Apologies

Looking back to the very beginning, in April, 2009, I made a promise to post every week day.  Almost all of the 4,463 of them since then have kept to that standard.

Age and caregiving have caught up with me.  I've been sloppy lately.  The Little Cheese has stopped emailing that my screed hasn't posted today; she understands all too well how hard it is now to fit everything into a day that used to have large gaps of empty spaces.

I'm not berating myself.  What has to be done has to be done and it's really not that difficult at all.  It's the always piece that's tearing at the edges of my life. 

I'm lucky to be taking care of a person I love.  We have the resources, financial and familial, to withstand everything they've thrown at us so far.  I have the brains and the bandwidth to coordinate the pills and appointments and protein intake and all the rest of it.

I stop every day and wonder what those without are doing right now.  It didn't take a masters degree, but it did take two hours and several iterations before I came up with the first medication/dosage/time/purpose/end date chart.  And that was once I figuired out that I couldn't possibly keep it all in my head.  

But I was able to think clearly and sort it all out and now I'm on the 7th version of that chart.  I have answers to all the nurses' questions at my fingertips.  I have little paper cups with hours, am and pm, in purple marker outside and the appropriate medications inside.  When he's taken them he turns the cup over, so that we both know what he's done anytime we want to look.  

I've gotten really good at tempting his tastebuds; G'ma's stuffed cabbage was a big hit last night.  Costco chickens keep me easily fed and provide plenty of other culinary opportunities.  Sometimes is chicken on pasta, sometimes it's chicken salad, sometimes it's shredded chicken on one of the bags of salad that have become staples in my kitchen.  

It's all interesting and amusing and exhausting.  

I'll try to post daily, but sometimes I might have to resort to oldies but goodies.... like tomorrow.

Abdulrazak Gurnah

He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2021.  That would be enough to scare me off had Theft not been sitting on the Large Type shelf (so I could read it under improper lighting, ie my living room), in paperback (so it's not too heavy to hold), with an engaging picture on the front cover.  

I'm still working out the deeper meaning(s) behind the title. 

The obvious one is obvious, obviously. (Sorry, I couldn't resist)  

The others have something to do with love and loss and betrayal and mostly hope and confidence and a generally upbeat sense that life has a purpose and a meaning even as reality tries to smother it.

It's an easy read, even if he's left off the quotation marks.  If I were starting out, I'd create a series of family trees to help me remember who did what to whom, and when, because the prose is so inviting that I read so quickly to see what was coming next that the plot got lost in the rhythm.  

It's a glimpse into modern day Africa, something I don't encounter in my everyday life.  Some of the characters are slipping into my thoughts in the few days since I finished it, carrying on the conversations we started when I had to reread a few chapters to pick up the thread once again.

That didn't bother me.  It gave me a chance to admire the verbiage once again.

Happy Birthday, Sister

Today is Sister's last birthday before she enters the decade her brother and I have inhabited for a while.  She's never stopped reminding us of the fact that she's the spring chicken in the family. 

She claims to have stopped enumerating the years after she turned 39.  You're only as old as you feel makes a lot of sense to me.  It's how I've tried to live my life - hanging on (with my fingertips, at times) to the energy and enthusiasm, tempering it with the comforting knowledge and experience garnered over the years.  

 Act as if you are 17 again just makes me anxious.  I have no interest in going back to my teenage years.  I'm happy to have left the angst and uncertainty and insecurities far behind me.  Adulthood has suited me just fine.

Sister, on the other hand, has had a harder time.  I'm sure 17 feels relatively uncomplicated for her.... if anything in her life can be said to be or have been uncomplicated.  She's a survivor, a rationalist, a self-sufficient human being who has a harder time accepting help than anyone I've ever known.  I finally hit her sweet spot with a Whole Foods after knee surgery delivery of ice cream, chocolate syrup, and vodka.

Of course, I only found out about the surgery after the fact.  Did I mention that she doesn't like asking for help?

She's been the most entertaining person I know and the most aggravating.  She's brilliant and can't seem to get out of her own way.  She's demanding, insistent, and usually right when it comes to everything outside her family.  

She's an activist, taking personal credit for the election of Andy Kim to the Senate (not much of an overstatement, actually), displaying anti-FFOTUS signs in her red neighborhood, flooding our siblings WhatsApp chat with gift links to the NYTimes' political screeds.  

She's complicated and annoying and funny and probably the book-smartest of the three of us.  Here's wishing that the world sends her peace and smiles and more world travels.... and that she comes to realize that her 70's might not be as scary as she imagines.

Happy Birthday!

It Hit Home This Month

Gas prices keep going up and up.  I miss the Prince scholars, but I'm not unhappy saving the twelve miles of traffic to get there.  I've been filling up at Costco, whose membership fee has already paid for itself.  Twenty cents a gallon times twelve gallons times twice a month and we're talking real money here.  

Fabletics adds an individualized tariff expense to each item.  I have no choice but to pay it.  Those tariffs were/are illegal and the money will be refunded. To me?  The one who explicitly paid it?  Hardly.  If it goes anywhere at all it will flow straight to the companies.  Will they then replace the money in my account?  Probably not.

Mexican restaurants all over town are suffering as the price of tomatoes rises.  I'm no longer blanching as I put Egglands Best eggs into my grocery cart; $7 feels reasonable these days.  I fill my basket with all the fruits and melons and berries that appeal to me even though the price tags make me wince.

But what stopped me dead in my tracks was opening this month's bills from Blue Cross/Blue Shield for our Senior Security plans.  My monthly premium went up 30%.  TBG's went up 40%.  

It had to be a mistake, right?  Not so, said the kind woman who answered the phone on the first ring.  "What I've been told is it's the overall industry and rising costs."  

No matter what they tell me, I refuse to believe that the cost of supplies associated with the medical profession has risen 40%.  I know that the professionals and paraprofessionals and uncredentialed but essential staff are not looking at paychecks that are 40% fatter. 

Profits over people.  This is what Daddooooo would call out as HIGHWAY ROBBERY.

When he felt that way, he'd stick it to the man by installing yet another illicit, unauthorized, cheating the phone company outlet.  By the time I left for college, I could make a call from every bathroom and almost every closet in our house.

The older I get, the more things seem to spiral out of control, the more I understand the impulse.  

They Heard Me

I complained and something happened. 

One day after I posted about the absence of signs announcing the Democrats' congressional candidate I saw these all over town:

They are big and cheery and say Arizona; see our flag referenced?

The Democrats in my legislative district are encouraging alternative signage. 

I'm open to suggestions for what I should write. 

Oops

The days get away from me, sometimes. 

I'll be here tomorrow. 

Who Is Running Against Him?

Six long months before Election Day, the Republicans have come to town.  

In the median strips along every major artery, at every intersection with a traffic light, the northwest side of Tucson is awash in cardboard.  Mayoral, congressional, town council, gubernatorial wannabes have their names in red and blue gigantic fonts screaming in my face.

One street has Believe in Peace signs in the median.  Those calm me down after being reminded of all the FFOTUS Followers (Andy Bigg, Juan Ciscomani) trying to attract my attention.

Are there Democrats or Independents or Libertarians or Democratic Socialists vying for my gaze?  Nope, not a one.

In their infinite wisdom, the DCCC or DNC or Ken Martin himself chose Joanna Mendoza to run against Ciscomani for my seat in the House.  No one I know has ever heard of her.  In fact, no one I know even knows of her existence.  Who's running against him? is the typical reaction.  In my post about the rally where Mark Kelly introduced her to invested voters I didn't mention her at all.  

I imagine she's qualified beyond being a Marine veteran and a lesbian activist.  She left a bland impression on those of us in the audience.  I see no mention of her when the local rags (can I still call them that if I read them on line?) write about community events.  

In one of the most vulnerable races in the country (the DCCC moved it up from 5th to 4th) the Democrats' candidate is absent.  According to The Sentinel's coverage of a Conservatives for America poll,

Ciscomani was viewed favorably by 32 percent of those surveyed and unfavorably by 36 percent and had a name ID of 83 percent.

Mendoza, a Marine veteran who previously ran unsuccessfully for the Arizona Legislature in 2020, was largely unknown by those who were surveyed, with only 23 percent saying they were familiar with her name. She was viewed favorably by 6 percent and unfavorably by 3 percent.

I'm going to do everything I can to oust the current occupant of that seat.  I just wish the DCCC were doing the same. 

AI Failed Me

I try to avoid the AI results at the top of the Google search.  Anything that has "there may be errors" as a concluding statement is specious enough to make me question to information. Although the algorithm that sends me the links is also an artificial intelligence, somehow it feels less creepy to find the answer from an original source.

But last night it was raining and I was tired and it was Sunday which meant that the garbage cans needed to be at the curb for our Monday pickup, if Memorial Day was a Waste Management holiday.  My pool company takes only Thanksgiving and the week between Christmas and New Years as vacation days.  Was trash collection on the same schedule?

I picked up my phone as TBG was turning off the inside lights, preparing for bed.  Waste Management Memorial Day pickup was my prompt, and AI told me right away that WM didn't really care about honoring the fallen.  My cans needed to be at the curb.  I was obedient, and we dragged them out under cloudy skies.

I woke up this morning feeling smug.  Ours were the only cans along the street.  Everyone else in the neighborhood thought it was a holiday.  I had done the research.  I knew I was correct.  I drove to Amster's, worked out in her home gym, and drove home to find that our cans had no friends.  No one else had dragged their refuse from the garage or backyard enclosure outside.

My confidence was failing.  Before I began this post, I Googled the same prompt on the laptop.  This time, Waste Management Tucson was the first link, appearing before the AI review finished AI'ing itself onto the screen.  A quick click revealed that, indeed, Waste Management does care about those who lost their lives defending our freedom.  Pickup is delayed one day.

All of a sudden, my cans don't feel so proud of themselves.

All of a sudden, I'm feeling foolish for believing the AI answer.  I know better.

Memorial Day

   First posted in 2009.  

I used to march in the Memorial Day parade. I was dressed in my Brownie uniform, and then in my Girl Scout uniform - replete with those embarrassing anklets. I wore them because the troop leader said we couldn't march without them, they were part of our official uniform.  Marching was too cool to pass up. I wore them and bore the scorn.

All the school bands marched too, and the moms on Benjamin Road provided the materials and the labor to make the capes the high school kids wore. There must have been a military presence there, but I didn't pay enough attention to notice. I was marching and I knew that, all over America, other kids were being Americans and marching, too.

I belonged to something bigger than my family, my school, my town.  

Belonging means different things in different places. In Marin, the Memorial Day parade was always good for a controversy or two. Or three. Should the anti-war protesters walk alphabetically in the main march, or have their own march, or walk 50 yards behind the official march? I especially liked this discussion: should weaponry be allowed?

That was fairly disingenuous even for Marin.

There were bands at this parade, too, and with Bobby Weir as the Grand Marshal you know the music was worth hearing, especially at the picnic in the park afterwards. Not exactly your typical VFW-sponsored event, but no one was complaining. It was Memorial Day; there had to be a parade and a picnic and a coming together as Americans.

I've got the flag G'ma bought us for a housewarming present, which replaced the one Dadooooo got us in Chicago.  I'll wear the tie-dyed tank top the Cuters and I made early one July.  I'll remember the fallen and recommit to doing everything I can to make this country worthy of their sacrifice.

We have a long way to go, but I have confidence in the future.

Yawn

I have no energy to comment on the recent rash of rational actions by certain Republicans.  

Caregiving is hard work.  It's a good thing we like each other. 

I'll be back on Monday. 

Grandma's Garden Farewells

Today was the last day of school.  

I gave the kindergarten teachers their end of year, for their personal libraries, gift book.  They each had Caps for Sale; this year they received The Lorax.  One is moving back home to raise her baby-due-in-December closer to her family.  That was a hard goodbye for me.

She's the one on the left. The one on the right left last year.  They were joyous.

The kindergarteners were acting like the first graders they will be.  They waited politely until I arrived at the garden gate, they lined up without prompting to take a turn or three on the umbrella's handle, and they dove right into the storage bin to find what I'd hidden away.  A little mischief is welcomed; invading my personal space demands a conversation.  

I settled them down with white paper plates and markers, then proceeded to give away the painted ceramic pots to any and all who wanted them.  My usual friends stopped by to talk about their summer plans and to hug me.  The hugs were the most important part of the visits.

Some are moving away.  Omaha, Nebraska felt very far to the Garden Leader whose family was relocating.  

Some are going next door to middle school, often without their best friends who've been switched to another school amidst the District's round of school closures.  

There were tears.  There were reassurances - I won't let you feel lonely! I'll defend you! There was excitement about starting a new chapter.  Miss Stella is thrilled that she will exist in a world with scholars taller than she.  

I signed yearbooks and t-shirts and sweaters I'm not sure were parentally approved for Sharpie signatures.  Every plant in the garden has been adopted and is not living in a new home.  Only the tomato bush and the mandarin orange tree remain, both with ripening fruits.  

It's a good thing summer school runs through June.  

And Then There's This

Yesterday's post was full of joy.  Allow me this moment to rant.

*****

If one more person says he's more likely to get hit by a bus than die from what ails him,  I am afraid that violence may ensue.  

As one lovely (really, a kind and decent soul) human followed up with this: After all, you've had more opportunities to be hit by a bus than someone who is 30.  

Hey, we know we're old.  We aren't feeling young-ish right now.  We don't need the reminder.

It's comforting to be told that you don't need to rush to a lawyer and put your affairs in order, but, as another kind and decent soul said after looking at the two of us, that's because you probably already have that taken care of.

If that is to be our fate, then we'll go out as G'ma wished for herself - to be hit by a bus run by a solvent municipality.  I promise to be laughing all the way to the pavement.

Feeling the Love

This is just some of the love coming our way.  

I had forgotten how good it felt to read letters and cards from friends and strangers and strangers who became friends (I'm thinking of you,  Lolly) after my perforation.  The mail carrier has something to put in our mailbox that isn't trying to sell me something. 

Funny, sincere, thoughtful, personal missives arrive almost every day.  It's not only texts and emails from our circle.  We're surrounded by love at the treatment facilities, too.

It's everybody we encounter, from the valet parking ladies with the sparkling smiles and reminders to wait in the shade; through the scheduler who called late in the day to say he wouldn't have the information until the morning, but he didn't want me to go to sleep thinking he'd forgotten about me; to the clinicians and technicians and the people behind desks who smile if I should happen to catch their eye.  

It makes everything a lot easier.

We have one plan.  We are preparing to plan for a second, contemporaneous plan.  While serious, there are relatively benign yet effective plans to treat what ails him.  

I'm not jinxing anything by typing any more, and I'm closing the comments because I feel your love without them.

What I will say that Victor Wembayana is a very tall, very talented, young man, and watching a closely contested, double overtime, playoff game is a fine way to raise one's spirits.