Errands

I went out today to run errands. I don’t know why it is so difficult to find an 8x16” picture frame. Evidently they are scarce in north Seattle. I often go shopping or ‘run errands’ most Sunday afternoons. I suppose some things I really need to do, e.g. grocery shopping. I must replenish my supplies of sustenance. However long I shop I have a feeling of dread. Like the going out and looking around is just a way for me to avoid those four walls back at home, because when I am enclosed within them I so easily slip into languor. So I walk up and down the aisles, looking for things I might need.

On the way home I spontaneously turned into Home Depot. Something drew me into the store. I walked down the aises. I looked at refrigerators. I looked at cabinets, shower heads, shower racks, and then I began to think, this is something I could buy for momma. She might need this brass shower rack. Then it really hit me why I was there. It isn’t fair. What has happened to her. It isn’t fair what is happening to her now.

She put up with an unpleasant husband for most of her adult life. The last four years he was essentially housebound and she was bound with him, dutifully caring for him without complaint. After he died she finally got a long overdue respite, and was able to go out into the world again and absorb the sounds and colors. ‘I wouldn’t bring him back for anything, ‘ she announced to everyone within earshot days after her funeral. She was finally free. But this turned out to be only a short window between tribulations. A five year window before she herself has become essentially housebound and dependent on others for basic care.

Finally that is what I have been seeking all these weeks and months and years. This realization. But there are selfish motives as well. This seeking was also motivated by the hope for her approval. This started in a concrete fashion when I moved back home in 2005. Things were in a general state of disrepair around the house. I found myself frequently heading to Home Depot looking for home improvement projects to start. Since I had a limited income, a lot of it was just wishful thinking.

Therefore I did a lot of improvising. One project was salvaging and restoring an old porch swing and hanging it on the front porch. It turned out to be a big hit with everyone. Early risers could always greet the sunrise swaying in the swing. When I went home last March the swing was covered in dust. I gave it a thorough cleaning so momma could sit in it. When I went into the living room to announce that I had cleaned it for her her silent face beamed. Although she didn’t sit in it the whole time I was there—she complained it was too drafty on the porch—I knew that my effort had met her approval.

So is that what I have been seeking in a convoluted way in retail home improvement stores? The acceptance of my mother? The prime motivation of every child? In essence, yes. Everyone knows how a look of approval from a mother can send a surge of elation through the heart. A look of disapproval, however, can cause indelible devastation. We go off on fool’s missions in retail havens but occasionally the undercurrent of truth manages to well to the surface and make us keenly aware of what we have really been pursuing all the time. Today that happened to be in the bath accessories aisle of Home Depot.

Cyclobenzaprine

Just had Korean bbq prepared by housemates Ethan and Yeong i. Nice conversation. Can’t imagine serving in the South Korean army. Evidently according to Ethan it can be a traumatic experience.

I woke up today at 2pm. The cyclobenzaprine evidently has a very strong sedating effect, and I probably also needed the extra sleep. Nonetheless for the rest of the afternoon and early evening so far I have felt lethargic and have had an ennui I can’t shake off. Occasionally I get this, whether I am under the influence of a medication or not. I is a feeling of waste and purposeless in my life. I wonder if this is a common experience or if I am unique in having it. I think those who are parents and are manual laborers perhaps don’t to the same exent, since their purpose is laid out for them each day. Perhaps that is the burden and blessing of being an independent unattached adult, the extra time to assess ones’ merit and position in the scheme of things. I will hold off on the cyclobenzapine for a while.

I have thought of what I can do to get out there in the world and see what Seattle really has to offer. Perhaps I will attend the Buddhist meditation again tomorrow evening. That will be relaxing. I’ll call Genevieve. I have also thought of attending the Episcopal church again. But how very dreadful. The ceremony and music are nice, and after the communion I feel I might be redeemed, but attending the service is the next worse thing to actually being English. When I go I always make the mistake of thinking that it might be nice to stay after the service for the coffee social. It is like attending the funeral of someone whose relatives you don’t know. I always get stuck at the table of the matron of the church who was present at its founding back in the 1920s. She will inadvertently ask me where I am from and I will have to explain that I am from Arkansas, after which there is a cold silence. This always flummoxes them. What is this Arkansan doing in our universe?

Or perhaps I could go down to the freak show that is the Fremont Summer Solstice Fair. I missed the parade today, as I was still sound asleep. It must have been quite chilly for the naked bicyclists, but I don’t pity them. Some of them I do envy.

I could sleep in again. It is still the weekend after all.

Golden Gardens at Dusk

On February 24^th 2010 I walked along the beach at Golden Gardens at dusk. The tide was low. The lowest I had ever seen it in my many visits there. The waves rolled the pebbles along as they advanced and retreated. Occasionally they rolled over my shoes soaking them with briny water. The sun set over the Olympics painting the sky a mandarin hue. The jagged peaks silhouetted the fading glow. I looked out over the gray water. The threshold between the water and the beach seemed uncertain. This gave me the stirring unease that with one step I could become submerged.

About thirty minutes prior I had had a brief conversation with my mother. I had called her to find out what the results of the MRI scans had been. Over the past couple of months she had complained about persistent pain in her hips. When she answered the phone her tone was weak and muted contrasting her usual ebullience. I asked what the results of the scan were and she told me that they had found cancer in her stomach. I tried as best I could to keep my composure and be as strong and supportive as possible.

In 1996 she had had breast cancer which was treated with no subsequent reappearance until now. It was a tough time, and I can recall the fear and uncertainty we had then. This was one of the most difficult telephone conversations I had ever had, and for those of you who at a loss for words in such situations you can understand my trepidation. I told her I loved her and that I would be home to visit her soon. This conversation was one of the briefest we had ever had but also the most meaningful. For the first time we said our goodbyes without an upbeat tone.

The beach is where I often go to regroup. The saltwater air expands my asthmatic lungs and clears my attention-deficit mind. Although this is a family beach I always go spontaneously and alone. I often feel somewhat out of place as I am not throwing a Frisbee, pushing a baby stroller or being tugged along by a bounding retriever. I usually have a cup of café Americano to try to blend in as best as possible. I get lots of Seattle smiles. On this particular evening it was mostly deserted since it was late. The wind was quite strong as I recall. A few yachts and sailboats returned to the marina.

As I walked along the beach it was impressed upon me very vividly the impermanence in life, the constant introduction of new people and departure of those I have known since childhood. I remember several years back getting a phone call from momma telling me, ‘we lost Farrell Ray’ who was one of my father’s closest friends. She had probably known him for around fifty years. Farrell Ray had been a stalwart in the community. She sent me the newspaper clipping of the obituary. She was also oft reminded of this impermanence, as she sees those in her generation die one by one. This impermanence is something many of us try desperately and fail utterly to avoid facing.

People come and go in our lives. Some we miss sorely whereas others we are quite glad to be shod of. Our parents, on the other hand, act as a locus and tether in our lives. They are the first people we know when we came into this world. They guide our early development and shape who we become. They anchor our lives which are often tossed to and fro. Their presence or absence often determines the course we take in life. No matter how old we are, the threat that a parent can be taken away from us sets us adrift in the dusk.

The driving wind convinced me my reflection could just as easily be continued indoors. I would call my brother Philip. He took her to get the results of the MRI. He would fill me in on the situation.

And he did. He told me that the doctor had informed them that there were tumors in her femur and pelvis, rather than in her stomach. This was not quite a relief, but did give me pause as to the possible prognosis. Metastatic cancer in the bones might more readily respond to treatment than cancer that had spread in the organs and soft tissue. This situation was still dreadful, but slightly less dreadful than the specter of stomach cancer.

March 15^th? Yes, March 15^th. This was the date of the appointment with the oncologist. This he tells me on February 24^th, mind you. Nineteen days seemed like an eternity to wait to get an official diagnosis of cancer. I knew that there would have to be a biopsy scheduled as well to ascertain what we were dealing with.

Mired in Sunday afternoon ennui

Who doesn't get mired in Sunday afternoon ennui? For those of us who can still work Monday through Friday , Sunday afternoons mark that turning-point where your care-free attitude shifts toward the realization that you are doomed, that work looms in front of you--lurches over you. Your thoughts turn towards the office. You begin having negative fantasies about your co-workers and supervisors, imagining scenarios in which you finally stand your ground, you finally tell off that s.o.b. and let him know that things are going to be different from now on and that henceforth you will be respected for the person you are--the three-dimensional bundle of experience, dashed hopes, love longed-for and lost. Laughs shared. Tears concealed. You will be addressed as sir, you will be treated as an equal. Your ideas and efforts will never again be second-guessed, and people will move aside as you swagger down the hall.

You are not just some logistical numbers-crunching. You have great ideas, you have great plans. You can make a difference in the world. Set things right. Make a child laugh. You once thought of becoming a philosopher. You were going to shake the foundations of academia and your lessers would clamor before you to ponder your acumen.

On Saturday there is still hope. There is still so much time to do chores. Wait until Sunday. Now you can relax, lounge around in your pajamas, have another mojito.

There is no turning back on Sunday afternoon. The weather finally starts to clear. The sun comes out for a dress-rehearsal of the week to come of crisp blue skies , beckoning to you from your cubicle. Should you try to do something now? Salvage those few hours of freedom? The remote slack in your hand, you think of going out, calling up a friend, going down to the city.

No. You flip to the travel channel, look at the beaches, the cobble-stone streets, the wind-surfers The tour guide goes into the public market, samples some local delicacy, exchanges pleasantries with the vendors, and tells you where you can rent bicycles.

Then arrivederci and on to the poker semi-finals.

Emilia

I adopted Emilia back in January, after the snow finally started melting off. I got her at PAWS, which I would highly recommend to anyone. The PAWS adoption center is set up as a cageless environment, where potential parents can come into a large room where all the cats lounge about, and try to find the best match. I first spotted Emilia napping on a cat tree. She roused briefly when I petted her, then drifted back into her catnap. There were several juvenile cats following me around saying, 'pick me! pick me! But living in a small apt. I knew it would not be fair to put a gregarious cat in an environment where it would spend most of its time alone. So I picked Emilia, who was laid back and ambivalent. With her supple black fur, she reminded me of my friends' cat whom I bonded with while staying with them during my brief period of unemployment.

I spent some time alone with her in the cat time-out room, and she was very affectionate and seemed to take to me quite well. So off we went out into the crisp January air, Emilia in her little cardboard cat carrier, and me with a folder full of vet files and pet store coupons.
She spent the first day under the bed in the corner, and all I saw of her was a pair of enchanting golden eyes staring out at me.

We get along quite well. She loves the brush, and can't get enough of the little catnip mice. She dutifully removes their felt tails, then places them at my bedroom door during the night so that I might snack on them when I get up in the morning.

I don't think that Emilia appreciates at all the small fortune that I paid out for her benefit. The cat carrier, gourmet catfood, the scratch boards, the hepa-filter (more for my benefit than hers). Her favorite toy is a twist tie that she bats along the floor with vigor.
I believe that Emilia looks to the hepa-filter as an ersatz mother. Its low soothing whir draws her to sit in front of it, where she allows it to extract the dander from her pelt.

Emilia does not like to be picked up, but at one point a couple of weeks ago I made the mistake of thinking that Emilia and I had gotten to a stage of familiarity where she would make an exception with me. As I now examine my fading scar I see the folly of my thinking. Everyone has boundaries that they would like to be respected, and Emilia communicated to me that I had crossed one of her boundaries, and must pay with the claw.

Aside from that we get along fine. She announces to me when she would like to be fed. She doesn't meow, per se, but rather chatters. She chatters quite often, even if there is food in her bowl. Once when I got home from work she emerged from the cabinet where the catfood was stored at that time, and walked over to the cat dish and started chattering, as if she hadn't been stuffing herself all day.
She meows all the time, and I thought that maybe something was wrong with her, then I reminded myself that she is a female.