Bread & Yogurt. Coffee Filters. No Circuses.
There is that tropical front (not a depression) but I think I’ve mentioned it already. I half expect tropical rain (downpour) but no such yet despite the slowing/lowing of the winds. Just a sky of blue & wispy white, gray and streaks of purple in a high dome slowly turning. Two or 3 friendly cats making an otherwise no-thing-doing Saturday worthwhile. Squirrels too but I’ve gone off rodents, no matter how fluffy the tail.
I felt good enough to write on a short story & actually jotted a word or maybe two. Otherwise, kept at the interim notebook typing which rewards—to the extent of one good sentence/sentiment per entry. On average
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Otherwise it’s all the same; I try to pin down that Deep, or not to pin it, roll it out so I can see the pattern. (What it means. Ho ho). And did I mention the big overgrown-kid whiney guy from the Safeway died. So, now he’s dead, he has a name: Lee. (I won’t tell my Lee.)
Bway «Bux
News
Yesterday on the phone, Mom told me that Dad had a cat scan that showed masses in his LUQ. That’s not unexpected (by me anyway) but not happy-making either. They go to the Oncologist & to Dr. Winemiller (the kidney Dr.) at the end of next week. From what Mom said, I think she will want to Go For It, whether chemo or radiation is suggested. I will bite my tongue.
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So yesterday I was weepy & today it rained all day. Hard mostly. Still warm—about 65º. Women were spatting in the Cap. Hill Library—where the recycle bins were being used to catch drips from the leaky sky-lights.
Rain all day, imagine that. Did I finish the rewrite on Obtuse Margin? Will I ever? I have plugged back into typing up the 2001 notebook—because it feels like writing & yet it’s easy, that’s why.
And now I have to go back to work. You call this progress? Neither do I.
Flat
Yesterday everyone was staring at my shoes with froggy eyeballs & today Micah ignores my entrance line, the perhaps ill-chosen “What a dump.” Snubbed Again
A girl like I hates to be ignored.
What sort is that? The sort who longs to be the reclusive & mysterious object of universal acclaim.
The shoe stares were not admiring.
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But there is something bogus about Micah—his histrionics & egotism. Well, the theatah, after all. I see him break in with loud badinage (only not witty) on a conversation that girl is having with a wrinkle-faced chic blonde about her bad habits & life out of control. The blonde has a notepad; is she a therapist, a counselor? The girl is a year out of high school. So many egotisms scrimmaging for position.
And at the library today a man complained because you have to notify the front desk before using the rest room. Because it’s a “public library.” Rachel softly says “blaah blaah blaah, sorry.” And when he leaves I tell them they should tell him to get over it. Oh, they say, we’d like to. Or if they had a key, then maybe the sensitive wouldn’t feel like they were forced to Report In.
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Work week gone: oh, I could report on how my class could have been better, and how meetings can go awry, unguided.
Broadway «Bux
Not to Worry
I do not have to worry about my stoical dad being put through the rigors of chemo or radiation, because the oncologist said it was no use. So he is going into hospice care & only has to undergo the rigor(s) of dying. And we get to undergo the rigors of watching. I suspect it is going to run like a reverse-film of his survival of that cardiac arrest, only without the machinery, so quieter. My question is: Where are we now? Is he at the 3 weeks post arrest—going home—stage? I've heard that people tend to go sooner than predicted because the medicos don't want to cut anybody short. I am not worried about Mom, except a tiny bit. There will be time to worry about Mom after Dad's funeral. She will rally—or she won't.
It is November. Cold already. Some snowy rain this morning.
…et mortalia mentem tangunt.
Instead I will get to see my stoical dad get more lethargic & apathetic until, I suppose, he loses consciousness. It will be—horrible enough. It already is.
I went down to see him. Janet picked me up. Before we could ask him how he was, he sort of shrugged, with that rueful attempt at a smile. “Oh, you know…”
Later Janet said she was glad he had “come through” his cardiac arrest & coma, so we could say goodbye. I would have gladly sacrificed goodbyes, if Dad would have been spared dying & knowing it all too well.
Of course now, I realize that Mom’s birthday was his goodbye, whether or not he realized it himself.
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I tell John Y about it & he e’s me back some (unsolicited) advice: to joke with him. I e’d him back that I didn’t think Dad saw the funny side of his plight. And it’s true, his sense of humor is (was?) part of his vitality.
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I don’t know what to say to him. Maybe next time I go down, I should ask him if he wants to play cards.
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When I foresaw Dad “going back” in a reversal of his recovery, I didn’t think what it would be like for him to be comatose, to be awakened by us when we visit &, what, glare wordlessly.
Will I be able to keep from crying?
Have I ever? Oh fuck, why start now. (Instead of going out in a blaze of –anything, I’ll probably go in a flood. Freshet, tsunami or seawave [because they’re saltwater] of tears.)
In character.
The Hard Part
This is the hard part & I’m feeling it. My neck is like…well, not quite like cement, more like taffy that is cooling too quickly. And, there go the prickles in my shoulder blades.
And you know, I put Dad out of my mind since Wednesday. That’s how bad the job has gotten.
My dear, they expect me to sit in Hearings. I even had to, last Friday. Because that evil snake A. slithered out—& Sue is too wishy-washy to pop her one. (And why should Sue care? Because she’s going to lose her most competent office worker? Nah.)
Will they be surprised when I come in on Tuesday & tell them I’m not going permanent in that job? Excuse me, that stinking job.
Anne won’t be.
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3 days a week till the end of the year… We’ll see what happens. I’m planning to do a little more writing.
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Today they’ve put up the Xmas decorations in the Starbucks. I’m ready—for it all to be over.
And now I have breast cancer paranoia. It almost seems funny. Nice that something does.
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Today for fun, I rode the bus to the (nearly derelict) U. District & bought sweatpants & a CD of “16 Stone” by Bush. I have $3900.
Burly Girls Around the Table
Not a round table, however, the table itself was rectangular. They certainly do fill up a table, 8 burly girls. This was in the Dilettante where I had an odd Fred-nostalgia attack. Though if we ever went to Dil. I had a bad time (& was a bad sport about it).
Walking down Broadway in November endless night (
A long-haired cat appeared from out the shadows to give me a nice dose of delight. Then as I walked away, my god, there was Ms. Sullen Over-Bite, C.G. again. She’s fucking following me.
B’way «Bux
My Dad's the Champ
Champ, I said, Not chimp, or chump.
Champ.
That was courage he was displaying; it's hard to tell from resignation--and if he had no final words, well, I wouldn't let him say anything. ("Save your breath, dad, you don't have much left.") Except the very last day, when I wasn’t there to harass his final moments. "The milk. Spilled the milk." The hospice nurse said, "That's all right, we cleaned it up." That's right, dad, no use crying over spilled milk,
and
Anyone can have an accident.
(Later Mom told me Grandma S. asked if the flag was up. We think she wanted her Letter picked up by the Almighty Mailman.)
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And so they packed him downstairs on his last day, late in the afternoon, into the hospital bed. And they gave him 2(?) doses of morphine. And if they sped him on his way, do I mind? A little. He gave no indication of wanting to hurry. (Hey, don't rush me...) I would want it for myself, but I'd want to make the decision.
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Of all possible lives, how could he have done better? (Well, he could have had half as many kids.) He might complain about people—a first rate critic [Fault-Finder]—was he, but he didn't rail about fate. I suppose because he didn't believe in fate, rather in God's will.
And I’m sure he found that whatever were the hassles of adulthood, it beat childhood ten ways to Sunday. (Grandma E. wore a ring that really hurt, when she gave him the back of her hand. Had a temper, did Grandma. Jesus, I hope she didn’t slap him for spilling the milk. Well, it’s all milk under the bridge by now.)
Six down of the Ellingson kids, 3 to go. (None of the grandkids have bit it/bought it yet.
Oh, who shall be first? Muh muh muh. Moooo!)
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