their own armor (bogu) working on sparring techniques, the beginners working on stances, striking, and footwork. It was all good, and I am very excited about starting a new journey in the martial arts.
The real test will come tomorrow (or Monday) morning when I go to get up and discover just how much I taxed my computer-chair potato muscles.
I first became aware of kendo when I was still in high school. My best friend knew of it and wanted to study it. The closest we could come was a sixteen-week course in fencing at the local YMCA. When I was twenty-nine I started karate-do and ultimately achieved a nidan, or second degree black belt. Throughout my karate studies I was interesting in other arts, trying at various times tai-chi, jujitsu, and aikido.
Moving around the country for my job made it impossible to really settle into a dojo, and my focus was really on my marriage and relationship with Michele. In the vacuum left by her death I have once again started thinking about the martial arts as an outlet. Last fall I attended two classes at a very good karate dojo, but it just wasn’t clicking for me. I think my memories of the level I had once performed at were in conflict with the reality of where I was.
A good friend has started taking kendo in the Chicago area and his enthusiasm for the experience has motivated me to seek out kendo instruction here in Kansas City. I was fortunate enough to discover a group practicing in a park quite close to where I live. On Wednesday evening I ventured out and watched an entire class and I liked what I saw. The sensei is focused on you as an individual, and what you can achieve. To many schools lose sight of the individual and I am no longer interested in being just another dues paying customer.
Tomorrow I will attend my first workout and I am very excited about this new adventure. I already have a bokken (wooden sword) and there are extra shinais (split bamboo sword used for full contact training) available to use. I’ve ordered my own shinai, which should be here mid-week next week. I think that because I have no history with kendo I’ll be able to accept my level of performance without difficulty. At the very least I’ll be out and doing something physical two days a week.
Talking to my dad last night made me more aware than ever of the mounting pressure on him, the rest of my family, and myself. Knowing what is coming and being helpless to change it is difficult. Doubly so for my father as he is on the front line of this battle, and, even though the outcome is already known, he continues to stay and fight. I cannot find words to express how impressed I am with his strength and courage.
One aspect of my mother’s dying that is proving to be extremely difficult to deal with are the personality changes she is going through. It seems that terminally ill people progress through a variety of states, some easier to face than others. Based on information from my dad I know that much of the time now my mom is uncommunicative; even direct questions don’t elicit a response. I saw some of this two weeks ago when I was there last. I don’t think it is deliberate or meant to be harmful in any way. Rather I think it is the result of the utter hopelessness she must be feeling. As someone struggling with grief myself I know I often feel cut off and isolated from the people around me because they aren’t in my shoes. The isolation and utter loneliness my mom must be feeling as she is dying must be truly profound.
The other personality alteration my dad is seeing and struggling with is paranoia. The hospice nurse assures him that this is common in terminally ill patients, but that doesn’t lessen the impact of its effect when she accuses my father of wanting to kill her in emails to her sister. The woman he knows and loves is buried inside a swirling mass of conflicting statements, emotions, and moods. He doesn’t know from one minute to the next which person he’ll be greeted with, or have to face down.
I offer him a place to talk, a place to spend a few minutes that isn’t embroiled in the horror of a terminal illness. He talks to me some, but being of the depression generation he prefers to stoically soldier on, carry a huge burden all by himself. In his quiet desperation I see the seeds of what must contribute to one partner dying soon after the first dies. The amount of energy, physical, mental, and emotional, that must be expended just to face a new day is enormous. Prolonged exposure to what has become a toxic situation will damage and wear down even the staunchest person.
Unspoken in my mind is the hope that my mother dies sooner rather than later, especially if later comes with prolonged pain and suffering. To that I am now adding the thought that my father’s life will be better in some small way for no longer having to endure the increasing daily burden of being exposed to her suffering, anguish, and increasing madness as the cancer destroys her.
Lee Child continues his Jack Reacher series with _ The Hard Way_. While the books are fairly formula and have predictable plots, they are a good read.
Rating: Several hours of escapist fantasy
In a conversation with a friend the other day the subject of email spam came up as he was lamenting the amounts of junk he had to filter through. That got me to thinking about my own spam situation, and I realized that I hadn’t looked at the statistics SpamSieve collects for me as it cleans my inbox for some time now.
So far, this year, I’ve had 66,453 spams, or an average of 484 per day. Extrapolated I should see about 168,000 spams this year. Since I installed the filter two-and-a-half years ago, I’ve had 284,895 spams. In the same time span I’ve had roughly 7000 emails that weren’t spam. In other words 2.45% of my mail is something I want to see. The other 97.55% is crap.
Wow.
If I had a nickel for every spam I’ve filtered in just over two years I’d have made $14,244.75.
Where’s my check?
My sister, Amy, died, thirty-three years ago of leukemia. During the last year of her life, and before we knew she was sick, my father took a portrait of her that really captured her essence. Shortly after her death he sent a copy of the picture to a company that produced a large format print that looks like an oil painting. This picture has hung in my mother’s bedroom ever since.
As my father has never really talked to me about Amy’s death, it is hard for me to talk to him about it as well. After years of wanting a copy of the original picture I finally asked my mom if she would ask dad to make me a copy. While I know that she asked he has never followed through, and so I still have no picture of my sister by which to remember her.
Three weeks ago when I saw my mom she told me that she was putting together a list of treasures and to whom she wanted them distributed. She said that one of her choices was going to be upsetting to me. She then pointed to Amy’s picture and told me that she was giving it to her two biologic grandchildren so they would “know their Aunt Amy.” It was upsetting but I told her that I understood and we moved onto other topics. Since that time I have come back to the whole picture issue again and again. My nieces will never know who Amy was; she died thirty years before they were born, and if what my brother tells me is true, he doesn’t really remember Amy so other than telling them that this picture is an Aunt they’ll never met, I’m not sure what purpose her picture will serve in their lives.
I think that my mom sees in her two granddaughters the potential of Amy’s life that was lost when she died so young. R and A will, hopefully, have long, happy lifetimes, and I believe my mom is counting on that to somehow make up for Amy. I understand that and I will admit to feeling that way myself. It’s just hard for me, in a year when I’ve already lost my wife and will soon be losing my mother, to, in effect, lose Amy again. I’ve always wanted a picture of Amy and even after I asked for one I still don’t have anything. That part of me which is passive-aggressive wants to take my camera with me the next time I go and, in front of both of my parents, take several pictures of her portrait saying as I do, “this way I’ll finally have a copy of my own.”
Being passive-aggressive about my feelings won’t help either the situation of my mom dying, or of my not having a picture of Amy, but in a time when so many aspects of my life seem to be beyond my control or ability to absorb, acting out is one of the few activities I have that is under my control. Once I get over my upset about this I’ll send my father a letter and ask one more time for a copy of my sister’s picture. At least I have pictures of my own of mom, so I won’t have to wait thirty years to have something by which to remember her.
I was pleasantly surprised by how good Mr. & Mrs. Smith was when I first saw it last fall. Over the weekend I picked up a copy to add to my collection and I enjoyed it just as much watching it again last night. It is a very funny movie, with some decent action thrown in for thrills. Being forced to watch Angelina Jolie doesn’t hurt either.
Rating: Worthy of a sequel.
Rating: Lots of supposition as fully half of the movie occurs after the last radio communication with the Andrea Gail.
Shortly after we moved into the apartment I currently live in, Michele woke me in the middle of the night terrified of the apartment. After a long discussion she came to the conclusion that there was bad energy in the apartment. We cleansed the apartment with a lit white candle, joined hands, and our combined voices telling what ever was in the apartment to get out and stay out. Now I know this sounds like the start of a slide into tin-foil hat territory, but something happened as we were cleansing the area in front of the kitchen door that leads to the garage. We had done the bedroom windows and the windows and doors in the living room. They were all shut. The only opening was the garage door, and the kitchen door leading to the garage. As we completed our cleanse the inner door moved, by itself several inches and there was an intense feeling of something moving past us. Afterwards the apartment did seem cleaner and brighter, and I know we both sleep better. Michele felt that whatever was there wasn’t evil per se, just negative, and by forcing it our we saved ourselves untold anxiety and worries.
Two nights ago as I lay in bed looking out the partially open window at the holly bush outside I suddenly saw a face formed in the leaves. I’ve had this window open for at least two weeks as the weather here has been mild, and I often look at this bush before falling asleep. The image of the face was imposing and fierce, it seemed as if it was glaring at me. I will admit that it was a little spooky. I kept telling myself that I was just being silly and rolled over and went to sleep. Last night as I lay down I again saw the face outline in the bush, staring in at me. Not wanting to deal with my imagination I got up and went outside and tore off the leaves comprising the face. Afterwards, looking outside I felt much better. The hint of malevolence I felt looking at the bush was now gone. Also, the cats returned to the window sill to watch through the screen, something they hadn’t been doing for several nights.