I can’t say life is a placid current, floating me tenderly along as I relax and absorb the wonder of the ever-shifting landscapes around me. No, not that. This is like that Class-4 and -5 whitewater trip I took in the wilds of Quebec province, fast and hazardous. We were so busy trying not to smash into rocks or inhale water that there was no time even to notice our surroundings.
Things can’t stay this nuts for a whole lot longer. For one thing, my polite Delawarean tolerance of unnecessary BS is nearly gone. Sorry, Small. You tried to bring me up right, but I’m turning into a crabby old lady when pushed too often or far.
Come to think of it, You Tried may have been the name of the only poem I ever wrote. I was 16: rebellious, misunderstood, and pathos-ridden. The work took the form of a letter to my parents, presumably looking back long after I’d grown up, having failed to live up to their hopes:
You tried.
Oh God, I know you tried.
But something went wrong,
Somewhere…
Mercifully, I forget the rest. Though there’s so much awry in the world right now, let us all rejoice that I never again attempted poetry. Are there any among you who would finish it for me? Oh, wouldn’t that be a riot?
The universe needs me too much right now. Everything’s crucial and everything’s urgent. And so much is sad: watching one of my closest friends fade away, not seeing my mother, leaving behind my East Bay life for who-knows-what, seeing the country (and the world) go to hell. I know I need to look forward toward new possibilities, but I can’t help but gaze wistfully back at what’s forever gone: exploring my beloved green rolling hills of West Virginia with my father, for example; and after a short, soggy walk in Tilden Park on Sunday it’s finally become plain that my hiking days are over unless some spine doctor can figure out what’s going on, and how to stop it. I’m still working on that.
I’m so sensitive that I even got teary when I learned that Judy Woodruff retired as the NewsHour anchor.
What I’m trying to do is axe all but essentials from my days. My three priorities now are, in order:
- To take care of Ember and appreciate as much as possible every minute of our remaining time living together.
- To help and spend as much time as I can with my dying friend.
- To manage the unfathomable number of tasks related to downsizing, getting my house fixed for sale, moving everything into storage, discovering a new community to reside, finding an affordable house therein, and moving again: a slow, overwhelming and scary process. (We explored the Napa Valley two weeks ago, but I prefer Sonoma County.)
It is just like me to sink a heap of borrowed money into selling my house precisely as interest rates keep climbing, two banks fail*, a tech company announces massive layoffs, MAGA scum refuse to raise the debt ceiling, and now international stock markets are tumbling. My timing is unbelievable. After pondering selling for years, I pick now? Wise people (like Small) advise me not to worry about what I can’t change. Like most wisdom, that’s easy to hear but nearly impossible to practice, especially when every day brings ominous developments.
*Heather Cox Richardson says the “Trump-adjacent” attribute the bank collapses to Democratic “wokeness.” Uh…?
With all I have to accomplish, I make endless lists. But five minutes after writing a task, I can’t read my scrawl. Can you interpret this?
Zi N B0 till F24 CAD
Yeah, me neither. When I finally gave up on trying, I heard myself mutter, If I don’t know what it says, I can pretend it’s done, right? So I crossed that sucker right off my list, with a sense of satisfaction almost as though I’d accomplished something.
Though chaos reigns in my life during Ember’s school hours, I put it all on hold when she’s home. We have great fun together. I’ll miss her terribly when she leaves. Her great-grandmother, Helen, used to quote the traditional Greek expression she’d grown up with: My child’s child is twice my child. I’ve passed that on to Ember. I call her “my child, squared.” We sure do love each other.
Emmy had a winter break in mid-February and her Chico family came to retrieve her for a several-day visit, so we got to see them all and enjoy a belated Christmas together.
When Em returned to me a few days later, she, too, started having a hard time with life, as she contemplates her upcoming transition in June: leaving me, going to a new school with new kids and new teachers (again), and finding her place back in Chico. For a while she was inconsolably sad and anxious, as you can see by what became of her Kleenex one night.
We try to keep busy so there’s less time for rumination. Over two days, for example, we spent hours with Molly’s Apples to Apples game.
Em has a new habit: to point out positive things about people. You’re a good writer! she praised her mother the other day. And when I asked her to take a picture of my back after my nerve block, she kept saying, You have such a cute butt-crack!
The doc had to stick in three needles to reach the nerve junction. Maneuvering them to their destination proved difficult on account of my warped spine, each requiring multiple pokes. This was my stylish attire for the procedure:
The doc said there’s so much wrong back there that they can’t figure out which problem is causing what symptom. Compare this remark to that of the helpful sports medicine nurse who told me dismissively that she can’t see from my MRIs and x-rays any reason for my complaints.
It doesn’t help that I continue to hurt myself frequently. Exactly as I pass through narrow doorways, my arms still wing out inexplicably to the side and smack the jamb. At clay class I didn’t realize I’d cut my finger until I saw blood all over my wheel and clay (again). Oh, and I whacked my right temple hard on the sharp edge of a desk last week. Temples aren’t good things to whack on sharp edges. It’s still a bit funky. (The temple. The desk is fine.)
Em, Molly and I had our final weekend getaway before the little one goes north. Our AirBnB (near the Russian River) was cozy, tucked just above a pretty little creek, but there were issues. Stove and oven were on the fritz so dinner-prep both nights took two hours. (How do you bake a potato on a hot plate, man?) Worse, the toilet was so seriously clogged that it merely laughed at our thirty minutes of plunging. The good thing is that Molly learned how to use a snake, but man was that gross. The bad thing is it had obviously been a problem for a long time, and it made me grumpy to venture forth at night into the rain and mud to find a pee spot, especially considering the price of the place.
We had a break in the weather as we explored Portuguese Beach at Sonoma Coast State Park, bought salt water taffy in Bodega Bay, wound along remote forested roads, and took a nature walk through drippy redwoods.
I’ve decided I hate hate hate pottery, which I’m continuing not because I enjoy it, but because it seems important to do something creative and difficult, and to persevere. But the last five sessions have been disasters. I get progressively worse at it. I can’t even count how many times I’ve had to stomp over to the clay recycling bin and hurl my rejects in, splat. At the start of class last week I expressed my misery to the teacher. She’s wonderful but hasn’t given me much individual guidance, so I requested more, apologizing for taking her time and being emotional. Oh, I can handle emotion, she reassured me. I’ll even give you a hug if you want. Imagine our surprise when I spontaneously sprung into her arms. I’m still waiting for her throwing help, though.
I got my new CPAP in the mail and I hate it even more than pottery, even though it sports the elegant flannel celestial-themed tube cover Eleni gave me. Here, I model it before removing it from the packaging.
During my first attempt to use the device, my breathing sounded like Darth Vader’s. Half an hour later, high-pressure air inexplicably started spewing out the sides. It was like hanging my face out the window of a speeding car. Unable to make it stop, I unsnapped the mask, tossed it to the floor and went to sleep unimpeded. The next night I tried a different mask that worked great until, once again, I began to drift off. It started to make loud raspberry/farting noises as escaping air vibrated my floppy face-skin. I tore the stupid thing off and threw it to the floor. Third night: little sleep but no windstorms either. Fourth: the contraption eventually burst into Category 5 hurricane mode, and nothing I did made the gale stop. By midnight, patience shot, I bolted up, furiously ripped off the mask and throttled it as hard as I could toward the far wall. Kaiser says they don’t know why it’s happening and just to keep at it. No, I won’t. It’s not a matter of getting used to it. The masks don’t fit my skinny visage and no matter how many times I lose sleep over trying, that’ll still be true. So I’m done until I can get KP to help me. Or… anyone want a barely used CPAP?
Look: I got a seventeen on Sedecordle: a first, and likely a last. (The best score, if you get nothing wrong, is 16.)
And wow, look at how many posts I’ve written!
Okay, that’s all for now. My house is overflowing with strange men who need my attention, as men are wont to do. (They’re installing quartz kitchen counters.)
Your plate is full, indeed — but you haven’t lost either your sense of humor or your skill at descriptive writing! I hoped you had fussed at your Airbnb landlord, as one does expect a working stove and john — but Molly says you let it go. Too much hassle! You are too good-natured
I hav e no memory of your poem of despair!!
I’ve used a cpap for years, and know that frustration. Sometimes you have to keep futzing with the masks to make them fit. I’m so sorry.
If you’re at all interested in Petaluma, I can introduce you to a friend who loves it there.
Meanwhile, xoxoxoxo
Your poem is BEAUTIFUL. Evocative, deep, and meaningful. Here’s a next line for it:
“You thought this egg would hatch a swan,
But it was a meteor.
Burning bright
In the dark night of my soul.”
That’s lovely about Em’s new habit of pointing out POSITIVE things, and she’s quite right about your butt crack. I’ve often said so myself.
Pweebee don’t give up on the CPAP! It’s gonna be annoying to get it to work just right, but once you do, it should be SUCH a help. You deserve WAY better sleep for dealing with all the cr@p you’re dealing with now.