Social custom requires certain things of people and usually these rules are followed and sometimes they are not fulfilled for various reasons, some valid, some otherwise. There is a custom that I do not follow and for good reason. Or so I believe.
Mary and I were married for 16 years, 8 months and 5 days when she died at 10:04 p.m. on the second of April, 2006. We had known one another just shy of 20 years by that time. When we were married on July 28, 1989, she told me we would be lucky to have another 20 years together. I replied that we would have at least 25 years together from that time. I was 40 at the time and she was approaching 47 years old. I figured my actuarial prediction was the more accurate one. As in most cases, Mary was right. Mary was buried on April 5, 2006. That was the last time I visited St. Michael’s Cemetery.
I do not visit Mary’s grave for one very simple reason. That is not her in the ground. What lies in the ground are the mortal remains of the woman I still love.
For a time, I dwelt on the physical aspects of death. I know what the undertakers do to make the body presentable to the living for whom the entire funeral industry exists. Without the living, there would be no money in death. From thoughts of what the undertakers were up to I began to dwell on the physical aspects of decay and eventual putrefaction of the body. If you think about this stuff long enough you can go crazy. None of these physical things had one thing to do with Mary.
Mary gave me a copy of Skinny Legs and All before we were married. She was always self-conscious about her legs which were, in fact, pretty darn skinny. She hardly ever wore shorts and usually wore long dresses or skirts. When she gave me that book, I told her that she was not her legs or her famous Bowe nose or any combination of body parts. The point I was trying to make is that it was her very self that I love and not a collection if tissue, fluid, bone and blood. It is the very idea of Mary that held me then and holds me now.
Mary Bowe Koechig was full of love, joy and wonder for everyone and everything around her. Lying in her lounge chair on the deck at Mary’s Cove, a fuchsia plant hanging above her, she would quietly smile when her hummingbird appeared, making its regular visits. She never said a word, but rather enjoyed the presence of this remarkable bird who gave her so much happiness. She found what she called “faces” in the petals of flowers, especially pansies. Mary found reasons to be happy with life and sought to bring that happiness to others. Her regrets were not many, but one regret she carried with her to the grave was that she felt she never did enough for her daughters.
Losing her hair to chemotherapy, Mary asked me to meet her halfway. After telling her I did not marry her hair, I disappeared into the bathroom and shaved one half of my moustache off and asked if that was what she meant. She merely suggested that I would be more socially acceptable if I shaved the other half. But she did laugh.
This and more is what I carry in my heart. I carry the memory of her smile, her laugh, her tears and worries. This is Mary. Her skinny legs did not matter; she mattered.
Our friend Charlotte tends the grave and tells me how it looks and I appreciate what she does. Mary appreciates it as well. For me, however, it is enough to carry her in my heart. That is all I need and all I can handle.
2010-04-17
2010-04-16
One Man’s Tea Partier is Another Man’s Embryonic Terrorist
Bill Clinton was heard on the news today describing the Tea Party movement as somehow reminiscent of Timothy McVeigh, the notorious Oklahoma City bomber, responsible for the deaths of over 160 people in 1995. Clinton claims the activism and anger of the Tea Partiers mirrors the anger of McVeigh which ultimately led to his despicable act which included the deaths of 19 children.
This clearly is either delusional on the part of our former president or it is a blatant attempt to discredit an organization which seeks rightful active participation in government. Clinton is not alone in this. From the very beginning of its administration the Obama White House and its supporters have resorted to ad hominem attacks on opponents, labeling them as racists, ignorant, angry, recalcitrant and worse. Now, nascent terrorism is on the menu.
That Clinton would chose anger as one focus of his argument is ironic. One remembers a day in the not too distant past when a sitting President of the United States chose to lie to the nation, angrily stating, “I did not have sex with that woman.” Did his anger lead to an act of terrorism? I doubt he has the testicular fortitude for such an act, except perhaps by proxy. Is he capable of such a thing? Well, to quote someone, “It depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is.”
Speaking of that famous quote (right up there with, “I am not a crook”), this is an attempt at controlling speech. In a tyranny, one of the first things to go is freedom of expression. It was done in China. It was done in Germany. It was done in the Soviet Union. It has been done all over the world with the same disastrous results. Joseph Goebbels famously said, “If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” He also went on to state that truth is the greatest enemy of the state. This is control of speech at its utmost height. To challenge the truth as proclaimed by the state is to be traitorous. Yes, it is that serious. But it also is ridiculous.
This is all too ridiculous to even note except for the fact that so much effort is being put into an effort to quell criticism of the government. If argument is fair and open, what does anyone have to fear? It is as if government had never in the history of the world been questioned. All the criticism is being treated as a blasphemous, heretical challenge to Holy Writ, which is not surprising since Mr. Obama was elected on a wave of what can only be called a kind of messianic fever. But there is just one more thing that rankles.
Clinton has managed to cheapen the deaths of over 160 people by his comments. He has used the Oklahoma City murders to make a political point, a point, by the way, which really is lost in translation. Clinton joins the ranks of those who compare their ideological enemies to Nazis. It is a cheap shot, easily made and without basis. Once the charge is made it tends to stick. I quoted Joseph Goebbels above, not to compare him and Clinton, but to point out the direction the whole debate is taking. Looking down the road, it doesn’t look as if it will get any better soon.
This clearly is either delusional on the part of our former president or it is a blatant attempt to discredit an organization which seeks rightful active participation in government. Clinton is not alone in this. From the very beginning of its administration the Obama White House and its supporters have resorted to ad hominem attacks on opponents, labeling them as racists, ignorant, angry, recalcitrant and worse. Now, nascent terrorism is on the menu.
That Clinton would chose anger as one focus of his argument is ironic. One remembers a day in the not too distant past when a sitting President of the United States chose to lie to the nation, angrily stating, “I did not have sex with that woman.” Did his anger lead to an act of terrorism? I doubt he has the testicular fortitude for such an act, except perhaps by proxy. Is he capable of such a thing? Well, to quote someone, “It depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is.”
Speaking of that famous quote (right up there with, “I am not a crook”), this is an attempt at controlling speech. In a tyranny, one of the first things to go is freedom of expression. It was done in China. It was done in Germany. It was done in the Soviet Union. It has been done all over the world with the same disastrous results. Joseph Goebbels famously said, “If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” He also went on to state that truth is the greatest enemy of the state. This is control of speech at its utmost height. To challenge the truth as proclaimed by the state is to be traitorous. Yes, it is that serious. But it also is ridiculous.
This is all too ridiculous to even note except for the fact that so much effort is being put into an effort to quell criticism of the government. If argument is fair and open, what does anyone have to fear? It is as if government had never in the history of the world been questioned. All the criticism is being treated as a blasphemous, heretical challenge to Holy Writ, which is not surprising since Mr. Obama was elected on a wave of what can only be called a kind of messianic fever. But there is just one more thing that rankles.
Clinton has managed to cheapen the deaths of over 160 people by his comments. He has used the Oklahoma City murders to make a political point, a point, by the way, which really is lost in translation. Clinton joins the ranks of those who compare their ideological enemies to Nazis. It is a cheap shot, easily made and without basis. Once the charge is made it tends to stick. I quoted Joseph Goebbels above, not to compare him and Clinton, but to point out the direction the whole debate is taking. Looking down the road, it doesn’t look as if it will get any better soon.
2010-04-14
Save This Man from Mall Ratism
There is a danger of my becoming a mall rat. Horrible as this sounds, it is my solution to the absence of wireless in my new residence. The landlord says I am hooked up but Windows is not able to connect to the thing. I get it for free here at Trumbull Babylon which has the advantage of being only one bus ride away; that is, I do not have to change buses in order to get here.
The constant blasting of music is a bit hard to take, but it is only a matter of attempting to block it out. Most times I am successful, but at others it does come through one ear and out the other like a rusty dental drill.
Another advantage to this place is the presence of not one, but two – count ‘em, folks, two – Starbuck’s locations. One is in a Target store and the other has its own storefront. Today I had lunch at the storefront location and did not have my normal venti caffe' Americano. Instead, I had a smoothie of banana and mango. I will not have this again for a while. The smoothie itself probably was very good but my taste buds seem to be a little disordered from the chemotherapy.
Speaking of chemotherapy, the rash from the Erbitux shows up primarily on my face and is a sight to behold. Periodically, chunks of my face fall off and they are not particular as to when, where or in front of whom they do it. I have gotten used to it, but it seems as though every stranger I see is staring to see this bizarre wonder that used to be my face.
Meanwhile, here are Trumbull Babylon, it seems fair to stare back. Some of the fashion statements here are no less bizarre than a scaly face that sheds unpredictably. I have seen in just a couple of hours sights that no one should be made to view. Exposed skin seems to be the indicator of fashion awareness. The more adipose tissue that is revealed the better, the rule seems to say. That and ugly tatoos.
Another thing that strikes me here is the fashion posters. Most of the male models in these posters seem to have their arms folded, chins tucked into their chests with their heads tilted to one side or another, with what I suppose is the gangster glare cominbg from their eyes. The majority of the female models seem to be either extremely angry or horribly constipated. Just the stuff to make me want to get into fashion.
Well, if I do turn into a mall rat, I certainly hope to be able to live up to the image here. There already is a start to a roll on my gut, so if I start cutting my shirts off at the bottom, I could get in on that count. A surly look will surely need to come along in time and I am sure I can manage that if they keep playing that outlandish stuff they call music. Meanwhile, I’ll just try to remain undercover.
The constant blasting of music is a bit hard to take, but it is only a matter of attempting to block it out. Most times I am successful, but at others it does come through one ear and out the other like a rusty dental drill.
Another advantage to this place is the presence of not one, but two – count ‘em, folks, two – Starbuck’s locations. One is in a Target store and the other has its own storefront. Today I had lunch at the storefront location and did not have my normal venti caffe' Americano. Instead, I had a smoothie of banana and mango. I will not have this again for a while. The smoothie itself probably was very good but my taste buds seem to be a little disordered from the chemotherapy.
Speaking of chemotherapy, the rash from the Erbitux shows up primarily on my face and is a sight to behold. Periodically, chunks of my face fall off and they are not particular as to when, where or in front of whom they do it. I have gotten used to it, but it seems as though every stranger I see is staring to see this bizarre wonder that used to be my face.
Meanwhile, here are Trumbull Babylon, it seems fair to stare back. Some of the fashion statements here are no less bizarre than a scaly face that sheds unpredictably. I have seen in just a couple of hours sights that no one should be made to view. Exposed skin seems to be the indicator of fashion awareness. The more adipose tissue that is revealed the better, the rule seems to say. That and ugly tatoos.
Another thing that strikes me here is the fashion posters. Most of the male models in these posters seem to have their arms folded, chins tucked into their chests with their heads tilted to one side or another, with what I suppose is the gangster glare cominbg from their eyes. The majority of the female models seem to be either extremely angry or horribly constipated. Just the stuff to make me want to get into fashion.
Well, if I do turn into a mall rat, I certainly hope to be able to live up to the image here. There already is a start to a roll on my gut, so if I start cutting my shirts off at the bottom, I could get in on that count. A surly look will surely need to come along in time and I am sure I can manage that if they keep playing that outlandish stuff they call music. Meanwhile, I’ll just try to remain undercover.
2010-04-12
Friends in Indiana
There is a couple in Indiana who became very special to me during my recent stay there. Although my time with them was relatively short as relationships go, they remain special to this day. Al and Gretchen are special people and it shows in nearly everything they do.
I first became acquainted with Al when my friend Larry signed me in to a private club where Al was the manager. Al and I became nodding acquaintances at first, but I would listen as he and Larry would talk at the bar. After a month or so, Al mentioned that the man who vacuumed in the morning was laid up and there was no one to volunteer to take his place for a while. This club has in common with others of its type a problem with lots of members but very few volunteers when it comes to getting anything done. There is a small core of volunteers who regularly show up when needed, but they are few and far between and as it is always the same people it becomes easy for others to assume that things will be done whether they pitch in or not. At any rate, when the issue of no one to vacuum came up, I had my first real conversation with Al.
"I can run a vacuum, but I'm not a member here."
Al replied to the effect that I didn't need to be a member to volunteer. He simply said that he was usually there by eight in the morning and that if I showed up, it would be fine with him. Words of a man who has heard too many unfulfilled promises. That was my first lesson in dealing with Al. Don't tell him what you will do; simply show up and get it done. I was there the next morning and quite a few after that. It was not a difficult job and I was not doing anything in particular, living in a homeless shelter and looking for a paying job when I was able. During all this time, I would hang out with my friend Larry at the club in the evenings and we would occasionally see Gretchen and we became nodding acquaintances and that was about it, except for a few short conversations. I mostly spoke to Gretchen at the monthly steak dinners where I had begun to volunteer as a dishwasher with a couple of drinks and a steak dinner (paid for by Al and Gretchen) for pay.
One day, after I had finished vacuuming, while I was sitting at the bar, drinking a cup of coffee, Al came up from the office and sat down and we began to talk about this and that. Eventually, talk turned to Al's rental house where he had to evict the man who had been renting it. In the process of living there, the man had pretty much destroyed the place. On my initial visit to the place, there was petrified dog manure throughout the house. We began to call the place The Project.
It was not too long before I was vacuuming in the mornings and heading over to The Project immediately afterward. It also was not too long before Al learned that I told the truth when I told him I was cut out for lugging and hauling and not much else. He probably shudders to this day to even think of me with a paint brush or roller in my hand. But I did manage to lug and haul a whole bunch of stuff. Again, I was a volunteer, but working with Al was a great experience and that had a great deal to do with his management style. We would start our shifts at the project with him telling me what he hoped to accomplish that day. From there, it was pretty much up to me to determine where my capabilities lay and then to act on that determination. I remember his remarkable patience with me as I found the hard way to do things and proceeded to do them that way.
One day, Al asked what plans I had for after our shift at The Project. I told him that, as usual, I had no definite plans. He simply said, "Well, you're with me the rest of the day."
We finished for the day and then headed over to his house where we immediately had a drink out on the deck at his tiki bar. Gretchen soon came home from her job downtown and we had another drink. Then it was time for Al to cook steaks on the grill while Gretchen put the rest of dinner on in the kitchen. I ate like a king that night and many more after that at Al and Gretchen's. They both are accomplished cooks. As often as not, on nights when we did not eat at their house, they would take me to one of their favorite restaurants for dinner and drinks.
Eventually, around February, 2009, I got a part-time job as a teaching assistant at an adult education center in town. It was only three hours per day, but that knocked out my vacuuming. I was able to continue at The Project, however, and that had become very important to me. I was determined to see this thing through to the end. There were times when it seemed as though it never would end, as in the case of The Screwed Up Shower Door. Enough said about that, except I can get you a consultant for this kind of thing real quick. Just remember that a consultant is the guy who will borrow your watch to tell you what time it is and then tell you why you need a new watch. Eventually, The Project was finished and that was that.
Al and Gretchen had me over for dinner after all that and I continued to volunteer at club dinners when I was able. But I knew I had made friends for life. There were others involved in all this, but this is mainly about Al and Gretchen, even though I have spoken primarily about myself and my experiences with them. Al knew there was a right way and a wrong way to fix his damaged house and he got it done right. Looked nearly like new and a darn sight better than you would have thought possible. Gretchen is the same way in what she does which, incidentally, has a lot to do with those steak dinners and other functions at the club. Don't miss Gretchen's desserts or her prize-winning chili. Al does all the industrial shopping for these dinners, which is not part of his job as club manager. He just knows it will not get done if he does not do it. I have been on these trips with him. They are multi-stop, labor intensive trips that take up a good couple of hours. Then it all has to be put away. Al gets it done. Gretchen gets it done when it comes to the setting up of tables, cooking side dishes and desserts, serving and just being her gracious self.
I left Indiana last October and leaving these two was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. I missed them as soon as I left them the night before when I told them goodbye and I miss them now. It is especially difficult now that I have found out Al has cancer in both lungs. There was an appreciation dinner for him yesterday at the club and when I first heard of it, my initial impulse was to jump on a bus and get there. I had the time and the money to get there and back. I had one other thing. Nearly six months of sobriety that I knew I would blow if I went there. I know Al and Gretchen will understand this.
I first became acquainted with Al when my friend Larry signed me in to a private club where Al was the manager. Al and I became nodding acquaintances at first, but I would listen as he and Larry would talk at the bar. After a month or so, Al mentioned that the man who vacuumed in the morning was laid up and there was no one to volunteer to take his place for a while. This club has in common with others of its type a problem with lots of members but very few volunteers when it comes to getting anything done. There is a small core of volunteers who regularly show up when needed, but they are few and far between and as it is always the same people it becomes easy for others to assume that things will be done whether they pitch in or not. At any rate, when the issue of no one to vacuum came up, I had my first real conversation with Al.
"I can run a vacuum, but I'm not a member here."
Al replied to the effect that I didn't need to be a member to volunteer. He simply said that he was usually there by eight in the morning and that if I showed up, it would be fine with him. Words of a man who has heard too many unfulfilled promises. That was my first lesson in dealing with Al. Don't tell him what you will do; simply show up and get it done. I was there the next morning and quite a few after that. It was not a difficult job and I was not doing anything in particular, living in a homeless shelter and looking for a paying job when I was able. During all this time, I would hang out with my friend Larry at the club in the evenings and we would occasionally see Gretchen and we became nodding acquaintances and that was about it, except for a few short conversations. I mostly spoke to Gretchen at the monthly steak dinners where I had begun to volunteer as a dishwasher with a couple of drinks and a steak dinner (paid for by Al and Gretchen) for pay.
One day, after I had finished vacuuming, while I was sitting at the bar, drinking a cup of coffee, Al came up from the office and sat down and we began to talk about this and that. Eventually, talk turned to Al's rental house where he had to evict the man who had been renting it. In the process of living there, the man had pretty much destroyed the place. On my initial visit to the place, there was petrified dog manure throughout the house. We began to call the place The Project.
It was not too long before I was vacuuming in the mornings and heading over to The Project immediately afterward. It also was not too long before Al learned that I told the truth when I told him I was cut out for lugging and hauling and not much else. He probably shudders to this day to even think of me with a paint brush or roller in my hand. But I did manage to lug and haul a whole bunch of stuff. Again, I was a volunteer, but working with Al was a great experience and that had a great deal to do with his management style. We would start our shifts at the project with him telling me what he hoped to accomplish that day. From there, it was pretty much up to me to determine where my capabilities lay and then to act on that determination. I remember his remarkable patience with me as I found the hard way to do things and proceeded to do them that way.
One day, Al asked what plans I had for after our shift at The Project. I told him that, as usual, I had no definite plans. He simply said, "Well, you're with me the rest of the day."
We finished for the day and then headed over to his house where we immediately had a drink out on the deck at his tiki bar. Gretchen soon came home from her job downtown and we had another drink. Then it was time for Al to cook steaks on the grill while Gretchen put the rest of dinner on in the kitchen. I ate like a king that night and many more after that at Al and Gretchen's. They both are accomplished cooks. As often as not, on nights when we did not eat at their house, they would take me to one of their favorite restaurants for dinner and drinks.
Eventually, around February, 2009, I got a part-time job as a teaching assistant at an adult education center in town. It was only three hours per day, but that knocked out my vacuuming. I was able to continue at The Project, however, and that had become very important to me. I was determined to see this thing through to the end. There were times when it seemed as though it never would end, as in the case of The Screwed Up Shower Door. Enough said about that, except I can get you a consultant for this kind of thing real quick. Just remember that a consultant is the guy who will borrow your watch to tell you what time it is and then tell you why you need a new watch. Eventually, The Project was finished and that was that.
Al and Gretchen had me over for dinner after all that and I continued to volunteer at club dinners when I was able. But I knew I had made friends for life. There were others involved in all this, but this is mainly about Al and Gretchen, even though I have spoken primarily about myself and my experiences with them. Al knew there was a right way and a wrong way to fix his damaged house and he got it done right. Looked nearly like new and a darn sight better than you would have thought possible. Gretchen is the same way in what she does which, incidentally, has a lot to do with those steak dinners and other functions at the club. Don't miss Gretchen's desserts or her prize-winning chili. Al does all the industrial shopping for these dinners, which is not part of his job as club manager. He just knows it will not get done if he does not do it. I have been on these trips with him. They are multi-stop, labor intensive trips that take up a good couple of hours. Then it all has to be put away. Al gets it done. Gretchen gets it done when it comes to the setting up of tables, cooking side dishes and desserts, serving and just being her gracious self.
I left Indiana last October and leaving these two was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. I missed them as soon as I left them the night before when I told them goodbye and I miss them now. It is especially difficult now that I have found out Al has cancer in both lungs. There was an appreciation dinner for him yesterday at the club and when I first heard of it, my initial impulse was to jump on a bus and get there. I had the time and the money to get there and back. I had one other thing. Nearly six months of sobriety that I knew I would blow if I went there. I know Al and Gretchen will understand this.
2010-04-11
My New Home
As mentioned earlier, it is time to describe my new home. It is important to note that since my return to Connecticut, if I have not been hospitalized or in one protected environment or another, whether shelter or nursing home (as in the lamentable Bowels of Hell, also previously mentioned). These places, while less than ideal, have served their purpose insofar as food and shelter are concerned. They also have kept me away from the bars and liquor stores and other near occasions of sin. The test for that comes now I am in my own place.
My room is not huge but it is on the front side of the house with two windows, one facing the front, generally west, and the other faces generally north. These windows actually open and there is a ceiling fan. My furniture at this point consists of a mattress on the floor, a round table, a wooden hamper, a bookcase, a wooden folding chair, and a folding camping chair. If things hold true to form I will soon be in need of more bookcases.
My book collection at this time is a bit sparse, especially in the reference section where I have nothing at all. When present, I take my dictionaries for granted; when I have none, it is a real feeling of loss. The plural case is correct, too. From The Compact Oxford English Dictionary to my old Liddell & Scott Latin-English dictionary (lost after all this time), to all my foreign language-English dictionaries, these are books that are essential to any place I call home. Their absence will not cause me any irreparable harm, but their presence sure would be reassuring. Time will solve this. This is not to mention the books that I habitually read over and over, but, again, this will all come in time.
The house itself is very light and I have the run of the first floor which consists of an adequate bathroom, a fairly large living room, and a big, airy kitchen. There are two bedrooms in the basement which I have not yet seen. Both are occupied by men named Mark and I, of course, am Marc. Pronounced the same, but orthographically different. I have asked the other two to call me Marcus (my actual, given name) if it will make things easier. There also is a sick cat (thyroid) named Kitty, but who is so thin due to her condition that I call her Stick when no one else is around. She doesn't seem to mind. One of the Marks living downstairs is half-owner of the property and that helps to assure that the place is well-kept and that behavior is kept at an acceptable standard.
The front yard and my front window look out on Main Street which is busy, but the traffic noise is soon blocked out except for the occasional suicide jockey on his crotch rocket looking for a speeding ticket. The back yard is even quieter and on Thursday morning, my first and only, so far, I saw a male cardinal light in a bush and then flutter up into a tree. This was favorite bird of my Dad's and I took it as a sort of greeting from him. A good beginning.
My room is not huge but it is on the front side of the house with two windows, one facing the front, generally west, and the other faces generally north. These windows actually open and there is a ceiling fan. My furniture at this point consists of a mattress on the floor, a round table, a wooden hamper, a bookcase, a wooden folding chair, and a folding camping chair. If things hold true to form I will soon be in need of more bookcases.
My book collection at this time is a bit sparse, especially in the reference section where I have nothing at all. When present, I take my dictionaries for granted; when I have none, it is a real feeling of loss. The plural case is correct, too. From The Compact Oxford English Dictionary to my old Liddell & Scott Latin-English dictionary (lost after all this time), to all my foreign language-English dictionaries, these are books that are essential to any place I call home. Their absence will not cause me any irreparable harm, but their presence sure would be reassuring. Time will solve this. This is not to mention the books that I habitually read over and over, but, again, this will all come in time.
The house itself is very light and I have the run of the first floor which consists of an adequate bathroom, a fairly large living room, and a big, airy kitchen. There are two bedrooms in the basement which I have not yet seen. Both are occupied by men named Mark and I, of course, am Marc. Pronounced the same, but orthographically different. I have asked the other two to call me Marcus (my actual, given name) if it will make things easier. There also is a sick cat (thyroid) named Kitty, but who is so thin due to her condition that I call her Stick when no one else is around. She doesn't seem to mind. One of the Marks living downstairs is half-owner of the property and that helps to assure that the place is well-kept and that behavior is kept at an acceptable standard.
The front yard and my front window look out on Main Street which is busy, but the traffic noise is soon blocked out except for the occasional suicide jockey on his crotch rocket looking for a speeding ticket. The back yard is even quieter and on Thursday morning, my first and only, so far, I saw a male cardinal light in a bush and then flutter up into a tree. This was favorite bird of my Dad's and I took it as a sort of greeting from him. A good beginning.
2010-04-10
The Bowels of Hell Skilled Nursing Facility
Having moved from the Bowels of Hell skilled nursing facility where the nurses have to supply their own blood pressure cuffs and stethoscopes, I got to spend one night in my newly rented room before reporting back to the hospital for another round of chemo. But let's backtrack before talking about our new home. That may be a while in coming. The Bowels of Hell skilled nursing facility deserves a lot of attention, so the new home may have to wait until next time.
I headed up to the Bowels of Hell after my last hospital stay and went there knowing nothing about the place. Talk about songs of innocence and songs of experience; old Mr. Blake ain't got nothing on me. "Tyger, Tyger, burning bright," my foot.
On my first night at the BOH, I was placed in a room with two bedridden men with whom I spent my entire time while incarcerated in this place. The one next to me asked an aide who happened to be in the room if he would empty his bedside urinal. From my bed, I was able to witness the emptying as the bathroom was straight across from me. The aide grabbed the urinal, walked it to the bathroom, held it over the toilet a little over waist high, emptied it into the toilet, returned to the man's bed without rinsing the urinal and hooked it on the man's bed rail. The aide then left without changing gloves, washing hands or any other of the things you might expect in a skilled nursing facility.
Because of my dressing changes, I am only able to shower at certain times; that is, just before a dressing change. These occur three times per week. The day finally came for my dressing change and I proceeded to the shower room but could not get in due to the fact that there were patient lifts parked in front of both shower stalls. So, I went on to the big shower room where there is only one stall but also a large bathtub for the non-ambulatory patients. Both shower rooms have in common the fact that they have no place to hang your clothes, place your soap or shampoo, or even to hang a towel. Makes it a bit of a challenge. What made it even more of a challenge for me was the fact that there was a large pool of brown water in front of the shower I was forced to use. It made me wonder if I really wanted to use the shower since it is a straight walk-in affair with no lip between the shower and the main floor. And no curtain, either. Somehow I managed and got out alive and uninfected.
The staff give a lot away by their conversation. For example, I learned, simply by sitting and listening, that management did not buy toilet brushes for cleaning, but got "scrapers" instead. There also seems to be a problem with maintaining a supply of trash bags and bags for soiled linen. I was paroled from this Devil's Island on a Wednesday, the day of an inspection. All day on the Tuesday before my release, there was massive cleaning going on. Early on, someone asked for bleach and was informed that the facility had no bleach. Imagine a skilled nursing facility with no bleach.
Back to the staff who were for the most part friendly and amiable. I must note however, that they seemed to always communicate by yelling, usually with all parties involved yelling at the same time. This was not necessarily angry yelling; it was simply a matter of volume. And then there was the frequency of the use of the f-word; it seemed to be in use in every four or five words or so. An indispensable part of their vocabulary, it could be used as noun, verb, adjective, you name it.
That is the most I can tell you about this place at this point. There are things I may have blocked from my mind. When I think of it, I can only remember Kurtz, from Heart of Darkness, and exclaim, "The horror! The horror!"
I headed up to the Bowels of Hell after my last hospital stay and went there knowing nothing about the place. Talk about songs of innocence and songs of experience; old Mr. Blake ain't got nothing on me. "Tyger, Tyger, burning bright," my foot.
On my first night at the BOH, I was placed in a room with two bedridden men with whom I spent my entire time while incarcerated in this place. The one next to me asked an aide who happened to be in the room if he would empty his bedside urinal. From my bed, I was able to witness the emptying as the bathroom was straight across from me. The aide grabbed the urinal, walked it to the bathroom, held it over the toilet a little over waist high, emptied it into the toilet, returned to the man's bed without rinsing the urinal and hooked it on the man's bed rail. The aide then left without changing gloves, washing hands or any other of the things you might expect in a skilled nursing facility.
Because of my dressing changes, I am only able to shower at certain times; that is, just before a dressing change. These occur three times per week. The day finally came for my dressing change and I proceeded to the shower room but could not get in due to the fact that there were patient lifts parked in front of both shower stalls. So, I went on to the big shower room where there is only one stall but also a large bathtub for the non-ambulatory patients. Both shower rooms have in common the fact that they have no place to hang your clothes, place your soap or shampoo, or even to hang a towel. Makes it a bit of a challenge. What made it even more of a challenge for me was the fact that there was a large pool of brown water in front of the shower I was forced to use. It made me wonder if I really wanted to use the shower since it is a straight walk-in affair with no lip between the shower and the main floor. And no curtain, either. Somehow I managed and got out alive and uninfected.
The staff give a lot away by their conversation. For example, I learned, simply by sitting and listening, that management did not buy toilet brushes for cleaning, but got "scrapers" instead. There also seems to be a problem with maintaining a supply of trash bags and bags for soiled linen. I was paroled from this Devil's Island on a Wednesday, the day of an inspection. All day on the Tuesday before my release, there was massive cleaning going on. Early on, someone asked for bleach and was informed that the facility had no bleach. Imagine a skilled nursing facility with no bleach.
Back to the staff who were for the most part friendly and amiable. I must note however, that they seemed to always communicate by yelling, usually with all parties involved yelling at the same time. This was not necessarily angry yelling; it was simply a matter of volume. And then there was the frequency of the use of the f-word; it seemed to be in use in every four or five words or so. An indispensable part of their vocabulary, it could be used as noun, verb, adjective, you name it.
That is the most I can tell you about this place at this point. There are things I may have blocked from my mind. When I think of it, I can only remember Kurtz, from Heart of Darkness, and exclaim, "The horror! The horror!"
2010-04-09
Charity as a Verb
Charlotte and Grant probably first came into my life shortly after I moved to Connecticut in October, 1986. Mary was a teacher in the local school system and so was Charlotte. I know I met Charlotte long before meeting Grant.
Charlotte immediately impressed me as one of Mary’s friends simply by her manner and way of dealing with a variety of people. The first several times I was able to be in Charlotte’s company happened to be at various social occasions for teachers. These events were for me usually difficult since I do not like crowds and a lot of noise. I usually found myself sitting alone at these gatherings as I felt not much in common with most of the people there. I was struck, however by the way Charlotte usually managed to find the time to come and say hello and to see how I was getting along. This is simply part of who she is. Caring and sharing are integral to Charlotte’s peronality.
I remember Wednesdays when Mary was sick. Wednesday was always a good day because this was when Charlotte would deliver to our house a complete home-cooked meal with instructions for heating in the oven. This was done without fanfare of any kind, always very quietly. Charlotte always seemd to prove that the best charity is done in secret.
Grant is another story. I didn’t quite know what to make of Grant when I first met him. What that first occasion was is hard to say, but I tend to think it was at his home for dinner. He seemed friendly enough but there was something that made me a little uneasy. Later, I found what it was. Grant is at least as big a smart-ass as I am. When you find in others that which disturbs you, it may be that you are seeing a .case. You have never met a more caring and loyal friend.
Living conditions have been less than ideal since my return to Connecticut on the 31st of October. I have either been in the hospital or a nursing facility or a temporary residential program. I only was able to move into my own place on the 7th of April. Since the beginning, Grant has been there, providing rides to wherever I needed or wanted to go. I remember when I first went to the Temporary Residential Program, I was standing outside performingh an air quality check (aka, smoking) when Grant rolled up and said, “Hey, you want to get out of there for a while?” That began a five-month long series of nearly daily rides.
Those rides generally ended at Charlotte and Grant’s where I mostly slept on their counch only to be awakened for supper. Shortly after supper, Grant would get me back to where I needed to go. This was a great burden to him in the last few weeks, since that is when I was in the alleged skilled nursing facility, which was about 35 miles from Grant’s house. Think of the math a moment. This involved to 70-mile round trips almost daily for a couple of weeks or, a minimum of 140 miles per day.
One of the nicer things about being at home with this wonderful couple is that they both recognize that there is a time for conversation and there is a time to just be silent. I have just spent the last five motnhs among some people who never have had an unspoken thought and it has been less than pleasing, to say the least. It is so nice to be at home (they do make you feel at home) with Charlotte and Grant and not have to fill every second with noise.
There is much more to say about these two, but there is not enough time. Examples of kindness could be compounded ad infinitum but would likely emabrrass them. Suffice it to say that they are examples of charity, in the oldest and truest sense of the word, in action. They make charity a verb instead of a noun.
Charlotte immediately impressed me as one of Mary’s friends simply by her manner and way of dealing with a variety of people. The first several times I was able to be in Charlotte’s company happened to be at various social occasions for teachers. These events were for me usually difficult since I do not like crowds and a lot of noise. I usually found myself sitting alone at these gatherings as I felt not much in common with most of the people there. I was struck, however by the way Charlotte usually managed to find the time to come and say hello and to see how I was getting along. This is simply part of who she is. Caring and sharing are integral to Charlotte’s peronality.
I remember Wednesdays when Mary was sick. Wednesday was always a good day because this was when Charlotte would deliver to our house a complete home-cooked meal with instructions for heating in the oven. This was done without fanfare of any kind, always very quietly. Charlotte always seemd to prove that the best charity is done in secret.
Grant is another story. I didn’t quite know what to make of Grant when I first met him. What that first occasion was is hard to say, but I tend to think it was at his home for dinner. He seemed friendly enough but there was something that made me a little uneasy. Later, I found what it was. Grant is at least as big a smart-ass as I am. When you find in others that which disturbs you, it may be that you are seeing a .case. You have never met a more caring and loyal friend.
Living conditions have been less than ideal since my return to Connecticut on the 31st of October. I have either been in the hospital or a nursing facility or a temporary residential program. I only was able to move into my own place on the 7th of April. Since the beginning, Grant has been there, providing rides to wherever I needed or wanted to go. I remember when I first went to the Temporary Residential Program, I was standing outside performingh an air quality check (aka, smoking) when Grant rolled up and said, “Hey, you want to get out of there for a while?” That began a five-month long series of nearly daily rides.
Those rides generally ended at Charlotte and Grant’s where I mostly slept on their counch only to be awakened for supper. Shortly after supper, Grant would get me back to where I needed to go. This was a great burden to him in the last few weeks, since that is when I was in the alleged skilled nursing facility, which was about 35 miles from Grant’s house. Think of the math a moment. This involved to 70-mile round trips almost daily for a couple of weeks or, a minimum of 140 miles per day.
One of the nicer things about being at home with this wonderful couple is that they both recognize that there is a time for conversation and there is a time to just be silent. I have just spent the last five motnhs among some people who never have had an unspoken thought and it has been less than pleasing, to say the least. It is so nice to be at home (they do make you feel at home) with Charlotte and Grant and not have to fill every second with noise.
There is much more to say about these two, but there is not enough time. Examples of kindness could be compounded ad infinitum but would likely emabrrass them. Suffice it to say that they are examples of charity, in the oldest and truest sense of the word, in action. They make charity a verb instead of a noun.
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