I've gotten funnier.

I'm doing alright.  Pretty good.  Sometimes real good.  Other times, I inadvertently trip onto the spiral of grief and spend some time there, whirring my way around memories and remembrances, trying to recognize the point at which I lose control of my sense of self-protection and go even deeper downward. (Maybe I'll pull up earlier next time). These moments don't last very long, maybe a minute or two, but it takes a while to pull myself together afterwards.  Scenarios that have absolutely nothing to do with anything will set it off: A quick waft of bay area humidity mixed with a hint of diesel.  How the winter sky looks as a chilly day winds down.  The sound of NPR on the kitchen radio as I cook in an empty house.  Setting something down and realizing that it's not going to move again unless I move it.

I tripped onto the spiral this past week during my commute home.  I passed a man in a powered wheelchair and the image of him, bundled on his seat, set me off.  (Apparently I've got some work to do here because it really sent me reeling).  I had some very tough moments as a result- Eileen endured so many hours in hospitals, in waiting rooms, at infusion centers, in offices.  Even when they're "nice", they suck.  Shitty carpeting, uncomfortable chairs (disguised as comfortable chairs), wretched lighting.  I get it: things have to be easily cleaned and disinfected and built for durability...but geezus I hate that shit.  It's not even "charmingly institutional" in style...it's simply terrible, depressing, dreary and cold.  Mauve prints on vinyl, scratchy upholstery, beige plastics with that tight little texture that traps all the grime.

I began recalling all the transfers with Eileen from bed to chair and back, all that cursed medical stuff that was so foreign to us...and so unfair to have as a concern:  The proper techniques to hold her and move her, the straps, the buckles, the uncooperative swiveling wheels.  Wrangling the lines, the bags, the crane, the sling.  The sickly smell of all the plastics involved- managing to only faintly mask it by adding another sick smelling chemical to the mix.  Wrangling the boxes upon boxes of supplies and medications arriving on our doorstep every day, at all hours.

All that shit is so nauseating to me right now- I absolutely HATE medical equipment and the accoutrements.  I hate that whole scene.  Fucking chrome bars.  Everything is a fucking chrome bar, freezing cold and sterile.  Everything is overbuilt, heavy, but at the same time confoundingly fragile and stupid.  Not an organic material to be found unless you count the peeling sticker of woodgrain covering the end panel of the hospital bed, whose own color is best described as "institutional mocha".  I wrestled with the hospice-supplied bedside table so many times that I wanted to slap myself for eventually accepting its quirks and adapting to its demands...analogous to my relationship with the health care industry.
Patients deserve better.  Eileen deserved better.

These are the kinds of recollections that seem inconsequential, unimportant and silly for me to spend time on.  Not productive. But it seems my heart still has to go there...and in this case I'm glad for it.

I traversed all the horrible stuff for far too long before finally finding some sweeter things to dwell on...memories that are unforeseen gifts since they're all twisted up in the context of a very fucked up situation:  I remembered how every time we did a transfer, it was our chance to share a nice hug, a loving, human touch.  I would hold Eileen as gently as I could, supporting her weakened body firmly enough so she wouldn't worry about flopping helplessly, dangerously over to the floor (one of her constant fears).  For those minutes I was close to her like a husband, not like a caregiver (insomuch as possible anyway).  I'd help her wrap her arms around my neck and say quietly, "on three...", but I'd linger...and linger...and we'd hug a little tighter and whisper to each other, really nestle in...until we had to get it done.  "ok, on three this time for real...one...two...three.."

I was always sore.  My back was completely shot from all this strange activity my fat ass was handling.  We functioned without the crane for way too long before one of the hospice people finally asked the question: "...and, how are you moving her?".  We were given a crash course on the best practices for moving and transfers by one of the health aides.  Her lessons were invaluable, but shockingly casual both in nature and timing.  We were entirely new to it all, and the hospice "machine" just didn't get it.  At all.  We desperately needed help but didn't even know what to ask, much less who to ask. Such a clusterfuck. When we got extra help in the mornings from The Boxer, I became oddly jealous of him because he was the one doing the transfers...he got to hug Eileen while I was sent off to walk Red, trying to get my own head straight.  E would critique The Boxer's form later on, always assuring me that I was way better at keeping her comfortable...I was softer and more gentle. 

I hope that getting this out will help me set it aside and move forward...but it's a good reminder to always be on the lookout for the unforeseen gifts; the sweetest memories.



Work has been going ok.  I'm actually (finally) producing work.  Still at a glacial pace but I'm definitely feeling more engaged. It's interesting to have my brain activated by technical pursuits...it's been a long time.  I've realized how everything I think and do is so emotionally charged these past few months- it's good to get a break from that.  I've been amping up the exercise, which has been helping my sleep a little bit.  (I've seen 2am fewer times over the past week or so, which is a definite win).

I've been working on music when I can...recorded a rough version of one song that's helping me to really think through how much is too much, from a raw emotion standpoint.  I've had a couple friends listen to it to get a gut reaction.  It's definitely challenging listening, but at this point I'm feeling it's something to continue to persue. It's certainly cathartic for me to do...even if the music ultimately never sees the light of day.

I went to dinner with my neighbors recently and Leigh made the observation that I seem to have gotten funnier.  Thinking about it, it makes sense; Eileen and I didn't get much opportunity to get to know L&P, so my relationship with them essentially started right after Eileen passed away.  Over these past few months (it's now been nearly 5) they've been near as I've tried to pick myself back up, crawl out of this hole, and get closer to whatever my 'normal' is.  Thinking back to those earlier conversations with L&P, it's no wonder- I really was a mess (and I'm still a mess on several levels) but lately at least I'm able to get out of my head and broken heart more often to, well...live.  They saw me at my lowest, and they barely knew me prior.  Interesting.  (I seem to be doing alright by Leigh's measure, at least).

Red marks the spot!

Red is a very good parker.

back on the trails after a long hiatus. (and feelin' it!)