Just the other day, while reading some of my favorite blogs, I ran across and very thought provoking post at Lauren Moderly’s very stylish and refreshing blog, Hipstercrite. Her blog keeps me tuned in to the younger generations, and she is a talented writer. I am linking you to her post, "The Definition of Friendship."
Her post made me think of our age difference and how it might color our ideas of friendship with a two completely different pallets. She is 27, and I am 63. You can do the math.
I have written about friendship before, but since reading Lauren’s piece, I have been examining the friendships I have had and how they happened, how some of them ended, how some of them have survived the tornados that periodically ravage my life.
I don’t have many friends, don’t really like or understand many people, which, to me, has to be at the core of a friendship. Understanding. A simple word when you write it down, but when you try to take it apart, it carries great weight and is buttoned up tightly, difficult to access. In the understanding at the heart of a friendship is also forgiveness, sacrifice and truth. You cannot have a friend unless you are willing to accept their flaws, forgive their sins and be open to hard truths.
So, how does it happen, this understanding that leads to friendship? Is it a chemical thing? Are we congenitally programmed to seek out people we can understand and that understand us? I believe so, but then, I believe in love at first sight. It happened to me. And all of my friendships have been at first sight also.
In her blog post, Lauren chronicles her friendships from early childhood. She, in a real sense, categorizes them.
The thing is, I don’t believe there are categories of friends. A friend is a friend, not an acquaintance or someone you network with online. I love my blogging friends from afar, but if we ever met, would that attraction hold up, make us friends, make us trust and understand one another? Think about it.
What about work? Do I have any friends at work? I don’t. I like and respect and admire the nurses and doctors and techs and secretaries with whom I work, but they are not my true friends. They will never “understand” me. They are my comrades, which isn’t the same thing as being my friend. Our differences are a large part of why we are an effective team. We share experiences every day and each, in his own way, processes those experiences differently. My true friends understand my reactions and responses, but that is not necessarily true in the workplace. There is nothing wrong with that. These are, for the most part, decent people who are valuable as human beings, but I don’t want to buddy up with my coworkers. I need to leave them at work, where they belong.
I’m friendly with my postman, the guy from Federal Express, my nail tech, my hairdresser, the pharmacist who fills my prescriptions, the cute girls who run the cupcake shop, the guy at the bank, my doctor, my insurance people and countless others, but they are not my friends. They are pleasant acquaintances and I enjoy seeing, speaking to and smiling at them.
My late husband I shared only three good, solid friends, the kind of friends you can call at four in the morning and confess that you are in jail for DWI, and they would haul themselves out of bed and come bail you out. On the other hand, we each had our own friends, just ours alone, and it worked for us. I didn’t try to get him to go out to dinner with my best friend, because he couldn’t stand to breathe the same air as her husband. That friendship belongs to just us girls.
They are disparate in nature, these friends, but we both loved them dearly, and two of them are still here for me now that Clint is gone. These people are my friends. What happened to the third one is a post in itself.
I was once invited to join a garden club, but when I discovered that I had only one friend in the group, I declined. Those organizations are for people network, get in with the right crowd. One doesn’t go out and look for friends. They just happen. At least the real ones do. Besides, I detest yard work.
I have been in relationships that I thought were friendships, but they were not. Either I stopped understanding them or they me, or maybe we never did understand one another. There’s nothing wrong with that. It happens. It hurts. But you move on.
Childhood friends rarely make it past seventh grade. Lauren skillfully illustrated that in her piece. I only had one childhood friend and one high school friend who survived the changes in our lives. My best friend from fourth grade, Mary Ellen, remained my friend through two of my mother’s marriages and all of the moves she put us through in order to satisfy her own needs. We landed back on Saint Simons Island the summer between ninth and tenth grades, and Mary Ellen and I fell right back into step. She was still my friend when she went off to school and I stayed home to go to nursing school. Marriage and work and living in different area codes did not chip away at our friendship. We were still close and understanding when she was diagnosed with lung cancer and died two months later. (I loathed her husband, a self-aggrandizing egoist writer who was also a drunk). And, yes, when I walked into Mrs. Medlin’s fourth grade class, Mary Ellen and I looked at each other and by first recess we were friends.
And then there is Don, first cousin of Mary Ellen’s husband, Jim. In an incredible example of synchronicity, Clint and I met him when she died. I had heard about him for years, a visual artist without a day job, talented watercolorist, who lived in Valdosta Georgia, but we had never met. It turned out that he disliked his cousin as much as I did. The night of Mary Ellen’s visitation, I was manning the phones at the house when Don walked in. We were instantly “in friend.” Amazingly, he and Clint were, too. We all fell into step, and Don , “Cuz,” as I like to call him, became part of the family. He got me through Christmas the last two year by coming to stay with me.
I am still very close to my friend from tenth grade, Shirley. We all called her The Squirrel, and we were friends at first sight. Fortunately, she was fond of Mary Ellen, too. Our friendship survived her five marriages and my two. She is now on number six. We may not talk but once or twice a month, but I know she is there, and she knows I am here. Our friendship survived my marrying a physician and her being broke all the time.
My best friend here in town, Nancy, recruited me to work in the Medical Intensive Care Unit shortly after my move to Macon - trying to escape my mother and my former husband. We had an interview and came away from it, well, friends. This friendship has had its ups and downs, but it is solid and has survived things like my husband not liking hers and her pulling away from me for several years back in the 80’s, then coming back into my life. We never discussed what happened or why, and at this time of life, who gives a rip? It happened, it un-happened and that is that.
I didn’t mean for this to turn into an essay about my friends, but it seems wrong not to include my other real friend. Her name is Fonda, and she is the strongest woman I have ever known. She lives in Augusta, Georgia, but we became friends when she lived in Macon. We worked together, but before that, we fell in friend at a conference in Vail, which I was attending to learn to teach people now to stop smoking in a program that she would manage at the hospital. She was my boss. I don’t have friends at work now, but she and I were friends before we started working together. By the time the conference was over, we were swilling champagne and telling stories about ourselves while our husbands were playing golf or fishing. She is one that I can call in the middle of the night.
So, friends, friendship. I don’t believe my ideas about it are different from Lauren’s. At the end of her piece, she had come to the conclusion that, “....being selective doesn’t necessarily mean bad.”
I believe, as wise as she already is, that her friend filter will become as well developed as mine. (Even if I am 36 years older than she).
© cj Schlottman
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Relapse
When I returned from work on Thursday night, I thought I would be spending today with my son, Parrish. We had plans for him to fly to Atlanta yesterday and meet me there for a short two-night visit. I called his best friend, Michael, and made dinner plans with him and his wife, Ashley, for tonight.
The call came just as I was peeling off my scrubs and running a hot bubble bath. Fortunately, I had a drink in my hand, and there were no cigarettes in the house.
“Mama? I have news that is sort of bad and sort of good. I could lie to you and pretend nothing happened, but I have to be honest with you. Mama, you are all I have left in the world. I relapsed on Tuesday and got stoned on a handful of pills.”
“Oh, Parrish, I sighed. Are you still using or was it a one night thing?”
“It was a one night thing and I am back in outpatient rehab. I can’t come to Atlanta this weekend. My doctor says I should not be around you right now. I hope you don't see this as rejection. It’s me, for once, doing the right thing. Please don’t think I don’t love you.”
I have known for years that I am not good for Parrish. A painful truth, for sure, but in my own therapy, I have learned that it is so. He has an enormous amount guilt and shame about the way he acted over the years, and being around me, especially here at my little cottage, boils those feelings to the surface. We do better on neutral ground, but it is still a struggle for him, making him manic and bringing out his schizoid characteristics. When he was here in December, he was as manic as I have ever seen him, perseverating and inappropriate and unable to sleep and having the occasional hallucination. We were both miserable. My emotional energy was nil by the time he left, and he was just this side of blubbering.
“Aren’t you proud of me for doing the right thing? Don’t you think I’m taking responsibility for my own mistakes and working to clean up the mess I have caused? Please don’t have hurt feelings. I love you more than I can say, but I can’t come to Atlanta this weekend. I’m sorry about the airline ticket. Maybe you can get some credit towards another flight in the future. I hope you’re not disappointed in me. I think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you?”
Manic? He went on in that vein for a few minutes, until I interrupted him to say I was proud of him for owning his mistakes and trying to get back on track. I said not to worry about the plane ticket. I told him to take care of himself, that I was okay, that my feelings were not hurt, that I was very proud of him.
The miserable truth about this thing is that, far from being disappointed, I was relieved. And guilty. And sad. And hurt.
What kind of mother is relieved that she will not have time with her only child? How damaged does a relationship have to be for her to feel that way and say it out loud? I know what my therapist would say. She would say it is healthy to be honest with one’s self, that it is a marker of strength and willingness to own my feelings, no matter how negative they may be. She would be right, I believe, but that knowledge in no way makes this easier.
Parrish is 41 years old, and every year he becomes more childlike and needy. The medications that keep him precariously balanced on a tightrope of semi-sanity are also eating away at his liver, his kidneys. Before his disease finishes ravaging his brain, he will have regressed to the mentality of a preschooler.
He, college educated (BA, History), blessed with an eidetic memory, his good looks now ravaged by homelessness and self-abuse, has the mind of a 12 year old.
And he must start from the beginning - again - to get clean and sober. I am not so naive as to believe that Parrish slipped only once. Lately, he has not sounded sober, and when I have questioned him, he has blown it off as side effects from his medicine. Maybe this rehab experience will be the one that works - for good.
I don’t really believe it will, though. I’ve been down this road before.
© cj Schlottman
The call came just as I was peeling off my scrubs and running a hot bubble bath. Fortunately, I had a drink in my hand, and there were no cigarettes in the house.
“Mama? I have news that is sort of bad and sort of good. I could lie to you and pretend nothing happened, but I have to be honest with you. Mama, you are all I have left in the world. I relapsed on Tuesday and got stoned on a handful of pills.”
“Oh, Parrish, I sighed. Are you still using or was it a one night thing?”
“It was a one night thing and I am back in outpatient rehab. I can’t come to Atlanta this weekend. My doctor says I should not be around you right now. I hope you don't see this as rejection. It’s me, for once, doing the right thing. Please don’t think I don’t love you.”
I have known for years that I am not good for Parrish. A painful truth, for sure, but in my own therapy, I have learned that it is so. He has an enormous amount guilt and shame about the way he acted over the years, and being around me, especially here at my little cottage, boils those feelings to the surface. We do better on neutral ground, but it is still a struggle for him, making him manic and bringing out his schizoid characteristics. When he was here in December, he was as manic as I have ever seen him, perseverating and inappropriate and unable to sleep and having the occasional hallucination. We were both miserable. My emotional energy was nil by the time he left, and he was just this side of blubbering.
“Aren’t you proud of me for doing the right thing? Don’t you think I’m taking responsibility for my own mistakes and working to clean up the mess I have caused? Please don’t have hurt feelings. I love you more than I can say, but I can’t come to Atlanta this weekend. I’m sorry about the airline ticket. Maybe you can get some credit towards another flight in the future. I hope you’re not disappointed in me. I think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you?”
Manic? He went on in that vein for a few minutes, until I interrupted him to say I was proud of him for owning his mistakes and trying to get back on track. I said not to worry about the plane ticket. I told him to take care of himself, that I was okay, that my feelings were not hurt, that I was very proud of him.
The miserable truth about this thing is that, far from being disappointed, I was relieved. And guilty. And sad. And hurt.
What kind of mother is relieved that she will not have time with her only child? How damaged does a relationship have to be for her to feel that way and say it out loud? I know what my therapist would say. She would say it is healthy to be honest with one’s self, that it is a marker of strength and willingness to own my feelings, no matter how negative they may be. She would be right, I believe, but that knowledge in no way makes this easier.
Parrish is 41 years old, and every year he becomes more childlike and needy. The medications that keep him precariously balanced on a tightrope of semi-sanity are also eating away at his liver, his kidneys. Before his disease finishes ravaging his brain, he will have regressed to the mentality of a preschooler.
He, college educated (BA, History), blessed with an eidetic memory, his good looks now ravaged by homelessness and self-abuse, has the mind of a 12 year old.
And he must start from the beginning - again - to get clean and sober. I am not so naive as to believe that Parrish slipped only once. Lately, he has not sounded sober, and when I have questioned him, he has blown it off as side effects from his medicine. Maybe this rehab experience will be the one that works - for good.
I don’t really believe it will, though. I’ve been down this road before.
© cj Schlottman
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The Ginormous South
I have been on the road again. This time in Atlanta with my beautiful and talented and brilliant and athletic granddaughter, Addie, for The Big South Volleyball Tournament, from April 2 through April 4.
The Packing Thing went pretty well as I had a full day to devote to getting the job done without losing my mind. It was nonetheless a difficult thing for me.
I stowed Mr. Palmer in his travel bowl, then packed his glass bowl and food in the box with him. I could tell he was excited by the way he swam in circles so energetically. He does love to travel.
We arrived, Addie and I, at our hotel at around ten in the evening, after an uneventful handoff from Charles Cheeseman at the Chick Filet in Macon. They all live in Savannah, so Addie hitched a ride with them as far a Macon. Then I took her on to Atlanta. I love having her all to myself!
In all their wisdom (and I am sure in an attempt to keep the trip as cheat as possible), whoever does these things for Coastal Volleyball chose hotels on the top end of the perimeter (I-285). The tournament was held at the World Congress Center, which is in the heart of downtown Atlanta. Quite a commute.
We considered going in search of a late supper, but the room was cute and cozy, and by the time we got Mr. Palmer settled on the lamp table and my things unpacked, we changed our minds, deciding we had enough healthy stuff in the room to hold us over. The truth of the matter is that we were both bone tired. So, we ate apples and bananas and a few pieces of chocolate and some chips. I also ate a granola bar, thinking it would counterbalance the chocolate.
The Big South is a misnomer. It should be called the Ginormous South. Inside the World Congress Center were - count them - 144 volleyball courts. Now think about it. There are 12 players on each court, presumably a coach, a few players on the bench and an official. Then there were parents and siblings and friends, grandparents and the ubiquitous venders. I am sure I am leaving something out, but you get the idea. Hands down, it was one of the loudest places I have ever been. No, check that, it was the loudest place I have ever been - and I have been to the NCAA Final Four as well as in Italy when they won the World Cup. The players were cheering for one another, and so were all the members of their entourages. The sounds echoed and echoed some more in that incredibly large building. Then there were the screeches of the officials' whistles.
But I digress. Addie was scheduled to play at 4 PM on Friday. We slept late and grabbed some breakfast/lunch, then took a test ride to the World Congress Center to be sure we knew where we were going and how long it would take us to get there. I turned on the GPS loaded into my Blackberry, and off we went. We did well, found GA 400, which pretty much goes straight down to the I-75/I-85 connector. We even made the correct exit. Addie was navigating, and doing a good job of it, but I was having trouble determining which lane I should be in. I missed a couple of turns, and each time I did, the robotic voice of the GPS system started to squawk “as soon as safely possible, make a legal u-turn,” or “rerouting.”
I was insane. It was Friday in downtown Atlanta, a city famous for it’s traffic woes, and a robot was telling me where to go. There were horns blaring - at me and at dozens of other vehicles. There was the lady who rolled down her window and called me a name. Addie was laughing so hard, she was about to cry, and I began to talk back to the robot. I began to call it names. Addie laughed harder.
After we had been in the car for about an hour, we found the bleeping World Congress Center. By then, we were cutting it close to get back to the hotel and back downtown in time for Addie’s first game.
So, with Addie’s help, we (sort of) retraced our route and got back to the hotel just in time for her to jump into her uniform and grab her gear. We almost made it on time. By then, the infamous Atlanta traffic was snarled into its Friday afternoon insanity, everyone making a beeline for the suburbs.
We found the parking lot for our building, not knowing it was about a 15 minute (uphill) walk to the courts. Addie ran ahead, and I came along as fast as I could. Naturally, I had on the wrong pair of boots for hiking. I followed her, not taking my eyes off her in the distance. She overshot the entrance and we ended it going in the back way, sort of.
I have often heard it said that God takes care of children and old people. Believe it. It’s true. We arrived court side at 4:15, and the previous match just finishing up. We both took in a long breath and blew it out slowly.
Addie’s team played four matches - winning a few games but no matches - and we got out of there about 9:15. We found some delicious Mexican food at a place called Uncle Julios right up the street from our hotel. It was after 11:00 when we got to bed.
Saturday was basically a replay of Friday, only we knew where we were going, and there was no Friday Afternoon Madness on the streets and expressways of Atlanta. I had so hoped to take Addie shopping for a birthday present. She turned 16 on April 11. But there was no time for anything except volleyball and eating and sleeping.
There was one glaring difference on Saturday, though. After playing their matches, each team is required to “ref” the next match, and I, of course, stayed in my seat to watch the match while Addie kept score. The next two teams arrived. One of the mother’s sat down beside me and said it was time for me to give up my seat. I looked up and down the row of folding chairs that lined the court, and there was one empty seat next to me and three or four adult men and a bunch of children taking the other seats.
“You are being very rude taking a seat while our team is playing.”
I politely told her that I was there to watch my granddaughter keep score.
Plop! The chair beside me was taken by another woman, and an ample woman at that. She and her friend began to shout across me about how rude I was.
“I’ll be happy to trade seats with one of you ladies if you want to chat.”
“We want you to leave.” This from the plump plopper on my right.
I looked into her eyes and said politely, “Bless your heart. I don’t know where you are from, but in The South, grandmothers do not stand while men and children are sitting. If every man and child leaves his seat and there are not extra chairs, I will stand, but not until then.”
So they went to Plan B, and the heffer to my right stuck her left leg out and pulled her jeans up to reveal what looked like the worst case of poison ivy I ever saw. The scabs were enormous, and they will covered by some sort of pasty looking cream. Gag.
“Look here, I have this highly contagious disease, and it’s not smart for you to sit next to me. It is very, very contagious.”
“Then, bless your heart, you should cover it up and in the interest of public safety, leave this building filled with over 2000 people. You wouldn’t want to start an epidemic, would you?”
I turned to the woman on my left, looked straight into her eyes, and said, “Bless your heart, this little plan will not chase me away. I am not afraid of your friend’s rash.”
Then they fell back on Plan C and tried to run me off by whistling and screaming at the tops of their lungs. The one to my right leaned over in her seat, and her butt crack was clearly visible. No scabs there. Now, THAT might run me off.
When their team lost it’s first game, they both shut up and the butt crack/rash woman got up and rumbled away.
On Sunday morning, we packed up our things and Mr. Palmer and made our way to the tournament on time for Addie’s team to play their final matches. By previous agreement, I stayed for one match, then I left to go home, worried that Mr. Palmer might be too hot in the car.
Addie and I exchanged “I love yous” and hugged for a long time.
I did not want to leave. I wish she lived next door to me. I love her so. Her team, which was pretty much cobbled together at the last minute and suffered from poor coaching, didn’t win even one match. She was very mature and philosophic about it all. Though intensely competitive, she is not a sore loser.
She is the finest gift my son, Parrish, has ever given me.
© cj Schlottman
The Packing Thing went pretty well as I had a full day to devote to getting the job done without losing my mind. It was nonetheless a difficult thing for me.
I stowed Mr. Palmer in his travel bowl, then packed his glass bowl and food in the box with him. I could tell he was excited by the way he swam in circles so energetically. He does love to travel.
We arrived, Addie and I, at our hotel at around ten in the evening, after an uneventful handoff from Charles Cheeseman at the Chick Filet in Macon. They all live in Savannah, so Addie hitched a ride with them as far a Macon. Then I took her on to Atlanta. I love having her all to myself!
In all their wisdom (and I am sure in an attempt to keep the trip as cheat as possible), whoever does these things for Coastal Volleyball chose hotels on the top end of the perimeter (I-285). The tournament was held at the World Congress Center, which is in the heart of downtown Atlanta. Quite a commute.
We considered going in search of a late supper, but the room was cute and cozy, and by the time we got Mr. Palmer settled on the lamp table and my things unpacked, we changed our minds, deciding we had enough healthy stuff in the room to hold us over. The truth of the matter is that we were both bone tired. So, we ate apples and bananas and a few pieces of chocolate and some chips. I also ate a granola bar, thinking it would counterbalance the chocolate.
The Big South is a misnomer. It should be called the Ginormous South. Inside the World Congress Center were - count them - 144 volleyball courts. Now think about it. There are 12 players on each court, presumably a coach, a few players on the bench and an official. Then there were parents and siblings and friends, grandparents and the ubiquitous venders. I am sure I am leaving something out, but you get the idea. Hands down, it was one of the loudest places I have ever been. No, check that, it was the loudest place I have ever been - and I have been to the NCAA Final Four as well as in Italy when they won the World Cup. The players were cheering for one another, and so were all the members of their entourages. The sounds echoed and echoed some more in that incredibly large building. Then there were the screeches of the officials' whistles.
But I digress. Addie was scheduled to play at 4 PM on Friday. We slept late and grabbed some breakfast/lunch, then took a test ride to the World Congress Center to be sure we knew where we were going and how long it would take us to get there. I turned on the GPS loaded into my Blackberry, and off we went. We did well, found GA 400, which pretty much goes straight down to the I-75/I-85 connector. We even made the correct exit. Addie was navigating, and doing a good job of it, but I was having trouble determining which lane I should be in. I missed a couple of turns, and each time I did, the robotic voice of the GPS system started to squawk “as soon as safely possible, make a legal u-turn,” or “rerouting.”
I was insane. It was Friday in downtown Atlanta, a city famous for it’s traffic woes, and a robot was telling me where to go. There were horns blaring - at me and at dozens of other vehicles. There was the lady who rolled down her window and called me a name. Addie was laughing so hard, she was about to cry, and I began to talk back to the robot. I began to call it names. Addie laughed harder.
After we had been in the car for about an hour, we found the bleeping World Congress Center. By then, we were cutting it close to get back to the hotel and back downtown in time for Addie’s first game.
So, with Addie’s help, we (sort of) retraced our route and got back to the hotel just in time for her to jump into her uniform and grab her gear. We almost made it on time. By then, the infamous Atlanta traffic was snarled into its Friday afternoon insanity, everyone making a beeline for the suburbs.
We found the parking lot for our building, not knowing it was about a 15 minute (uphill) walk to the courts. Addie ran ahead, and I came along as fast as I could. Naturally, I had on the wrong pair of boots for hiking. I followed her, not taking my eyes off her in the distance. She overshot the entrance and we ended it going in the back way, sort of.
I have often heard it said that God takes care of children and old people. Believe it. It’s true. We arrived court side at 4:15, and the previous match just finishing up. We both took in a long breath and blew it out slowly.
Addie’s team played four matches - winning a few games but no matches - and we got out of there about 9:15. We found some delicious Mexican food at a place called Uncle Julios right up the street from our hotel. It was after 11:00 when we got to bed. Saturday was basically a replay of Friday, only we knew where we were going, and there was no Friday Afternoon Madness on the streets and expressways of Atlanta. I had so hoped to take Addie shopping for a birthday present. She turned 16 on April 11. But there was no time for anything except volleyball and eating and sleeping.
There was one glaring difference on Saturday, though. After playing their matches, each team is required to “ref” the next match, and I, of course, stayed in my seat to watch the match while Addie kept score. The next two teams arrived. One of the mother’s sat down beside me and said it was time for me to give up my seat. I looked up and down the row of folding chairs that lined the court, and there was one empty seat next to me and three or four adult men and a bunch of children taking the other seats.
“You are being very rude taking a seat while our team is playing.”
I politely told her that I was there to watch my granddaughter keep score.
Plop! The chair beside me was taken by another woman, and an ample woman at that. She and her friend began to shout across me about how rude I was.
“I’ll be happy to trade seats with one of you ladies if you want to chat.”
“We want you to leave.” This from the plump plopper on my right.
I looked into her eyes and said politely, “Bless your heart. I don’t know where you are from, but in The South, grandmothers do not stand while men and children are sitting. If every man and child leaves his seat and there are not extra chairs, I will stand, but not until then.”
So they went to Plan B, and the heffer to my right stuck her left leg out and pulled her jeans up to reveal what looked like the worst case of poison ivy I ever saw. The scabs were enormous, and they will covered by some sort of pasty looking cream. Gag.
“Look here, I have this highly contagious disease, and it’s not smart for you to sit next to me. It is very, very contagious.”
“Then, bless your heart, you should cover it up and in the interest of public safety, leave this building filled with over 2000 people. You wouldn’t want to start an epidemic, would you?”
I turned to the woman on my left, looked straight into her eyes, and said, “Bless your heart, this little plan will not chase me away. I am not afraid of your friend’s rash.”
Then they fell back on Plan C and tried to run me off by whistling and screaming at the tops of their lungs. The one to my right leaned over in her seat, and her butt crack was clearly visible. No scabs there. Now, THAT might run me off.
When their team lost it’s first game, they both shut up and the butt crack/rash woman got up and rumbled away.
On Sunday morning, we packed up our things and Mr. Palmer and made our way to the tournament on time for Addie’s team to play their final matches. By previous agreement, I stayed for one match, then I left to go home, worried that Mr. Palmer might be too hot in the car.
Addie and I exchanged “I love yous” and hugged for a long time.
I did not want to leave. I wish she lived next door to me. I love her so. Her team, which was pretty much cobbled together at the last minute and suffered from poor coaching, didn’t win even one match. She was very mature and philosophic about it all. Though intensely competitive, she is not a sore loser.
She is the finest gift my son, Parrish, has ever given me.
© cj Schlottman
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The 48 Hour Day
03/25/2011
At work, about 8:30, my cell phone vibrated. It was Danny, the owner of the ALF in Miami where my son Parrish lives. He called to tell me Parrish was missing, had been for two days - 48 hours - and that he was going to call the police and have him officially declared a missing person.
My throat tightened as though my head were being twisted off, and my breath came in short gasps. In the past when Parrish went missing, the news was never good. I had visions of him vanishing for months without a word. I instinctively saw him drunk and/or drugged, reeling down some sidewalk somewhere, homeless and in physical and mental anguish, his possessions stolen or traded for drugs or alcohol. I even envisioned him dead, either by his own hand or that of another.
Danny said he called all of the local hospitals. Parrish periodically checks into hospital when he feels as though his disease is out of control, usually when he feels manic, but recently because he was having suicidal thoughts. Danny even called the police to see if Parrish had been arrested.
I turned away from the others. In spite of myself, I melted down to a pool of pathetic, gelatinous disquiet, tears flowing over the rims of my lower lids in spite of any attempt on my part to make them magically melt away.
I stumbled into the locker room, balancing myself on the counter, only just able to stand, listening to Danny’s voice, which had gone muddled and slurred in my ear. I stood still, tried to process this news and keep my head afloat in the tsunami of emotions that flooded my brain, made my body prickle, almost buckled my knees.
I had to ask Danny to repeat himself twice before I could hear what he said. He sounded calm, reassuring. He promised to call me with any news. We rang off, and I squeezed my phone as though I could will it to ring with good news.
This could not be happening again - not after all the months of sobriety, all the efforts to regulate his medicines, to keep him in a sheltered environment because he cannot function without an external support system. As much as he complains about assisted living, he cannot function without it.
I stood frozen in place as though my feet were nailed to the floor, unable to move or speak, wanting to open my mouth and scream but unable to utter a sound. I labored to organize myself, affect some sort of composure.
When I emerged, the others looked at me with great concern, wanted to know if I were okay.
”No,” I said. “My mentally ill son has been missing for 48 hours.”
I turned and walked back to the locker room, not knowing whether to go home or try to function at work. After some thought, I concluded that going home would be the worst thing I could do. I envisioned myself lying in bed with the covers pulled over my head, or maybe sitting in the floor of my closet with the door closed, poisoning myself with worry, weeping and pulling down one of my shirts and screaming into it. No, going home was not the answer.
So, I went to my manager’s office, closed the door and spilled my guts all over her. The tears returned. She sat and listened, a look of compassion on her face. There was a period of silence broken only by me blowing my nose.
“What do you want to do?” she asked. “What will help you through this? Do you want to go home? No, you shouldn’t be alone now, not like this. Take all the time you need to gather yourself together, and I will give your patients to Janet, let her handle the drugs, and you be her assistant. Stay with us, at least until you have some word.”
The hours dragged on as I tried to be half a nurse. It’s not easy to be half a nurse, and without thinking, I medicated one of my patients. I should have gone to Janet and let her handle it, but I forgot all about
being half a nurse. The woman needed medicating, so I did it.
Janet was not happy.
“You are confusing me,” she snapped. “Do you want to take your patients back or leave them with me? I can’t deal with you and me both taking care of them.”
She was right, of course. I apologized, said I wasn’t myself, that maybe I should have gone home.
“Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want you to keep the patients, and I will help at the desk or just go sit with one of my little ladies, keep her company while she no visitors. “
“Are you sure? I can’t be half a nurse any more than you can, and you are compromised. You really are not yourself.”
“Okay, I mumbled,” stinging from her tone but knowing that she was right.
Time continued to creep along, and finally, at 6:00, I left to go home - an hour early. When I reached my car, I called Danny for news.
“We found him. He’s in hospital in Hollywood.”
“That’s so far from you. How did he get there? What is wrong?” I croaked.
“He is on his way back here, so I will get him to call you when he arrives. Don’t worry. He is okay.”
I rang off, put my head down on the steering wheel and sobbed myself dry, feeling twisted and distorted, a black hole, completely at the mercy of my much wounded heart. Afraid to drive, I went back inside and sat and drank a cup of coffee and waited for my heart to stop skipping and shuttering, taking my energy with it.
As the night nurses came in, I got up and went back to my car, cranked it and crept home in the twilight, focused hard on the road which stretched out in front of me forever. I finally saw my house.
Home. My bed, my dogs, my stuff.
I was undressing when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
“Mama? Did Danny call you? I’ve been in the hospital in Hollywood for two days, but don’t worry. I went up there to eat supper with my friend Carlos, and on the way back to the train station, I passed out, woke up in the emergency room. My lithium level was three times the therapeutic level. There were IVs going into my arms in three places. I didn’t have my phone card, so I couldn’t call anyone, but I’m okay now. Finally, they called Danny late today. I’m back at the ALF, and everything is okay, really it’s okay. I don’t want you to worry.”
I sighed.
“Danny called and told me you were missing. I knew you would turn up. I didn’t worry. Really, I knew you were some place safe. Now go and get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
My dogs were already in bed, giving me that worried look they get when they know I am in trouble. I peeled off my scrubs and underwear, left them in a pile on the floor, fell into bed naked and slept the sleep of the dead.
© cj Schlottman
Author’s note: This event took place nearly two weeks ago, but it has taken me this long to distance myself far enough from it to write it down in a coherent fashion.
At work, about 8:30, my cell phone vibrated. It was Danny, the owner of the ALF in Miami where my son Parrish lives. He called to tell me Parrish was missing, had been for two days - 48 hours - and that he was going to call the police and have him officially declared a missing person.
My throat tightened as though my head were being twisted off, and my breath came in short gasps. In the past when Parrish went missing, the news was never good. I had visions of him vanishing for months without a word. I instinctively saw him drunk and/or drugged, reeling down some sidewalk somewhere, homeless and in physical and mental anguish, his possessions stolen or traded for drugs or alcohol. I even envisioned him dead, either by his own hand or that of another.
Danny said he called all of the local hospitals. Parrish periodically checks into hospital when he feels as though his disease is out of control, usually when he feels manic, but recently because he was having suicidal thoughts. Danny even called the police to see if Parrish had been arrested.
I turned away from the others. In spite of myself, I melted down to a pool of pathetic, gelatinous disquiet, tears flowing over the rims of my lower lids in spite of any attempt on my part to make them magically melt away.
I stumbled into the locker room, balancing myself on the counter, only just able to stand, listening to Danny’s voice, which had gone muddled and slurred in my ear. I stood still, tried to process this news and keep my head afloat in the tsunami of emotions that flooded my brain, made my body prickle, almost buckled my knees.
I had to ask Danny to repeat himself twice before I could hear what he said. He sounded calm, reassuring. He promised to call me with any news. We rang off, and I squeezed my phone as though I could will it to ring with good news.
This could not be happening again - not after all the months of sobriety, all the efforts to regulate his medicines, to keep him in a sheltered environment because he cannot function without an external support system. As much as he complains about assisted living, he cannot function without it.
I stood frozen in place as though my feet were nailed to the floor, unable to move or speak, wanting to open my mouth and scream but unable to utter a sound. I labored to organize myself, affect some sort of composure.
When I emerged, the others looked at me with great concern, wanted to know if I were okay.
”No,” I said. “My mentally ill son has been missing for 48 hours.”
I turned and walked back to the locker room, not knowing whether to go home or try to function at work. After some thought, I concluded that going home would be the worst thing I could do. I envisioned myself lying in bed with the covers pulled over my head, or maybe sitting in the floor of my closet with the door closed, poisoning myself with worry, weeping and pulling down one of my shirts and screaming into it. No, going home was not the answer.
So, I went to my manager’s office, closed the door and spilled my guts all over her. The tears returned. She sat and listened, a look of compassion on her face. There was a period of silence broken only by me blowing my nose.
“What do you want to do?” she asked. “What will help you through this? Do you want to go home? No, you shouldn’t be alone now, not like this. Take all the time you need to gather yourself together, and I will give your patients to Janet, let her handle the drugs, and you be her assistant. Stay with us, at least until you have some word.”
The hours dragged on as I tried to be half a nurse. It’s not easy to be half a nurse, and without thinking, I medicated one of my patients. I should have gone to Janet and let her handle it, but I forgot all about
being half a nurse. The woman needed medicating, so I did it.
Janet was not happy.
“You are confusing me,” she snapped. “Do you want to take your patients back or leave them with me? I can’t deal with you and me both taking care of them.”
She was right, of course. I apologized, said I wasn’t myself, that maybe I should have gone home.
“Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want you to keep the patients, and I will help at the desk or just go sit with one of my little ladies, keep her company while she no visitors. “
“Are you sure? I can’t be half a nurse any more than you can, and you are compromised. You really are not yourself.”
“Okay, I mumbled,” stinging from her tone but knowing that she was right.
Time continued to creep along, and finally, at 6:00, I left to go home - an hour early. When I reached my car, I called Danny for news.
“We found him. He’s in hospital in Hollywood.”
“That’s so far from you. How did he get there? What is wrong?” I croaked.
“He is on his way back here, so I will get him to call you when he arrives. Don’t worry. He is okay.”
I rang off, put my head down on the steering wheel and sobbed myself dry, feeling twisted and distorted, a black hole, completely at the mercy of my much wounded heart. Afraid to drive, I went back inside and sat and drank a cup of coffee and waited for my heart to stop skipping and shuttering, taking my energy with it.
As the night nurses came in, I got up and went back to my car, cranked it and crept home in the twilight, focused hard on the road which stretched out in front of me forever. I finally saw my house.
Home. My bed, my dogs, my stuff.
I was undressing when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
“Mama? Did Danny call you? I’ve been in the hospital in Hollywood for two days, but don’t worry. I went up there to eat supper with my friend Carlos, and on the way back to the train station, I passed out, woke up in the emergency room. My lithium level was three times the therapeutic level. There were IVs going into my arms in three places. I didn’t have my phone card, so I couldn’t call anyone, but I’m okay now. Finally, they called Danny late today. I’m back at the ALF, and everything is okay, really it’s okay. I don’t want you to worry.”
I sighed.
“Danny called and told me you were missing. I knew you would turn up. I didn’t worry. Really, I knew you were some place safe. Now go and get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
My dogs were already in bed, giving me that worried look they get when they know I am in trouble. I peeled off my scrubs and underwear, left them in a pile on the floor, fell into bed naked and slept the sleep of the dead.
© cj Schlottman
Author’s note: This event took place nearly two weeks ago, but it has taken me this long to distance myself far enough from it to write it down in a coherent fashion.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Being Me - Or One Little Old Lady and Two Dogs Hit the Road
I have a Packing Thing. Packing to go anywhere sends me into a tailspin. I religiously make lists and check and recheck to make sure I haven't forgotten anything and still I’m a nervous wreck. The Packing Thing starts chewing away at me a couple of days before the actual packing is to take place. If ever there were a case for prescribing Valium for little old ladies, this is it.
So, on Saturday morning, I took my dogs to the beauty parlor and came home to - dum-ta-dum-dum - pack for our long weekend on Sea Island. But first I had to shower and wash my curly mop of graying brown hair so it would be dry by the time I was ready to pick up the dogs.
I packed two smallish bags for a short trip, sometimes walking in circles and gnashing my teeth. Don’t ask why I was so anal about a trip that was supposed to be a personal retreat. I don’t know myself.
Did I remember my medicine and my hair fixing stuff? Check. Jeans and boots? Check. Pajamas and a warm-up suit (for walking the dogs and myself)? Check. Toothbrush? And yes, I have gone off without my toothbrush. Check. And so it went. I took my new 3-pound dumbbells in the trunk of the car so I wouldn’t forget them. They are blue, a perfect match for my new workout pants, and I pictured myself walking along Ocean Road while pumping them energetically.
I cleaned Mr. Palmer’s bowl and put him in the box I use to take him on the road, making sure I packed his food. He’s a Betta, dark blue with fabulously flowing fins. Yes, I do take my fish when I am going to be gone for more than one night. I think he likes the adventure of going someplace new. He seems to, anyway. I carefully placed his travel box on the floor of the passenger’s seat and surrounded it with stuff (my laptop and some other things), so the movement of the car wouldn’t splosh him all around and make him seasick. Satisfied that Mr. Palmer would have a smoothe ride, I stumbled back into the house to finish packing and, oh yeah, dress for the trip.
I packed my cooler with three Lean Cuisines, my almond milk and a carton of nonfat half and half. I use those little things you store in the freezer to keep things cold. There was room for a bottle of wine, so I tucked in a bottle of Trader Joe’s Chardonnay. (You just can’t hide class, can you)?
Then I packed the dogs’ bag, measuring food into a big plastic zippered bag so we wouldn’t give out, making sure there were two kinds of treats for them, one chewy kind and one crunchy kind. You would think I were going to a monastery, not to the coast where they actually have stores that sell dog food.
Are you sensing and OCD pattern here?
With everything packed and in its place, I set the alarm, made sure all the locks were secured and fired up the old Lincoln that was Clint’s and started down the driveway. I hit the brakes. Where was the skirt I planned to bring? The tops to go with my jeans? Uh-oh. I turned off the car, went back into the house and found my hang-up things dangling from a hook on the swinging door between the kitchen and great room. I placed them carefully in the trunk on top of my other things and once more got in the car, cranked it up and headed to Petsmart to fetch the dogs and get on my way.
It was a slow and rambling trip from Macon. We took mostly back roads to avoid all the spring-breakers on the interstates. We ambled along through little towns with courthouse squares and past pastures where cows were grazing and fields turned over for seeding. There were old falling-down barns blanketed with wisteria, and acres-wide pecan groves that stretched out on both side of the road. Lots of people out in the country were having yard sales. Though tempted to stop at a couple of them I reminded myself that I am simplifying my life, not looking to clutter it up any more than it already is.
I rolled down the windows to breathe in the perfumed spring air, and Belle pushed her nose out of the half-opened back window to take it in, too. I opened the sun roof and before long, my hair was standing up all over my head.
The trip took about four hours, and I listened to "The Help" while tooling down the road. The Packing Thing behind me, I allowed myself to relax, enjoy the scenery and the book. One time, I pulled over thirty miles outside of Macon to check the trunk. No shit. I really did that. Aside: Don’t read "The Help," listen to it! Four women narrate it beautifully.
I have a sticker on my windshield that gets me on Sea Island without having to stop at the gate and convince the attendant that this wild-haired little old lady with a Boxer and a Lhasa Apso in the back seat of her 14 year old Lincoln Town Car is really a guest of the Smith’s at 502 Ocean Road.
With that behind me, I moseyed down The Drive, taking in the glorious spectacle of the live oaks that line it. With the windows still down, I realized my car was squeaking every time we hit a dip in the road. Shit. The roads on the barrier islands all have dips in them. It’s because the dirt underneath shifts. I worried that Mr. Palmer might throw up in his bowl. I had known for weeks that I needed new bushings but had put off having them installed, and there I was, in one of the three richest zip codes in the USA- squeaking.
So, it was with an abashed smile that I squeaked up to the gate and told the gate keeper at Ocean Forest that I was a guest of the Smiths. He frowned and peered into the back seat at the dogs. Then he shuffled through a stack of passes, not finding one with my name on it. Shit a blue brick! He eyed me suspiciously, and I offered to call Deidra for him. I pulled forward, letting the car behind me pass while I squeaked over every little dip in the road. I stopped to call Deidra. Thank God she picked up. I took the phone to the Gate Nazi, and he filled out a pass for me, handed it to me with an disapproving sniff and gave my car a long cold stare, like he could stare the squeaking out of it.
Before I unpacked the car, I walked the dogs, a silver doggie-doo bag hanging out of each pocket of the old scrubs I decided to travel in. Belle and Honey knew what they were supposed to do, and they did it, me following along with the bags so as not to leave any dog-doo on anyone’s pristine lawn.
I unpacked the car and hauled my stuff upstairs to “my” room. I could have used the elevator, but I couldn’t remember how to operate it. Besides, walking stairs is good for one’s soul, not to mention one’s fanny.
“My” bedroom is the best place in the whole house for enjoying the glorious views of the Atlantic, the Hampton River and the marshes and creeks winding their way toward Little Saint Simons Island. I opened the door to the balcony, stepped out, leaned over the rail, and breathed deeply of the salty air. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world.
I unzipped my bags and began putting my things away. I hate it when my things smell like luggage, so I always unpack as soon as I can. I trudged back downstairs to get my hang-up things so I could put them in the closet. I didn’t even make a drink before I unpacked.
Even I was amazed at what I dragged out of those bags. (Gentlemen, you may want to skip this part). Two pairs of jeans - one black, one blue, two pairs of boots to match the jeans, my workout clothes, two pairs of socks and nine, count them - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, NINE pairs of panties. There was one pink cotton granny pair, two black satin ones and SIX pairs of nude ones that are not supposed to leave a panty line. (They don’t work). I can't wait to hear what my therapist has to say about that.
What was more amazing is what I didn’t drag out of those bags. Not a bra in sight, of any color or texture. There I stood in my scrubs with a sports top on underneath and not a single real bra to be found. I routinely take two black ones and two nude ones, but oh no, not this time. I didn’t even pack more sports bras. I would spend four days and three nights in the same sports bra. It’s humid on the coast, so I couldn’t just rinse it out every night and hang it on the balcony rail to dry. Not only would the neighbors have a hissy fit, but it wouldn’t dry anyway in all that humidity. I would have to use the dryer.
I had managed to pack a lint brush, a bottle of Rogaine, Honey’s brush, three brown hair bands and one red one, most of my toiletries, two iPods with cords and ear buds, one cord that didn’t belong to anything, but no charger for the iPods or my Blackberry. I figured a way to charge my iPods by syncing them through my laptop and decided to just turn off my Blackberry, but I still didn’t have a single brassiere. What would I wear to Jim’s class in the morning? The sports top that makes me flat as a pancake? I had four turtleneck tees, two short sleeved and two long, and a cashmere sweater jacket that Clint bought for me the last time we were in Scotland that was way too heavy for the weather.
I remembered to bring the little packs of instant Starbucks - one decaf, the other regular - but failed to bring my fiber. I had green tea and sugar free Peeps to snack on. Don’t laugh. They are delicious, but if you eat too many, you’ll get some pretty noxious gas.
Close your eyes, boys.
It was while I was taking inventory of what I did NOT have that I got the first inkling that I just might have, I’m whispering now, a yeast infection. I sure as hell didn’t have anything to fix that. For the love of God, I had brought three Lean Cuisines just so I wouldn’t have to go to the store, just so I could really be on retreat with no outside distractions other than Jim’s Sunday School class. I decided to go to the store after I attended his class the next morning.
Boys. it is now safe to read on.
Making sure that Mr. Palmer was happy in his usual place on the kitchen island, I fed him then made myself a martini with three olives, sat down in front of the TV, and, breaking my promise to myself, turned it on and watched us bombing Libya for a while and tried not to cuss myself out for being such a fruitcake.
On Sunday morning, I showed up late for Jim’s class looking like Johnny Cash in drag and wearing a curly brown wig. I was in black from tip to toe, decked out in my favorite black top (which has diagonal ruffles that camouflaged my flatness) over black jeans with black cowboy boots peeping out from under the hems. My socks were even black. I’m not sure why I think it makes a tinker’s damn what I wore to Sunday School, but something just made me include it in this ridiculous tale. And by the way, when I was driving to church, I noticed that my car was no longer squeaking.
On the way back to Sea Island, I stopped at CVS to pick up you-know-what and found out that you can actually buy sports tops there. I helped myself to three so as to avoid washing anything while on retreat.
The remainder of my retreat revolved around writing and walking the dogs and walking myself. Belle made two escapes, but I managed to hem her up before she could poop on the neighbors’ lawns. No TV, no Blackberry, nothing but contemplative silence in which to think and write and enjoy the splendid vistas across the river to the sea. Okay, okay. I did check my email, but I cranked out two blog posts and this preposterous yarn.
On Tuesday morning, as we crossed the Sea Island causeway headed for Saint Simons and the mainland, I rolled down the windows, opened the sun roof and noticed that the old car was squeaking again. Maybe the Gate Nazi really did stare the squeak out of it...........
© cj Schlottman
So, on Saturday morning, I took my dogs to the beauty parlor and came home to - dum-ta-dum-dum - pack for our long weekend on Sea Island. But first I had to shower and wash my curly mop of graying brown hair so it would be dry by the time I was ready to pick up the dogs.
I packed two smallish bags for a short trip, sometimes walking in circles and gnashing my teeth. Don’t ask why I was so anal about a trip that was supposed to be a personal retreat. I don’t know myself.
Did I remember my medicine and my hair fixing stuff? Check. Jeans and boots? Check. Pajamas and a warm-up suit (for walking the dogs and myself)? Check. Toothbrush? And yes, I have gone off without my toothbrush. Check. And so it went. I took my new 3-pound dumbbells in the trunk of the car so I wouldn’t forget them. They are blue, a perfect match for my new workout pants, and I pictured myself walking along Ocean Road while pumping them energetically.
I cleaned Mr. Palmer’s bowl and put him in the box I use to take him on the road, making sure I packed his food. He’s a Betta, dark blue with fabulously flowing fins. Yes, I do take my fish when I am going to be gone for more than one night. I think he likes the adventure of going someplace new. He seems to, anyway. I carefully placed his travel box on the floor of the passenger’s seat and surrounded it with stuff (my laptop and some other things), so the movement of the car wouldn’t splosh him all around and make him seasick. Satisfied that Mr. Palmer would have a smoothe ride, I stumbled back into the house to finish packing and, oh yeah, dress for the trip.
I packed my cooler with three Lean Cuisines, my almond milk and a carton of nonfat half and half. I use those little things you store in the freezer to keep things cold. There was room for a bottle of wine, so I tucked in a bottle of Trader Joe’s Chardonnay. (You just can’t hide class, can you)?
Then I packed the dogs’ bag, measuring food into a big plastic zippered bag so we wouldn’t give out, making sure there were two kinds of treats for them, one chewy kind and one crunchy kind. You would think I were going to a monastery, not to the coast where they actually have stores that sell dog food.
Are you sensing and OCD pattern here?
With everything packed and in its place, I set the alarm, made sure all the locks were secured and fired up the old Lincoln that was Clint’s and started down the driveway. I hit the brakes. Where was the skirt I planned to bring? The tops to go with my jeans? Uh-oh. I turned off the car, went back into the house and found my hang-up things dangling from a hook on the swinging door between the kitchen and great room. I placed them carefully in the trunk on top of my other things and once more got in the car, cranked it up and headed to Petsmart to fetch the dogs and get on my way.
It was a slow and rambling trip from Macon. We took mostly back roads to avoid all the spring-breakers on the interstates. We ambled along through little towns with courthouse squares and past pastures where cows were grazing and fields turned over for seeding. There were old falling-down barns blanketed with wisteria, and acres-wide pecan groves that stretched out on both side of the road. Lots of people out in the country were having yard sales. Though tempted to stop at a couple of them I reminded myself that I am simplifying my life, not looking to clutter it up any more than it already is.
I rolled down the windows to breathe in the perfumed spring air, and Belle pushed her nose out of the half-opened back window to take it in, too. I opened the sun roof and before long, my hair was standing up all over my head.
The trip took about four hours, and I listened to "The Help" while tooling down the road. The Packing Thing behind me, I allowed myself to relax, enjoy the scenery and the book. One time, I pulled over thirty miles outside of Macon to check the trunk. No shit. I really did that. Aside: Don’t read "The Help," listen to it! Four women narrate it beautifully.
I have a sticker on my windshield that gets me on Sea Island without having to stop at the gate and convince the attendant that this wild-haired little old lady with a Boxer and a Lhasa Apso in the back seat of her 14 year old Lincoln Town Car is really a guest of the Smith’s at 502 Ocean Road.
With that behind me, I moseyed down The Drive, taking in the glorious spectacle of the live oaks that line it. With the windows still down, I realized my car was squeaking every time we hit a dip in the road. Shit. The roads on the barrier islands all have dips in them. It’s because the dirt underneath shifts. I worried that Mr. Palmer might throw up in his bowl. I had known for weeks that I needed new bushings but had put off having them installed, and there I was, in one of the three richest zip codes in the USA- squeaking.
So, it was with an abashed smile that I squeaked up to the gate and told the gate keeper at Ocean Forest that I was a guest of the Smiths. He frowned and peered into the back seat at the dogs. Then he shuffled through a stack of passes, not finding one with my name on it. Shit a blue brick! He eyed me suspiciously, and I offered to call Deidra for him. I pulled forward, letting the car behind me pass while I squeaked over every little dip in the road. I stopped to call Deidra. Thank God she picked up. I took the phone to the Gate Nazi, and he filled out a pass for me, handed it to me with an disapproving sniff and gave my car a long cold stare, like he could stare the squeaking out of it.
Before I unpacked the car, I walked the dogs, a silver doggie-doo bag hanging out of each pocket of the old scrubs I decided to travel in. Belle and Honey knew what they were supposed to do, and they did it, me following along with the bags so as not to leave any dog-doo on anyone’s pristine lawn.
I unpacked the car and hauled my stuff upstairs to “my” room. I could have used the elevator, but I couldn’t remember how to operate it. Besides, walking stairs is good for one’s soul, not to mention one’s fanny.
“My” bedroom is the best place in the whole house for enjoying the glorious views of the Atlantic, the Hampton River and the marshes and creeks winding their way toward Little Saint Simons Island. I opened the door to the balcony, stepped out, leaned over the rail, and breathed deeply of the salty air. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world.
I unzipped my bags and began putting my things away. I hate it when my things smell like luggage, so I always unpack as soon as I can. I trudged back downstairs to get my hang-up things so I could put them in the closet. I didn’t even make a drink before I unpacked.
Even I was amazed at what I dragged out of those bags. (Gentlemen, you may want to skip this part). Two pairs of jeans - one black, one blue, two pairs of boots to match the jeans, my workout clothes, two pairs of socks and nine, count them - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, NINE pairs of panties. There was one pink cotton granny pair, two black satin ones and SIX pairs of nude ones that are not supposed to leave a panty line. (They don’t work). I can't wait to hear what my therapist has to say about that.
What was more amazing is what I didn’t drag out of those bags. Not a bra in sight, of any color or texture. There I stood in my scrubs with a sports top on underneath and not a single real bra to be found. I routinely take two black ones and two nude ones, but oh no, not this time. I didn’t even pack more sports bras. I would spend four days and three nights in the same sports bra. It’s humid on the coast, so I couldn’t just rinse it out every night and hang it on the balcony rail to dry. Not only would the neighbors have a hissy fit, but it wouldn’t dry anyway in all that humidity. I would have to use the dryer.
I had managed to pack a lint brush, a bottle of Rogaine, Honey’s brush, three brown hair bands and one red one, most of my toiletries, two iPods with cords and ear buds, one cord that didn’t belong to anything, but no charger for the iPods or my Blackberry. I figured a way to charge my iPods by syncing them through my laptop and decided to just turn off my Blackberry, but I still didn’t have a single brassiere. What would I wear to Jim’s class in the morning? The sports top that makes me flat as a pancake? I had four turtleneck tees, two short sleeved and two long, and a cashmere sweater jacket that Clint bought for me the last time we were in Scotland that was way too heavy for the weather.
I remembered to bring the little packs of instant Starbucks - one decaf, the other regular - but failed to bring my fiber. I had green tea and sugar free Peeps to snack on. Don’t laugh. They are delicious, but if you eat too many, you’ll get some pretty noxious gas.
Close your eyes, boys.
It was while I was taking inventory of what I did NOT have that I got the first inkling that I just might have, I’m whispering now, a yeast infection. I sure as hell didn’t have anything to fix that. For the love of God, I had brought three Lean Cuisines just so I wouldn’t have to go to the store, just so I could really be on retreat with no outside distractions other than Jim’s Sunday School class. I decided to go to the store after I attended his class the next morning.
Boys. it is now safe to read on.
Making sure that Mr. Palmer was happy in his usual place on the kitchen island, I fed him then made myself a martini with three olives, sat down in front of the TV, and, breaking my promise to myself, turned it on and watched us bombing Libya for a while and tried not to cuss myself out for being such a fruitcake.
On Sunday morning, I showed up late for Jim’s class looking like Johnny Cash in drag and wearing a curly brown wig. I was in black from tip to toe, decked out in my favorite black top (which has diagonal ruffles that camouflaged my flatness) over black jeans with black cowboy boots peeping out from under the hems. My socks were even black. I’m not sure why I think it makes a tinker’s damn what I wore to Sunday School, but something just made me include it in this ridiculous tale. And by the way, when I was driving to church, I noticed that my car was no longer squeaking.
On the way back to Sea Island, I stopped at CVS to pick up you-know-what and found out that you can actually buy sports tops there. I helped myself to three so as to avoid washing anything while on retreat.
The remainder of my retreat revolved around writing and walking the dogs and walking myself. Belle made two escapes, but I managed to hem her up before she could poop on the neighbors’ lawns. No TV, no Blackberry, nothing but contemplative silence in which to think and write and enjoy the splendid vistas across the river to the sea. Okay, okay. I did check my email, but I cranked out two blog posts and this preposterous yarn.
On Tuesday morning, as we crossed the Sea Island causeway headed for Saint Simons and the mainland, I rolled down the windows, opened the sun roof and noticed that the old car was squeaking again. Maybe the Gate Nazi really did stare the squeak out of it...........
© cj Schlottman
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Synchronicity Redux
The view from this house is of the Hampton River, the Atlantic Ocean and Little Saint Simons Island. Last night was a Super Moon, and I sat outside with my dogs and watched it come up over the Atlantic, spilling bright orange ribbons of light over the dark waters of the river. It will be about 20 years before such a moon will be seen from the planet earth, and I hope to be around to see it.
It was breathtaking, this phenomenon of nature. I sat and stared at it, awed by its beauty and grateful for my opportunity to see it here in this place - my friend Deidra’s house on the northern tip of Sea Island, one of coastal Georgia’s magnificent barrier islands.
Today is the Spring Equinox, the tide is high, and a northeastern wind has driven the tidal water up into the marshes, making a large lake of them. When I think I almost canceled this trip, I begin to wonder if things really do happen for a reason.
I am in the process of rescuing a Boxer I met at Kottage Kennels, where I board Honey and Belle when I can’t take them with me. He was shot with buckshot, his ear was cut, and he was eaten up with heart worms when he got to the kennel. He was in a large cage just inside the front door, and there was a sign saying, “I AM UP FOR ADOPTION.” I loved the fact that his tail and ears had never been docked. I looked at him, he caught my gaze, and it was love at first sight.
I asked about adopting him, and the kennel owner said he had completed his heart worm treatment, but that he would not be able to leave the kennel for four to six weeks. His veterinarian wants to make sure he is well enough to run and play with other dogs. His name is Sugar Ray, but I’m shortening it to Sugar. I get that he was named for a boxer, but I deplore that violent "sport."
On Friday, before I began packing for this trip, I phoned Kottage Kennels to see if I could have Sugar this weekend, while I have six days off in a row, thinking it would be the ideal time to integrate him into our home. The vet said he wanted to keep Sugar quiet for at least two more weeks, so, disappointed, I packed my things into the trunk of the car, leaving the back seat free for Honey and Belle, and down the road we came.
This is going to come together, I promise. If I could have moved Sugar into the house this weekend, I would have stayed home. But, through my disappointment I received a great gift. When I am here, I attend a Sunday School class taught by my friend, Jim Gilbert. I don’t go to church and Jim’s is the only class I attend. He puts an amazingly cerebral twist into his lessons and I always come away in a introspective frame of mind. It always leads to self evaluation and research into the Bible verses upon which Jim builds his classes. Today was no exception, and I will be focusing on the the Holy Spirit for a while.
After the class, I walked over to a regular member and reintroduced myself. He is a boat captain for a wealthy Atlantan, and Clint went on fishing trips with him before he got sick. When introduced to John’s wife, I learned that I had cared for her aunt when she died at Pine Pointe. I actually pronounced her dead. John also knew one of our first patients. Then we discovered other threads of synchronicity - friends in common, his Macon friends, my Saint Simons friends. It felt like being reconnected with some of my roots here, and it felt right.
It is right that I am here, giving myself the gift of a small one-woman retreat. If I had stayed in Macon, the Super Moon would not have been clearly visible from my little house. Certainly it would not have been sending out gleaming rays over the river. I would have missed Jim’s very thought provoking lesson this morning and, and I would have missed reconnecting with John.
Maybe things really do happen for a reason?
© cj Schlottman
03/20/2011
It was breathtaking, this phenomenon of nature. I sat and stared at it, awed by its beauty and grateful for my opportunity to see it here in this place - my friend Deidra’s house on the northern tip of Sea Island, one of coastal Georgia’s magnificent barrier islands.
Today is the Spring Equinox, the tide is high, and a northeastern wind has driven the tidal water up into the marshes, making a large lake of them. When I think I almost canceled this trip, I begin to wonder if things really do happen for a reason.
I am in the process of rescuing a Boxer I met at Kottage Kennels, where I board Honey and Belle when I can’t take them with me. He was shot with buckshot, his ear was cut, and he was eaten up with heart worms when he got to the kennel. He was in a large cage just inside the front door, and there was a sign saying, “I AM UP FOR ADOPTION.” I loved the fact that his tail and ears had never been docked. I looked at him, he caught my gaze, and it was love at first sight.
I asked about adopting him, and the kennel owner said he had completed his heart worm treatment, but that he would not be able to leave the kennel for four to six weeks. His veterinarian wants to make sure he is well enough to run and play with other dogs. His name is Sugar Ray, but I’m shortening it to Sugar. I get that he was named for a boxer, but I deplore that violent "sport."
On Friday, before I began packing for this trip, I phoned Kottage Kennels to see if I could have Sugar this weekend, while I have six days off in a row, thinking it would be the ideal time to integrate him into our home. The vet said he wanted to keep Sugar quiet for at least two more weeks, so, disappointed, I packed my things into the trunk of the car, leaving the back seat free for Honey and Belle, and down the road we came.
This is going to come together, I promise. If I could have moved Sugar into the house this weekend, I would have stayed home. But, through my disappointment I received a great gift. When I am here, I attend a Sunday School class taught by my friend, Jim Gilbert. I don’t go to church and Jim’s is the only class I attend. He puts an amazingly cerebral twist into his lessons and I always come away in a introspective frame of mind. It always leads to self evaluation and research into the Bible verses upon which Jim builds his classes. Today was no exception, and I will be focusing on the the Holy Spirit for a while.
After the class, I walked over to a regular member and reintroduced myself. He is a boat captain for a wealthy Atlantan, and Clint went on fishing trips with him before he got sick. When introduced to John’s wife, I learned that I had cared for her aunt when she died at Pine Pointe. I actually pronounced her dead. John also knew one of our first patients. Then we discovered other threads of synchronicity - friends in common, his Macon friends, my Saint Simons friends. It felt like being reconnected with some of my roots here, and it felt right.
It is right that I am here, giving myself the gift of a small one-woman retreat. If I had stayed in Macon, the Super Moon would not have been clearly visible from my little house. Certainly it would not have been sending out gleaming rays over the river. I would have missed Jim’s very thought provoking lesson this morning and, and I would have missed reconnecting with John.
Maybe things really do happen for a reason?
© cj Schlottman
03/20/2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Afraid of Me - An Exorcise?
I don’t know when it happened, but I realized the other day that, at times, I am afraid of myself. Why am I afraid of me? I think this would qualify as one of Rosemary's "exorcises."
I suppose the best example of being afraid of myself is how I felt when I went back to work last year. I second-guessed myself at every turn, scared that I would make a mistake and be judged harshly for it. That’s just one of a list of examples of how my self worth was so wrapped up with Clint. He truly made me believe I was bulletproof.
It happened when I began to write in earnest after Clint died. I wrote and shredded piece after piece, thinking them unworthy, not good enough for anyone to want to read them. There was no Clint to buoy me. Any time I got in over my head (or I thought I was), he was my life vest, the force that kept me afloat. My self-confidence was long in returning.
And there are still times when I’m afraid of myself. It happened again when my job changed, and I began working inpatient hospice instead of home care. I come from an era of nursing when we always checked each other off when giving opioids. So, that’s what I did - and it backfired on me. The other nurses began to think I was unsure of myself, that I didn’t know what I was doing - and instead of talking to me, they told my manager about it. That’s when I got afraid of myself again.
Thank God for Nettie and Karen. They are sisters. Nettie is one of the best nurses on our team, and Karen is the best clinical tech I've ever worked with. They collectively took me under their wings, told me what the others were saying about me, and mapped out a plan for my success. Still I was afraid of myself, but after a couple of weeks of their tutelage, I began to soar, believe in myself. The result has been that I am confident in my work and getting better at it every day.
Self fear, or whatever a psychiatrist would call it, has not been limited to my employment and my writing. After my experience with the MF (Man Friend), I became unsure of myself in social situations. I, who have always been at ease with others, hated being the odd woman out and didn’t know what to do with myself when friends invited me to join them. So, I developed a kind of phobia about going out with couples. I wanted Clint back, still do. He was the other half of us.
But I made myself go, and I also began taking my 82 year old friend, Frances, out to dinner one night every week.
See a trend here? I am conquering my fears of myself. There’s probably a 12-step program for people like me. I’m in recovery! It could happen again and probably will, but I will recognize what’s happening and start a support group!
© cj Schlottman
03/18/2011
I suppose the best example of being afraid of myself is how I felt when I went back to work last year. I second-guessed myself at every turn, scared that I would make a mistake and be judged harshly for it. That’s just one of a list of examples of how my self worth was so wrapped up with Clint. He truly made me believe I was bulletproof.
It happened when I began to write in earnest after Clint died. I wrote and shredded piece after piece, thinking them unworthy, not good enough for anyone to want to read them. There was no Clint to buoy me. Any time I got in over my head (or I thought I was), he was my life vest, the force that kept me afloat. My self-confidence was long in returning.
And there are still times when I’m afraid of myself. It happened again when my job changed, and I began working inpatient hospice instead of home care. I come from an era of nursing when we always checked each other off when giving opioids. So, that’s what I did - and it backfired on me. The other nurses began to think I was unsure of myself, that I didn’t know what I was doing - and instead of talking to me, they told my manager about it. That’s when I got afraid of myself again.
Thank God for Nettie and Karen. They are sisters. Nettie is one of the best nurses on our team, and Karen is the best clinical tech I've ever worked with. They collectively took me under their wings, told me what the others were saying about me, and mapped out a plan for my success. Still I was afraid of myself, but after a couple of weeks of their tutelage, I began to soar, believe in myself. The result has been that I am confident in my work and getting better at it every day.
Self fear, or whatever a psychiatrist would call it, has not been limited to my employment and my writing. After my experience with the MF (Man Friend), I became unsure of myself in social situations. I, who have always been at ease with others, hated being the odd woman out and didn’t know what to do with myself when friends invited me to join them. So, I developed a kind of phobia about going out with couples. I wanted Clint back, still do. He was the other half of us.
But I made myself go, and I also began taking my 82 year old friend, Frances, out to dinner one night every week.
See a trend here? I am conquering my fears of myself. There’s probably a 12-step program for people like me. I’m in recovery! It could happen again and probably will, but I will recognize what’s happening and start a support group!
© cj Schlottman
03/18/2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A Day at Hospice House - The Conclusion
This is the final post of a series I am writing about my job. I hope it will serve to heighten awareness of hospice care and answer some questions my readers may have and give them information that they can pass on to others. To begin at the beginning, click here.
My new patient is a heartbreaker, an eight year old with brain cancer. He is here for what we call Respite Care, a time for caregivers to take a breath, catch up on their rest and in general, recharge. His mother will stay with him here, but she will not have to worry about meals or too much company. We will take care of that. It is 12:30, and I have orders for my little boy, so I can get him settled as soon as he arrives.
Checking on my patient in Room 412, I find him again having jerky tremors and wearing a frown. I give him more medicine, then I call his doctor and ask for an order for a continuous drip. This sliding in and out of pain and agitation is hard on him - and on his family. A continuous drip will deliver a metered amount of the drug every hour. I order the drip from our infusion center, and they agree to deliver it as soon as possible.
It’s 1:30, and I have actually had time to sit down and eat my lunch - a diet entrée I brought from home. On this rare day, all of us nurses eat together.
Out again to check on my charges, I find the patient in room 406 becoming agitated again and short of breath, so I give him a bolus of morphine and titrate his pump up by 1 mg per hour, then I give him some Ativan and call his doctor and ask for an additional drip - one of Ativan. I get the order and fax it off to the infusion center. Now I am waiting for two drips.
2:30 and my young patient has not arrived. We nurses are all anxious about his admission. Each in our own way, we dread having young patients. It seems so wrong for them to be dying, never having had a chance to live a full life.
I check on my patients and all is well for now. The drips arrive at the same time, and I am tied up for nearly an hour getting them started. In addition to programming a new pump for my patient in room 406, I must start another subcutaneous infusion site.
3:30 and still no word from our youngster. The phone rings, and when our secretary answers, she quickly hands the phone to me. There has been a scene at the home of our little boy involving his divorced parents. His father has taken him to his house, and his mother has called the police to report his father for violation of their custody agreement. The police have arrested the father and returned the child to his mother. Whew. What a mess.
At 4:30, our little man arrives with his mother. He is hysterical. Hysteria is not uncommon in patients with brain cancer, but this little boy has been torn from his mother’s arms, retrieved by the police and taken to a strange place where all he sees is nurses in scrubs, never mind that we are all dressed in soothing pastels. All he sees is strangers dressed just like all the other strangers who have prodded and poked and in general assaulted him with chemo and radiation and needles.
I shoo everyone out of the room, then I leave myself. These people deserve some peace, and it is my job to make sure they have some.
I tend to my other patients, both of whom are resting quietly.
Then I spend an hour sorting out the medicines that arrived with our eight year old. He has been in hospice care at home for some time, and there are many drugs to sort through. I separate out the opioids and lock them in the med room. The others, I take to his mother so she can administer them to him as she did at home.
Ester, my great friend and hospice mentor, checks on my other patients for me. I didn’t have to ask her. Teamwork is what makes this possible. Without it, we would all sink under the burden of all that this job piles on our heads - frustration, sadness, feeling torn between patients, and yes, fatigue.
Back on my feet, I reclaim my patients and prepare to give report to the night nurses. They will start arriving around 6:30, and I want to be prepared to give them a coherent and factual report.
At 6:45, we count opioids and the count is correct. My flow sheets for continuous drips are in order, so I give report, pass along the flow sheets and other medication records, and prepare to leave.
I drive home in the dark, just as I had arrived in the dark. Daylight savings time will start this weekend, so I can look forward to leaving during daylight on Monday afternoon. My dogs are happy to see me and I them. I feed them and sit on the deck while they play and take care of business.
A hot bath with the jets running in the tub - then off to bed, where I write a little but mostly stare blankly at the TV. 4:45 AM will be here soon after I close my eyes.
© cj Schlottman 03/13/2011
My new patient is a heartbreaker, an eight year old with brain cancer. He is here for what we call Respite Care, a time for caregivers to take a breath, catch up on their rest and in general, recharge. His mother will stay with him here, but she will not have to worry about meals or too much company. We will take care of that. It is 12:30, and I have orders for my little boy, so I can get him settled as soon as he arrives.
Checking on my patient in Room 412, I find him again having jerky tremors and wearing a frown. I give him more medicine, then I call his doctor and ask for an order for a continuous drip. This sliding in and out of pain and agitation is hard on him - and on his family. A continuous drip will deliver a metered amount of the drug every hour. I order the drip from our infusion center, and they agree to deliver it as soon as possible.
It’s 1:30, and I have actually had time to sit down and eat my lunch - a diet entrée I brought from home. On this rare day, all of us nurses eat together.
Out again to check on my charges, I find the patient in room 406 becoming agitated again and short of breath, so I give him a bolus of morphine and titrate his pump up by 1 mg per hour, then I give him some Ativan and call his doctor and ask for an additional drip - one of Ativan. I get the order and fax it off to the infusion center. Now I am waiting for two drips.
2:30 and my young patient has not arrived. We nurses are all anxious about his admission. Each in our own way, we dread having young patients. It seems so wrong for them to be dying, never having had a chance to live a full life.
I check on my patients and all is well for now. The drips arrive at the same time, and I am tied up for nearly an hour getting them started. In addition to programming a new pump for my patient in room 406, I must start another subcutaneous infusion site.
3:30 and still no word from our youngster. The phone rings, and when our secretary answers, she quickly hands the phone to me. There has been a scene at the home of our little boy involving his divorced parents. His father has taken him to his house, and his mother has called the police to report his father for violation of their custody agreement. The police have arrested the father and returned the child to his mother. Whew. What a mess.
At 4:30, our little man arrives with his mother. He is hysterical. Hysteria is not uncommon in patients with brain cancer, but this little boy has been torn from his mother’s arms, retrieved by the police and taken to a strange place where all he sees is nurses in scrubs, never mind that we are all dressed in soothing pastels. All he sees is strangers dressed just like all the other strangers who have prodded and poked and in general assaulted him with chemo and radiation and needles.
I shoo everyone out of the room, then I leave myself. These people deserve some peace, and it is my job to make sure they have some.
I tend to my other patients, both of whom are resting quietly.
Then I spend an hour sorting out the medicines that arrived with our eight year old. He has been in hospice care at home for some time, and there are many drugs to sort through. I separate out the opioids and lock them in the med room. The others, I take to his mother so she can administer them to him as she did at home.
Ester, my great friend and hospice mentor, checks on my other patients for me. I didn’t have to ask her. Teamwork is what makes this possible. Without it, we would all sink under the burden of all that this job piles on our heads - frustration, sadness, feeling torn between patients, and yes, fatigue.
Back on my feet, I reclaim my patients and prepare to give report to the night nurses. They will start arriving around 6:30, and I want to be prepared to give them a coherent and factual report.
At 6:45, we count opioids and the count is correct. My flow sheets for continuous drips are in order, so I give report, pass along the flow sheets and other medication records, and prepare to leave.
I drive home in the dark, just as I had arrived in the dark. Daylight savings time will start this weekend, so I can look forward to leaving during daylight on Monday afternoon. My dogs are happy to see me and I them. I feed them and sit on the deck while they play and take care of business.
A hot bath with the jets running in the tub - then off to bed, where I write a little but mostly stare blankly at the TV. 4:45 AM will be here soon after I close my eyes.
© cj Schlottman 03/13/2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Steps to Meeting my Goals
My writing mentor, Rosemary Daniell, leads an ongoing writer’s workshop in Savannah called Zona Rosa on the first Saturday every month except August, when we are on sabbatical. The group has been ongoing for 30 years! A wonderful and acclaimed published writer and poet, Rosemary has other ongoing workshops and does guest appearances all over the country, speaking and teaching at writing events, retreats and festivals. She even leads retreats abroad. There is a retreat in Aix en Provence, France, in May. The Saturday group is exclusively for women, and we have members who range in age from their twenties to their eighties.
Learn more about Rosemary and her workshops by visiting her web site - Secrets of the Zona Rosa.
One of the many creative aspects of our group is that, each month, Rosemary gives us a list of “exorcises,” topics designed to keep our writing fresh, creative and real. These "exorcises" are not mandatory, but some very good writing has come out of them. They are designed to keep us writing our truths. They can be very therapeutic. It is from Rosemary that I learned how important truth is to good writing.
So, today I am publishing my “exorcise” here on The Red Sweater.
Here is a sample of a few “exorcises” from last weekend:
“How my awareness of mortality affects my thinking and writing.”
“How my house speaks to my writing.”
“Steps I am taking to meet my goals.”
"Write about the thing you most don't want to write about."
I fell headlong into “Steps I am taking to meet my goals.” A little voice in my head tells me that Rosemary was looking for text on writing goals, but I turned it on its side and went in another direction.
My goal is to maintain what semblance of sanity I have left. Here are some steps I am taking to keep my sanity:
1) After all these months, I feel as though Clint died yesterday, not on June 8, 2019 at 6:33 PM. I was unprepared to be actively grieving 21 months later, but here I am, still on the roller coaster of relative peace followed by reactivation of my grief. Stress at work, stress in my personal life, hearing a certain song, gazing at a photo of us dancing at a wedding, smiling, our eyes locked on one another, his side of the bed, stretching out like the ocean reaching toward the horizon - these are just a sample of the things that can leave me unbalanced, sad, helpless.
My Rx? Work, work, work. Write, write, write, especially in my paper journal. When not at work, I find myself fighting an inertia that is difficult to describe. My house is a mess, my housekeeper has been out for three weeks with a sick child, and I hate housework. I sacrifice in other areas in order to have someone come into my house and clean it for me. But, today I am going to attack this little cottage with my Swiffer products and elbow grease - after I come home from the gym, where I have been going every day I’m not at work. I carry a three pound weight in each hand and walk hills on the treadmill for an hour. That, I am certain is helping me keep my balance.
2) The conundrum that is my son, Parrish - mentally ill, as most of you know. He has been putting pressure on me to come back to Georgia, to Atlanta, where he once lived on the streets and in parks and under bridges. I would rather go to prison than see him back in Atlanta, and I have told him so. Nevertheless, he continues his passive-aggressive attempts to change my mind. He has been in hospital three times since he was here in December, and I believe that all three were attempts to get me to jump on a plane and come rescue him. His last hospitalization happened when he checked himself into the psych ward at University of Miami Hospital, saying he was having suicidal thoughts. He called me to let me know where he was but refused me access to his doctor. Last month it was his back (two failed fusions). He said the doctor wanted him to have more surgery but one more refused to give me access to his physician.
My Rx? I love him from afar and refuse to be drawn into another enabling web with him. I am sympathetic when he calls to tell me his troubles, but I refuse to intervene in his life. I have found that, if I simply listen and refuse to buy into his “crisis du jure,” it mysteriously goes away. His illness makes it so hard to detach from him. I do worry about him, but the stark naked reality is that he cannot live with me or in Atlanta. So, we do the best we can. On April 16, I will fly him to Atlanta, where I will meet him, and we will stay two nights. He will be able to see his oldest friend, Michael. Now he has something to look forward to, and my fervent hope is that it will keep him focused on that and not on his living situation, and assisted living facility which is not optimal. Unfortunately, I cannot escape the belief that, when the weekend is over and he returns to Hileah, he will be in hospital within a week, sad and depressed that he could not stay in Atlanta. It is impossible for him to make the best of things and focus on what he has instead of what he has not.
Sure, these are mental health goals, but I think they are as important as writing goals.
So, Rosemary, this post is for you!
© cj Schlottman 03/11/2011
Learn more about Rosemary and her workshops by visiting her web site - Secrets of the Zona Rosa.
One of the many creative aspects of our group is that, each month, Rosemary gives us a list of “exorcises,” topics designed to keep our writing fresh, creative and real. These "exorcises" are not mandatory, but some very good writing has come out of them. They are designed to keep us writing our truths. They can be very therapeutic. It is from Rosemary that I learned how important truth is to good writing.
So, today I am publishing my “exorcise” here on The Red Sweater.
Here is a sample of a few “exorcises” from last weekend:
“How my awareness of mortality affects my thinking and writing.”
“How my house speaks to my writing.”
“Steps I am taking to meet my goals.”
"Write about the thing you most don't want to write about."
I fell headlong into “Steps I am taking to meet my goals.” A little voice in my head tells me that Rosemary was looking for text on writing goals, but I turned it on its side and went in another direction.
My goal is to maintain what semblance of sanity I have left. Here are some steps I am taking to keep my sanity:
1) After all these months, I feel as though Clint died yesterday, not on June 8, 2019 at 6:33 PM. I was unprepared to be actively grieving 21 months later, but here I am, still on the roller coaster of relative peace followed by reactivation of my grief. Stress at work, stress in my personal life, hearing a certain song, gazing at a photo of us dancing at a wedding, smiling, our eyes locked on one another, his side of the bed, stretching out like the ocean reaching toward the horizon - these are just a sample of the things that can leave me unbalanced, sad, helpless.
My Rx? Work, work, work. Write, write, write, especially in my paper journal. When not at work, I find myself fighting an inertia that is difficult to describe. My house is a mess, my housekeeper has been out for three weeks with a sick child, and I hate housework. I sacrifice in other areas in order to have someone come into my house and clean it for me. But, today I am going to attack this little cottage with my Swiffer products and elbow grease - after I come home from the gym, where I have been going every day I’m not at work. I carry a three pound weight in each hand and walk hills on the treadmill for an hour. That, I am certain is helping me keep my balance.
2) The conundrum that is my son, Parrish - mentally ill, as most of you know. He has been putting pressure on me to come back to Georgia, to Atlanta, where he once lived on the streets and in parks and under bridges. I would rather go to prison than see him back in Atlanta, and I have told him so. Nevertheless, he continues his passive-aggressive attempts to change my mind. He has been in hospital three times since he was here in December, and I believe that all three were attempts to get me to jump on a plane and come rescue him. His last hospitalization happened when he checked himself into the psych ward at University of Miami Hospital, saying he was having suicidal thoughts. He called me to let me know where he was but refused me access to his doctor. Last month it was his back (two failed fusions). He said the doctor wanted him to have more surgery but one more refused to give me access to his physician.
My Rx? I love him from afar and refuse to be drawn into another enabling web with him. I am sympathetic when he calls to tell me his troubles, but I refuse to intervene in his life. I have found that, if I simply listen and refuse to buy into his “crisis du jure,” it mysteriously goes away. His illness makes it so hard to detach from him. I do worry about him, but the stark naked reality is that he cannot live with me or in Atlanta. So, we do the best we can. On April 16, I will fly him to Atlanta, where I will meet him, and we will stay two nights. He will be able to see his oldest friend, Michael. Now he has something to look forward to, and my fervent hope is that it will keep him focused on that and not on his living situation, and assisted living facility which is not optimal. Unfortunately, I cannot escape the belief that, when the weekend is over and he returns to Hileah, he will be in hospital within a week, sad and depressed that he could not stay in Atlanta. It is impossible for him to make the best of things and focus on what he has instead of what he has not.
Sure, these are mental health goals, but I think they are as important as writing goals.
So, Rosemary, this post is for you!
© cj Schlottman 03/11/2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
A Day at Hospice House - Part Three
This is Part Three of a series I am writing about my work. To start at the beginning, click, here.
My patient in Room 412 is a sweet little man who took himself off of dialysis a week ago. It is unlikely that he will live another week. When I arrive at his bedside to do his assessment, he is having dramatic tremors of both hands and arms. He is been medicated with Ativan every four hours, and he is still restless and agitated, the toxins that should be filtered by his kidneys building up in his system.
I manage to get him assessed, then I visit with his very anxious family, his wife and daughter. I wonder out loud to them if our sweet man is in pain, though he denies having any. Thinking about it, I note that his tremor gets much worse if we touch him - anywhere on his body. I suggest to them that we might want to give him some hydromorhone (Dilaudid), which is ordered for him to receive every three hours for pain.
Back to the med room for an injection for him. He has a subcutaneous infusion site, a soft catheter inserted under the skin around his belly button, and when I return to the room at 10:10, I inject the diluted drug slowly and flush the site. I sit at his side, talking softly with the family, and wait to see how the hydromorphone will affect his pain. Ten minutes pass, and he is asleep. I touch his hand, and it remains still. He is snoring loudly when I leave the room.
(Aside, I love subcutaneous infusion sites. They are much easier on the patient, need to be changed less often than IV sites. There is little chance that the patient will pull it out - a win/win for patient and nurse).
At 10:15, later than usual, I open the electronic charts for all three patients, quickly making notes. The doctor has visited, and I check my charts for new orders. There are none, thank goodness, so I slurp on my cold coffee and go back to see about my man in 406.
I find him still sleeping and spend some time with his family, answering questions and encouraging them. We give all of our families a booklet that explains the dying process, but most of them cannot absorb at first reading. I go over the signs with them and encourage them to go back to the booklet and read it again.
Returning to Room 411 to find my little lady having longer periods of apnea. More family is in the room, a daughter and a son and daughter-in-law. I look at her feet. They are cold and mottled and her legs are cool to the knees. Her nail beds a cyanotic, and she is approaching the end of life. More family is on the way. I sit with them and offer support, trying to field questions like: “How long will it be?” “How long can she go on like this?”
Some questions are impossible to answer, but I tell them I believe the end is imminent, that if they want to give my sweet patient permission to leave, they should do it now. Sometimes, patients need to be assured that their families will be all right, and if they need to leave, they can. Hearing is believed to be the last sense to go at end of life, and even though she is now in a coma, I encourage them to talk to her.
They each in turn take her little hand and whisper how much they love her and that if she is too tired to live, it is all right to go to the light.
I tiptoe out of the room and find my little man in Room 412 snoring away. I touch his hand, his arm, his face, and he continues to sleep without tremors. We are all relieved, the family and I, that he is peaceful.
Returning to Room 411, I sit with the family as their dear loved one takes in her final breath. I put my stethoscope to her chest and hear no heartbeat. She is not breathing, and I pronounce her time of death at 11:15 AM. I quietly tell the family to take all the time they need to be with their dear one, to call me when they are ready for me to call the funeral home. They want her to stay until other family members can come.
Back at the desk, there are forms to be filled out, and I enter a death note into my patient’s chart.
Then it’s back down the hall to check on the two patients I have left. Returning to the desk, I learn that I have an admission coming..............For the conclusion, click here.
© cj Schlottman
My patient in Room 412 is a sweet little man who took himself off of dialysis a week ago. It is unlikely that he will live another week. When I arrive at his bedside to do his assessment, he is having dramatic tremors of both hands and arms. He is been medicated with Ativan every four hours, and he is still restless and agitated, the toxins that should be filtered by his kidneys building up in his system.
I manage to get him assessed, then I visit with his very anxious family, his wife and daughter. I wonder out loud to them if our sweet man is in pain, though he denies having any. Thinking about it, I note that his tremor gets much worse if we touch him - anywhere on his body. I suggest to them that we might want to give him some hydromorhone (Dilaudid), which is ordered for him to receive every three hours for pain.
Back to the med room for an injection for him. He has a subcutaneous infusion site, a soft catheter inserted under the skin around his belly button, and when I return to the room at 10:10, I inject the diluted drug slowly and flush the site. I sit at his side, talking softly with the family, and wait to see how the hydromorphone will affect his pain. Ten minutes pass, and he is asleep. I touch his hand, and it remains still. He is snoring loudly when I leave the room.
(Aside, I love subcutaneous infusion sites. They are much easier on the patient, need to be changed less often than IV sites. There is little chance that the patient will pull it out - a win/win for patient and nurse).
At 10:15, later than usual, I open the electronic charts for all three patients, quickly making notes. The doctor has visited, and I check my charts for new orders. There are none, thank goodness, so I slurp on my cold coffee and go back to see about my man in 406.
I find him still sleeping and spend some time with his family, answering questions and encouraging them. We give all of our families a booklet that explains the dying process, but most of them cannot absorb at first reading. I go over the signs with them and encourage them to go back to the booklet and read it again.
Returning to Room 411 to find my little lady having longer periods of apnea. More family is in the room, a daughter and a son and daughter-in-law. I look at her feet. They are cold and mottled and her legs are cool to the knees. Her nail beds a cyanotic, and she is approaching the end of life. More family is on the way. I sit with them and offer support, trying to field questions like: “How long will it be?” “How long can she go on like this?”
Some questions are impossible to answer, but I tell them I believe the end is imminent, that if they want to give my sweet patient permission to leave, they should do it now. Sometimes, patients need to be assured that their families will be all right, and if they need to leave, they can. Hearing is believed to be the last sense to go at end of life, and even though she is now in a coma, I encourage them to talk to her.
They each in turn take her little hand and whisper how much they love her and that if she is too tired to live, it is all right to go to the light.
I tiptoe out of the room and find my little man in Room 412 snoring away. I touch his hand, his arm, his face, and he continues to sleep without tremors. We are all relieved, the family and I, that he is peaceful.
Returning to Room 411, I sit with the family as their dear loved one takes in her final breath. I put my stethoscope to her chest and hear no heartbeat. She is not breathing, and I pronounce her time of death at 11:15 AM. I quietly tell the family to take all the time they need to be with their dear one, to call me when they are ready for me to call the funeral home. They want her to stay until other family members can come.
Back at the desk, there are forms to be filled out, and I enter a death note into my patient’s chart.
Then it’s back down the hall to check on the two patients I have left. Returning to the desk, I learn that I have an admission coming..............For the conclusion, click here.
© cj Schlottman
Sunday, February 27, 2011
A Day at Hospice House - Part Two
This is a continuation of a piece I posted last week. To read the first one, click here.
I scoot over to room 406, and, indeed, my patient is squirming around in bed and picking at the air and his bedclothes. He denies pain but appears delirious. Judging that it is not due to his morphine drip, which he has been on at a relatively low dose for several days and knowing it is too early to give him more lorazepam (Ativan) without a chat with the doctor, it’s time for another approach. Since the morphine and lorazepam did little to calm him, I opt for a dose of haloperidol (Haldol).
Then it’s off the the medication room, where I draw up 0.5 milligrams of haloperidol, dilute it in 10 milliliters of normal saline and grab some more saline to irrigate his subcutaneous infusion site before and after I give the drug. Another nurse is ahead of me, so ten minutes drag by before I can prepare my medication. (Our med room is way too small).
Back in the room, I deliver the medication, flush the infusion site, assure my patient’s son that I will return in 10 to 15 minutes to see what results we get from the new drug.
Suddenly it is 8:30, and I have another patient to assess. She is 72 years old and is in Room 412. She is dying of pancreatic cancer and controlling her pain has been a challenge. Not a large woman by any means, her hydromorphone (Dilaudid) drip has been titrated up to 2mgs per hour, and she is still uncomfortable. I also notice that she has developed end of life respiratory secretions and is beginning to have the dreaded death rattle that some patients have. Again, I table the physical assessment and seek relief for my patient. She can have a bolus (extra dose) of medication, and I push firmly on the top of her medication pump and 2 mgs of hydromorphone is delivered through her intravenous catheter. I can also titrate her drip to 2.5 mgs, and I do that as soon as the bolus has been delivered. Her pain eases, but the secretions are still a problem. I check her chart and see that she has not had any medication for secretions, so I go back to the med room and and draw up 0.2 mgs of glycopyrrolate. I administer the medication by IV push. I reassure her and he family that I will return to reassess her pain shortly.
I dash back to 406 to find a sleeping patient and tiptoe out of the room.
On my way back to Room 412, I stick my head into 411 and find that the patient is having more prolonged periods of apnea and her feet, legs and hands are mottled. Mottling is an irregular arrangement of spots or patches of color on the skin that often looks like brusing and which heralds the end of life. However, some patients stay mottled for several days before passing on, and some patients never mottle. So, I sit with the patient’s husband. He wants to know if it is time to call his family to come see her before she dies. Advise him that it would be a good idea to call them, explaining that I would rather have a false alarm than face a situation when family members and friends were not able to see his wife before she dies. As he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, I step across the hall to Room 412.
I glance at my watch. It is already 9:30. Two and a half hours have gone by, and all I have done is basically put our fires. I find my patient breathing easier and sleeping. Another assessment to do......click here for the next installment
© cj Schlottman
I scoot over to room 406, and, indeed, my patient is squirming around in bed and picking at the air and his bedclothes. He denies pain but appears delirious. Judging that it is not due to his morphine drip, which he has been on at a relatively low dose for several days and knowing it is too early to give him more lorazepam (Ativan) without a chat with the doctor, it’s time for another approach. Since the morphine and lorazepam did little to calm him, I opt for a dose of haloperidol (Haldol).
Then it’s off the the medication room, where I draw up 0.5 milligrams of haloperidol, dilute it in 10 milliliters of normal saline and grab some more saline to irrigate his subcutaneous infusion site before and after I give the drug. Another nurse is ahead of me, so ten minutes drag by before I can prepare my medication. (Our med room is way too small).
Back in the room, I deliver the medication, flush the infusion site, assure my patient’s son that I will return in 10 to 15 minutes to see what results we get from the new drug.
Suddenly it is 8:30, and I have another patient to assess. She is 72 years old and is in Room 412. She is dying of pancreatic cancer and controlling her pain has been a challenge. Not a large woman by any means, her hydromorphone (Dilaudid) drip has been titrated up to 2mgs per hour, and she is still uncomfortable. I also notice that she has developed end of life respiratory secretions and is beginning to have the dreaded death rattle that some patients have. Again, I table the physical assessment and seek relief for my patient. She can have a bolus (extra dose) of medication, and I push firmly on the top of her medication pump and 2 mgs of hydromorphone is delivered through her intravenous catheter. I can also titrate her drip to 2.5 mgs, and I do that as soon as the bolus has been delivered. Her pain eases, but the secretions are still a problem. I check her chart and see that she has not had any medication for secretions, so I go back to the med room and and draw up 0.2 mgs of glycopyrrolate. I administer the medication by IV push. I reassure her and he family that I will return to reassess her pain shortly.
I dash back to 406 to find a sleeping patient and tiptoe out of the room.
On my way back to Room 412, I stick my head into 411 and find that the patient is having more prolonged periods of apnea and her feet, legs and hands are mottled. Mottling is an irregular arrangement of spots or patches of color on the skin that often looks like brusing and which heralds the end of life. However, some patients stay mottled for several days before passing on, and some patients never mottle. So, I sit with the patient’s husband. He wants to know if it is time to call his family to come see her before she dies. Advise him that it would be a good idea to call them, explaining that I would rather have a false alarm than face a situation when family members and friends were not able to see his wife before she dies. As he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, I step across the hall to Room 412.
I glance at my watch. It is already 9:30. Two and a half hours have gone by, and all I have done is basically put our fires. I find my patient breathing easier and sleeping. Another assessment to do......click here for the next installment
© cj Schlottman
Sunday, February 20, 2011
A Day At Hospice House
Disclaimer: This series in no way represents real patients. It is a compilation of many different patients and many different situations. Any resemblance to actual patients is purely coincidental. There is no such thing as a typical day in hospice care. Some are busier than others and each individual patient has his or her own special needs.
My eyes flap open at 4:43 AM, two minutes before my alarm clock beeps to wake me. It happens every work day, but I am convinced that if I were to fail to set the clock, I would somehow oversleep. It’s just another crutch in my life.
Honey, my Lhasa Apso, begins to lick my face, and Belle, her buddy the Boxer, walks around to my side of the bed and pushes her nose onto the bed next to my arm, demanding that I pet her, too. There is no resisting either of them, so I haul myself up on the side of the bed and turn off the clock.
The three of us shuffle through the house to the door to the deck and back yard, and off they go, returning quickly, knowing that a dog bone is be ready for both of them. I snap a pod into the coffee maker and eagerly push the pulsing blue “brew” button.
I take my coffee out onto the deck and when the weather is cold, light the propane heater. It has been cold a lot lately. I sit, check my e-mails and texts on my Blackberry, smoke (No, I haven’t completely quit yet), and in general, wake up. I simply cannot wake up and jump into my scrubs and rush out the door. I need the waking up time to center myself. Sometimes I practice a short yoga program to further ground me.
At 6:15, having kenneled the dogs in their playpen, I leave for work. It is dark, not trace of light yet in my neighborhood. I arrive at work at 6:30, 15 minutes early, so I can get some coffee and organize myself for the day. I retrieve my stethoscope from my locker, get out several of the report sheets I have designed for myself, and at 6:45, I clock in and get report from the night nurses.
There are three of us nurses here today, and we have nine patients, so we each take three, trying always to have the ones we had the day before.
As soon as report is over, I make what I call “sneak a peek” rounds on my patients. I check to make sure they are sleeping or at least comfortable if awake. Then I check their charts for new orders and take their medication records out of their notebook and put them in mine. That is when my day begins in earnest.
I begin with physical assessments. Today, I find that the patient, in room 406 (lung cancer that has spread to his liver and lymph nodes) is awake and restless, a little agitated. He is only 58 years old and was a heavy smoker. So, the assessment goes on hold while I get some medication to soothe him and give him some peace. The medication does little to calm him, so I give him a bolus of morphine, which is delivered via a subcutaneous catheter in the skin around his belly button and connected to an electronic pump. He begins to doze. I continue the assessment and enter the data into our system using a computer in his room. He is sleeping when I leave the room.
The patient in 411 (end stage Alzheimer's) is still asleep, and I quietly do her assessment, finding that her respirations are slow, and that she is having episodes of apnea. The expression on her sleeping face peaceful, even childlike. Her husband, who spent the night on the daybed in her room, expresses his concerns about her condition. He is a devoted caregiver who is exhausted, with health issues of his own.
The phone on my hip vibrates. I reassure the husband, reminding him gently that her slow breaths are part of the process, and I walk out into the hall to answer my phone. I learn that the patient in 406 is once again restless and agitated. I check my watch. Only an hour has passed since I medicated him.
To be continued next week......click here.
© cj Schlottman
My eyes flap open at 4:43 AM, two minutes before my alarm clock beeps to wake me. It happens every work day, but I am convinced that if I were to fail to set the clock, I would somehow oversleep. It’s just another crutch in my life.
Honey, my Lhasa Apso, begins to lick my face, and Belle, her buddy the Boxer, walks around to my side of the bed and pushes her nose onto the bed next to my arm, demanding that I pet her, too. There is no resisting either of them, so I haul myself up on the side of the bed and turn off the clock.
The three of us shuffle through the house to the door to the deck and back yard, and off they go, returning quickly, knowing that a dog bone is be ready for both of them. I snap a pod into the coffee maker and eagerly push the pulsing blue “brew” button.
I take my coffee out onto the deck and when the weather is cold, light the propane heater. It has been cold a lot lately. I sit, check my e-mails and texts on my Blackberry, smoke (No, I haven’t completely quit yet), and in general, wake up. I simply cannot wake up and jump into my scrubs and rush out the door. I need the waking up time to center myself. Sometimes I practice a short yoga program to further ground me.
At 6:15, having kenneled the dogs in their playpen, I leave for work. It is dark, not trace of light yet in my neighborhood. I arrive at work at 6:30, 15 minutes early, so I can get some coffee and organize myself for the day. I retrieve my stethoscope from my locker, get out several of the report sheets I have designed for myself, and at 6:45, I clock in and get report from the night nurses.
There are three of us nurses here today, and we have nine patients, so we each take three, trying always to have the ones we had the day before.
As soon as report is over, I make what I call “sneak a peek” rounds on my patients. I check to make sure they are sleeping or at least comfortable if awake. Then I check their charts for new orders and take their medication records out of their notebook and put them in mine. That is when my day begins in earnest.
I begin with physical assessments. Today, I find that the patient, in room 406 (lung cancer that has spread to his liver and lymph nodes) is awake and restless, a little agitated. He is only 58 years old and was a heavy smoker. So, the assessment goes on hold while I get some medication to soothe him and give him some peace. The medication does little to calm him, so I give him a bolus of morphine, which is delivered via a subcutaneous catheter in the skin around his belly button and connected to an electronic pump. He begins to doze. I continue the assessment and enter the data into our system using a computer in his room. He is sleeping when I leave the room.
The patient in 411 (end stage Alzheimer's) is still asleep, and I quietly do her assessment, finding that her respirations are slow, and that she is having episodes of apnea. The expression on her sleeping face peaceful, even childlike. Her husband, who spent the night on the daybed in her room, expresses his concerns about her condition. He is a devoted caregiver who is exhausted, with health issues of his own.
The phone on my hip vibrates. I reassure the husband, reminding him gently that her slow breaths are part of the process, and I walk out into the hall to answer my phone. I learn that the patient in 406 is once again restless and agitated. I check my watch. Only an hour has passed since I medicated him.
To be continued next week......click here.
© cj Schlottman
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Ennui - Again
02/12/2011
What makes a writer avoid writing? For two days, I have been dodging my laptop, haven’t even checked my email or looked to see what Jenny Matlock is up for this week’s Saturday Centus. Thinking about writing a blog post to publish sets butterflies flapping around in my stomach.
Today, I have washed three loads of laundry, walked for an hour on the treadmill carrying a three pound weight in each hand, brushed the dog, attacked my bathroom with the Swiffer vac, washed my hair, picked up yard trash created by the recent winds. I turned on the TV and tuned to the PGA golf tournament at Pebble Beach. All this to avoid writing.
I used to watch golf tournaments with Clint on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Now, doing so just makes me miss him more than usual, so I did some channel surfing to find something else to keep me company and found, well, nothing. There are dozens of channels to choose from, but I can’t get worked up over programs with names like Lobster Wars or Real Housewives of Atlanta or Cupcake Wars. College basketball holds no appeal for me. Nor does rugby. I finally settled on a tennis tournament, then realized it was a rerun from last year.
I’m certain I should be watching some news channel or other to stay current on the situation in Egypt, or what our congress is up to or how many people were killed today in Iraq and in other places all over the world, but I’m not up to that. So, I chose a music channel called Soundscapes. Clint used to call it the yoga music channel.
Ennui. I’ve written about it before. Trying too hard never solves anything, so, I’m going to stop trying to write and, instead, read some posts from the blogs I follow. Then maybe I'll do some yoga - or not.
© cj Schlottman
What makes a writer avoid writing? For two days, I have been dodging my laptop, haven’t even checked my email or looked to see what Jenny Matlock is up for this week’s Saturday Centus. Thinking about writing a blog post to publish sets butterflies flapping around in my stomach.
Today, I have washed three loads of laundry, walked for an hour on the treadmill carrying a three pound weight in each hand, brushed the dog, attacked my bathroom with the Swiffer vac, washed my hair, picked up yard trash created by the recent winds. I turned on the TV and tuned to the PGA golf tournament at Pebble Beach. All this to avoid writing.
I used to watch golf tournaments with Clint on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Now, doing so just makes me miss him more than usual, so I did some channel surfing to find something else to keep me company and found, well, nothing. There are dozens of channels to choose from, but I can’t get worked up over programs with names like Lobster Wars or Real Housewives of Atlanta or Cupcake Wars. College basketball holds no appeal for me. Nor does rugby. I finally settled on a tennis tournament, then realized it was a rerun from last year.
I’m certain I should be watching some news channel or other to stay current on the situation in Egypt, or what our congress is up to or how many people were killed today in Iraq and in other places all over the world, but I’m not up to that. So, I chose a music channel called Soundscapes. Clint used to call it the yoga music channel.
Ennui. I’ve written about it before. Trying too hard never solves anything, so, I’m going to stop trying to write and, instead, read some posts from the blogs I follow. Then maybe I'll do some yoga - or not.
© cj Schlottman
Sunday, February 6, 2011
First, Forgive Yourself
“Patients weep when they discover they are their own victimizers and not the victim of others. They weep when they discover they are responsible for their own suffering. As I expose an imaginative, subjective interpretation, their world changes according to their concept of it, their own vision.” Anaïs Nin - Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume 2, 1934 - 1939
After much anxiety and weeping and self-doubt, I am here to put the story of the Man Friend to bed - forever. There is plenty of blame to go around, and like Nin’s “patients,” I have discovered my responsibility for my own suffering.
I did and said things I should not have done and said, I left unsaid things I should have said, I acted in ways that are anathema to my authentic self, and I am here to own up to it. I have not and will not reveal secrets. That, at least I can claim as a personal victory.
I take responsibility for not getting out of the relationship with the Man Friend last summer when it became obvious that he did not have my best interests at heart, that he was unable or unwilling to forgive me for my mistakes. I knew he was a heavy drinker, (which he admits) and I had been warned by others that he was capable of turning on me without provocation, but I simply did not believe them. I admit that I was so needy and lonely that I allowed him to hurt me on more than one occasion, then took him back. There. I said it. I was weak. I do not blame him for my weakness. I was needy. I do not blame him for my neediness. I’m not weak now. He unwittingly forced me to reach into myself and find the strength I forgot was there.
I have forgiven myself for my mistakes, and having learned valuable lessons about my own weakness and naiveté, as well as my strengths, this is my last post on that chapter of my life.
© cj Schlottman
After much anxiety and weeping and self-doubt, I am here to put the story of the Man Friend to bed - forever. There is plenty of blame to go around, and like Nin’s “patients,” I have discovered my responsibility for my own suffering.
I did and said things I should not have done and said, I left unsaid things I should have said, I acted in ways that are anathema to my authentic self, and I am here to own up to it. I have not and will not reveal secrets. That, at least I can claim as a personal victory.
I take responsibility for not getting out of the relationship with the Man Friend last summer when it became obvious that he did not have my best interests at heart, that he was unable or unwilling to forgive me for my mistakes. I knew he was a heavy drinker, (which he admits) and I had been warned by others that he was capable of turning on me without provocation, but I simply did not believe them. I admit that I was so needy and lonely that I allowed him to hurt me on more than one occasion, then took him back. There. I said it. I was weak. I do not blame him for my weakness. I was needy. I do not blame him for my neediness. I’m not weak now. He unwittingly forced me to reach into myself and find the strength I forgot was there.
I have forgiven myself for my mistakes, and having learned valuable lessons about my own weakness and naiveté, as well as my strengths, this is my last post on that chapter of my life.
© cj Schlottman
Happy Birthday, Baby Brother
02/05/11 Saturday Night
Dear John,
You should be 56 today instead of dead, and I miss you as much now as I did when you died in 2000. You should be here to see Walker growing into a man and the artist he wants to be. You would be proud that he is at The University of Georgia, your alma mater. You should see his work and be here to help him along his path to self-discovery. No one knows better than you how hard it is for a young man to grow up without a father.
You should be here to deal with those teen issues that Lisa faces with Wil. You should hear him play his oboe and the the French horn and the piano. He’s in the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra as well as the All State Band. He’s driving!
You would be glad that I spent this afternoon at Zona Rosa. You, who wrote so completely from your heart, would be happy to see me working on doing that myself. You would like Rosemary.
It’s late and I’m spending the night with the Ducks, so I will finish this letter tomorrow. Now that everyone has settled in and I have the opportunity to write down my feelings, I’m too tired to do it. My eyes get so fatigued and my vision blurs after a long day. And yes, I know I am getting old.
Sunday Morning
Last night, after everyone got settled and the bird stopped squawking, I finally got to bed. I didn’t sleep well. Some personal problems that you don’t need to know about are eating away at me, but I will deal with them.
I keep thinking about the time we had together in Memphis during May, where we went three months before you died so you could have alternative treatment for your kidney cancer after the doctors said there was nothing left for them to do but call Hospice. I wish I had known about Hospice back then. I would have encouraged you to take advantage of it. Or maybe not. I didn’t believe you would actually die. I thought that if I wanted you to live, I could will you not to die. Denial is a great psychological defense mechanism, but you could have benefited from Hospice.
The doctor in Memphis put on you a diet that included calves’ brains, and I prepared them for you every morning, scrambling them into eggs. I even found a store where I could find them fresh instead of canned. You were the picture of determination as you forked every bite into your mouth. We went to a formulating pharmacy and bought all manner of supplements for you to take.
Those precious two weeks are so dear to me. We went to the Peabody Hotel twice to see their famous ducks march into the lobby while we had a drink. We went to see Erin Brockovich during its first run and both loved it. We strolled down to Beale street and rummaged through old record stores and both lamented the presence of a Hard Rock Cafe in the heart of Memphis. It just didn’t seem right, seeing it there in the middle of all that musical history.
You were so tired. I remember you being so very tired but determined to live. You napped often but always managed to drag yourself up to go and do something. The only thing we missed was going to Sun Records. I remember when you started to cough up blood and it scared me, the nurse, to death. The cancer was in your lungs and even in your heart, yet you kept going, pushing yourself to go to museums and movies.
We slept together in a king sized bed in one of those hotels that offers a continental breakfast and some sort of packaged supper every night. To save money, we mostly ate there. Those days will forever live in my heart, so scarred now with loss.
Just before Reggie arrived to spend the third week with you, Clint flew in to take me home, and the three of us went to Graceland. I remember how it wore you out, how determined you were to stay on your feet long enough to complete the tour. We even took time to shop for silly souvenirs.
You stayed in Memphis for one more week of treatment during which, you were basically heated up in an effort to kill some of the cancer cells. In late July, you and Lisa and the boys came to see us on Saint Simons. You were actually stronger after your treatments, and I believe they bought you some extra time. Three weeks before you died of pneumonia, you dragged your kayak down the dock and put it in the creek for what none of us knew would be your final ride in it. Determined and stubborn, you refused help from any of us, either getting the boat to the creek or hauling it back up the dock.
You died living, not dying, and for that I am grateful. My only regret is that, when Lisa called me at our friend’s house in North Carolina and told me you had pneumonia and were going on a ventilator, I didn’t leave that minute to be by your side. Since it was already 9:00 PM, and we were in the mountains, I decided to wait until morning. Lisa called me at 2:30 AM to say your heart had stopped beating.
You never admitted to me that you were dying. You talked to Mama and Paul and Lisa about it, but, in your way, you tried to protect me from it. I think you did the right thing. I would not have had believed you, anyway.
Happy Birthday, Baby Brother. Losing you was like losing a child. I don’t have to remind you that, when you were two months old and Daddy died, Mama gave you to me. As long as you lived, I always felt responsible for you and always did everything I could to make your life better. But I couldn’t save your life. I couldn’t make you live, no matter how hard I tried.
I love you, Claudia
© cj Schlottman
Copy editing by Addie Duck
Dear John,
You should be 56 today instead of dead, and I miss you as much now as I did when you died in 2000. You should be here to see Walker growing into a man and the artist he wants to be. You would be proud that he is at The University of Georgia, your alma mater. You should see his work and be here to help him along his path to self-discovery. No one knows better than you how hard it is for a young man to grow up without a father.
You should be here to deal with those teen issues that Lisa faces with Wil. You should hear him play his oboe and the the French horn and the piano. He’s in the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra as well as the All State Band. He’s driving!
You would be glad that I spent this afternoon at Zona Rosa. You, who wrote so completely from your heart, would be happy to see me working on doing that myself. You would like Rosemary.
It’s late and I’m spending the night with the Ducks, so I will finish this letter tomorrow. Now that everyone has settled in and I have the opportunity to write down my feelings, I’m too tired to do it. My eyes get so fatigued and my vision blurs after a long day. And yes, I know I am getting old.
Sunday Morning
Last night, after everyone got settled and the bird stopped squawking, I finally got to bed. I didn’t sleep well. Some personal problems that you don’t need to know about are eating away at me, but I will deal with them.
I keep thinking about the time we had together in Memphis during May, where we went three months before you died so you could have alternative treatment for your kidney cancer after the doctors said there was nothing left for them to do but call Hospice. I wish I had known about Hospice back then. I would have encouraged you to take advantage of it. Or maybe not. I didn’t believe you would actually die. I thought that if I wanted you to live, I could will you not to die. Denial is a great psychological defense mechanism, but you could have benefited from Hospice.
The doctor in Memphis put on you a diet that included calves’ brains, and I prepared them for you every morning, scrambling them into eggs. I even found a store where I could find them fresh instead of canned. You were the picture of determination as you forked every bite into your mouth. We went to a formulating pharmacy and bought all manner of supplements for you to take.
Those precious two weeks are so dear to me. We went to the Peabody Hotel twice to see their famous ducks march into the lobby while we had a drink. We went to see Erin Brockovich during its first run and both loved it. We strolled down to Beale street and rummaged through old record stores and both lamented the presence of a Hard Rock Cafe in the heart of Memphis. It just didn’t seem right, seeing it there in the middle of all that musical history.
You were so tired. I remember you being so very tired but determined to live. You napped often but always managed to drag yourself up to go and do something. The only thing we missed was going to Sun Records. I remember when you started to cough up blood and it scared me, the nurse, to death. The cancer was in your lungs and even in your heart, yet you kept going, pushing yourself to go to museums and movies.
We slept together in a king sized bed in one of those hotels that offers a continental breakfast and some sort of packaged supper every night. To save money, we mostly ate there. Those days will forever live in my heart, so scarred now with loss.
Just before Reggie arrived to spend the third week with you, Clint flew in to take me home, and the three of us went to Graceland. I remember how it wore you out, how determined you were to stay on your feet long enough to complete the tour. We even took time to shop for silly souvenirs.
You stayed in Memphis for one more week of treatment during which, you were basically heated up in an effort to kill some of the cancer cells. In late July, you and Lisa and the boys came to see us on Saint Simons. You were actually stronger after your treatments, and I believe they bought you some extra time. Three weeks before you died of pneumonia, you dragged your kayak down the dock and put it in the creek for what none of us knew would be your final ride in it. Determined and stubborn, you refused help from any of us, either getting the boat to the creek or hauling it back up the dock.
You died living, not dying, and for that I am grateful. My only regret is that, when Lisa called me at our friend’s house in North Carolina and told me you had pneumonia and were going on a ventilator, I didn’t leave that minute to be by your side. Since it was already 9:00 PM, and we were in the mountains, I decided to wait until morning. Lisa called me at 2:30 AM to say your heart had stopped beating.
You never admitted to me that you were dying. You talked to Mama and Paul and Lisa about it, but, in your way, you tried to protect me from it. I think you did the right thing. I would not have had believed you, anyway.
Happy Birthday, Baby Brother. Losing you was like losing a child. I don’t have to remind you that, when you were two months old and Daddy died, Mama gave you to me. As long as you lived, I always felt responsible for you and always did everything I could to make your life better. But I couldn’t save your life. I couldn’t make you live, no matter how hard I tried.
I love you, Claudia
© cj Schlottman
Copy editing by Addie Duck
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Happy Birthday
01/31/11
Happy Birthday, My Darling,
You should be 77 today instead of dead. There are no words to express how I miss you, your touch, your warmth, the way you cherished me, the way you made love to me, the way you sneaked up on me to kiss the back of my neck.
I spent 12 hours at work today, and every time I turned around, I was writing the date on one form or another, constant reminders of the fact that you are gone forever. You would have been proud of me, though, the way I threaded that INT into that old lady’s vein without making her cry. Up until today, I have been able to make the vein but not thread the catheter. It was a tremendous ego boost for me. You probably know that I looked to the sky and said, “Happy Birthday, Poppy,” when I finished dressing the site. It’s hard to believe that I am having to relearn skills at which I was so sharp in years past.
Your last birthday, when you turned 75, we had a party for you with a cake with your picture on it and balloons and confetti, and you got down out of your wheelchair and played with the twins on floor. The others wondered if you would be able to get back up into your chair, but I never had a moment’s doubt. You were a strong willed and stubborn old coot, and I knew we could get you up.
Oh, you should see Abbey and Drew now. They are like two weed eaters buzzing around and leaving destruction in their wake. Shannon handles them so well. You would be so proud of her and the life she is making with her family.
The last year and a half has been the longest and most painful time of my life. No therapy or medication can take from me this emptiness, this sense of being so alone. Work helps, but when it is over, you are still gone and I am still alone.
My social life is pretty much shot, but I don’t want to go into that. You don’t need to know everything. Just know that I have been injured and that I am recovering quickly. I take great strength from my memories of you. I will fix my social life when I am ready.
Under Rosemary’s excellent tutelage,I am writing better poetry these days and there is comfort is that. Sadly, many of my pieces are based on my pain from losing you. I find it hard to write about anything happy or beautiful Maybe one day I will be inspired by a flower or a tree or a smiling baby, that that day will be long in arriving, I fear.
For now, most of what I feel is still tender and sore. I do miss you so very much, so very deeply. I am straining to write this, feeling as though there is nothing to say. So, I’ll just say “Happy Birthday.”
I will love you forever,
Your Fat Girl
Happy Birthday, My Darling,
You should be 77 today instead of dead. There are no words to express how I miss you, your touch, your warmth, the way you cherished me, the way you made love to me, the way you sneaked up on me to kiss the back of my neck.
I spent 12 hours at work today, and every time I turned around, I was writing the date on one form or another, constant reminders of the fact that you are gone forever. You would have been proud of me, though, the way I threaded that INT into that old lady’s vein without making her cry. Up until today, I have been able to make the vein but not thread the catheter. It was a tremendous ego boost for me. You probably know that I looked to the sky and said, “Happy Birthday, Poppy,” when I finished dressing the site. It’s hard to believe that I am having to relearn skills at which I was so sharp in years past.
Your last birthday, when you turned 75, we had a party for you with a cake with your picture on it and balloons and confetti, and you got down out of your wheelchair and played with the twins on floor. The others wondered if you would be able to get back up into your chair, but I never had a moment’s doubt. You were a strong willed and stubborn old coot, and I knew we could get you up.
Oh, you should see Abbey and Drew now. They are like two weed eaters buzzing around and leaving destruction in their wake. Shannon handles them so well. You would be so proud of her and the life she is making with her family.
The last year and a half has been the longest and most painful time of my life. No therapy or medication can take from me this emptiness, this sense of being so alone. Work helps, but when it is over, you are still gone and I am still alone.
My social life is pretty much shot, but I don’t want to go into that. You don’t need to know everything. Just know that I have been injured and that I am recovering quickly. I take great strength from my memories of you. I will fix my social life when I am ready.
Under Rosemary’s excellent tutelage,I am writing better poetry these days and there is comfort is that. Sadly, many of my pieces are based on my pain from losing you. I find it hard to write about anything happy or beautiful Maybe one day I will be inspired by a flower or a tree or a smiling baby, that that day will be long in arriving, I fear.
For now, most of what I feel is still tender and sore. I do miss you so very much, so very deeply. I am straining to write this, feeling as though there is nothing to say. So, I’ll just say “Happy Birthday.”
I will love you forever,
Your Fat Girl
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Trust
Last Saturday, I put the silent butler back in it’s proper place against the wall on Clint’s side of the bed. I carefully reconstructed it in exactly the way is was before I undressed it and put it in the guest room. I thought I was ready to live without it, but clearly I was not. Combined with a medication change and the MF’s behavior, I was overwhelmingly sad and anxious and needed my security blanket. I have given myself permission to leave the silent butler in it’s place forever, if that’s what it takes. I may even give it a name.
The circumstances of my life over the last two weeks have me thinking about the power we to give to others. Trust is a powerful thing, and when we give it others, we open up ourselves up to the possibility of betrayal. I still feel the sting of the MF’s cruelty.
But how can we live our lives without trusting others? We would become paranoid and self-involved and closed to the possibilities of the rewards of friendship. To trust another is an act of courage, though I never thought about it in that way until the attack upon me by the MF, when I received the poisoned pen text messages that were so intentionally hurtful.
I took another blow when our mutual friend took his side, became his apologist. I trusted her, and as with him, it was misplaced. She also betrayed me. Will our friendship survive?
I will never know what brought on this monstrous attack because I will never ask. I have cut this man from my life as a surgeon might cut away a tumor. And I feel stronger every day. The sad news is that now I feel a little paranoid, wonder just who I can trust.
In my needy naiveté, I lost sight of what is good for me. I should have broken off this relationship months ago, when he first began breaking dates, lying and in general being an ass. I was so lonely, and because of that loneliness, I made ill conceived choices. For that, I take full responsibility.
I’m 62 years old, and I know I will not change. I cannot live my life not trusting others, and I suppose that means I will forever be at risk of being hurt. I’m glad I am who I am. I can take it. I really can.
This has reactivated my grief just when I thought I was making progress. Now I will start again, and again and again if necessary.
© cj Schlottman
The circumstances of my life over the last two weeks have me thinking about the power we to give to others. Trust is a powerful thing, and when we give it others, we open up ourselves up to the possibility of betrayal. I still feel the sting of the MF’s cruelty.
But how can we live our lives without trusting others? We would become paranoid and self-involved and closed to the possibilities of the rewards of friendship. To trust another is an act of courage, though I never thought about it in that way until the attack upon me by the MF, when I received the poisoned pen text messages that were so intentionally hurtful.
I took another blow when our mutual friend took his side, became his apologist. I trusted her, and as with him, it was misplaced. She also betrayed me. Will our friendship survive?
I will never know what brought on this monstrous attack because I will never ask. I have cut this man from my life as a surgeon might cut away a tumor. And I feel stronger every day. The sad news is that now I feel a little paranoid, wonder just who I can trust.
In my needy naiveté, I lost sight of what is good for me. I should have broken off this relationship months ago, when he first began breaking dates, lying and in general being an ass. I was so lonely, and because of that loneliness, I made ill conceived choices. For that, I take full responsibility.
I’m 62 years old, and I know I will not change. I cannot live my life not trusting others, and I suppose that means I will forever be at risk of being hurt. I’m glad I am who I am. I can take it. I really can.
This has reactivated my grief just when I thought I was making progress. Now I will start again, and again and again if necessary.
© cj Schlottman
Saturday, January 22, 2011
And Things Get Worse
Those of you who read this blog know that I am having problems working through my grief after the loss of my husband, Clint, nearly 19 months ago. I have taken great strides and I have had some setbacks. I can’t endure another day without the silent butler, and I intend to put it back where it belongs. I had thought to shop for a bookcase to put in that spot, and I will do that, but until I have the bookcase, the silent butler will go back in our room, and I will replace everything that was on it. I feel better just writing that down.
My former Man Friend has lost his mind, become paranoid and psychotic. Last Sunday night, he sent me the most cruel text message one could imagine. I have never been treated like that. Never. He has it in his head that I am trying to take his friends away from him, and in incredibly cruel terms told me to stay away from our mutual friends. He accused me of appropriating his friends and relationships and called me intrusive and said I made everyone uncomfortable. One of the most strange things about this is that he was talking about a group of people with whom we have eaten supper at our club on Sunday nights from time to time. He is not close to even one of them. They are his acquaintances, and he does not have anything approaching a relationship with any of them. One of the women is my good friend.
I have no idea where this all came from. It’s as though his head spun around and did a 180, suddenly and without explanation, stopped being my friend and started to despise me in the most vehement of ways. And it hurt my feelings. This man has been my friend for years. We’ve had a few rough patches like friends do, but I considered him a trustworthy and loyal friend. I did text him back and tell him that he would never dictate where and with whom I would take my meals. I advised him to stay away from the club on Sundays if he doesn’t want to be around me.
Now for the worst part of all. Back when we were friends, the MF and I shared a great friendship with another woman. He has been in love with her for a long time, but she has been involved in a nasty divorce for two years. It is finally coming to an end, so they can start dating soon.
I thought this woman was my friend, but when I read the text message to her, she became his apologist! She never said a sympathetic word or condemned his language. If the tables were turned, I would have worried about her, not taken up for the guilty one. She tried to tell me that I had never officially been invited to join the Sunday group, so I informed her that I had been invited by two of the members who encouraged me to get out because Sunday is a cruel day for me, the day I miss Clint the most. There was no animus between us, but the friendship is over as far as I am concerned. A true friend would have condemned is cruelty, even if she were in love/lust with the man.
I realize this is journaling online, so forgive me, please. I need to spill this out to someone, and you all understand.
One last little dollop of cream on the top: When I was working out at the club gym today, they came in together. I was finishing up and as I was going to the door, I spoke to her (I was raised not to be rude) and ignored him. I realized I had a set of keys to his house that I was going to drop off at her house and decided there was no time like the present. So, I took the keys to her, put them in a cubby hole - she all smiles all the time. As I was walking out, he said in a voice loud enough for the entire room to hear, “I already changed the locks!” Thank God 99% of the people had ear buds inserted and probably could not here.
Think I have been used? Yes. They both used me so they could be together, forever inviting me out to dinner. I was their unwitting chaperone. Now they no longer need me, so he has kicked me to the curb and she has changed into a person who apparently condones his actions.
Live and learn.
© cj Schlottman - 01/22/1011
My former Man Friend has lost his mind, become paranoid and psychotic. Last Sunday night, he sent me the most cruel text message one could imagine. I have never been treated like that. Never. He has it in his head that I am trying to take his friends away from him, and in incredibly cruel terms told me to stay away from our mutual friends. He accused me of appropriating his friends and relationships and called me intrusive and said I made everyone uncomfortable. One of the most strange things about this is that he was talking about a group of people with whom we have eaten supper at our club on Sunday nights from time to time. He is not close to even one of them. They are his acquaintances, and he does not have anything approaching a relationship with any of them. One of the women is my good friend.
I have no idea where this all came from. It’s as though his head spun around and did a 180, suddenly and without explanation, stopped being my friend and started to despise me in the most vehement of ways. And it hurt my feelings. This man has been my friend for years. We’ve had a few rough patches like friends do, but I considered him a trustworthy and loyal friend. I did text him back and tell him that he would never dictate where and with whom I would take my meals. I advised him to stay away from the club on Sundays if he doesn’t want to be around me.
Now for the worst part of all. Back when we were friends, the MF and I shared a great friendship with another woman. He has been in love with her for a long time, but she has been involved in a nasty divorce for two years. It is finally coming to an end, so they can start dating soon.
I thought this woman was my friend, but when I read the text message to her, she became his apologist! She never said a sympathetic word or condemned his language. If the tables were turned, I would have worried about her, not taken up for the guilty one. She tried to tell me that I had never officially been invited to join the Sunday group, so I informed her that I had been invited by two of the members who encouraged me to get out because Sunday is a cruel day for me, the day I miss Clint the most. There was no animus between us, but the friendship is over as far as I am concerned. A true friend would have condemned is cruelty, even if she were in love/lust with the man.
I realize this is journaling online, so forgive me, please. I need to spill this out to someone, and you all understand.
One last little dollop of cream on the top: When I was working out at the club gym today, they came in together. I was finishing up and as I was going to the door, I spoke to her (I was raised not to be rude) and ignored him. I realized I had a set of keys to his house that I was going to drop off at her house and decided there was no time like the present. So, I took the keys to her, put them in a cubby hole - she all smiles all the time. As I was walking out, he said in a voice loud enough for the entire room to hear, “I already changed the locks!” Thank God 99% of the people had ear buds inserted and probably could not here.
Think I have been used? Yes. They both used me so they could be together, forever inviting me out to dinner. I was their unwitting chaperone. Now they no longer need me, so he has kicked me to the curb and she has changed into a person who apparently condones his actions.
Live and learn.
© cj Schlottman - 01/22/1011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
The Silent Butler Revisited
01/15/11
On Sunday, January 2, 19 months after Clint’s death, I bravely unloaded his silent butler, stowed away his pants and belts and slippers and moved the silent butler to the guest room. I did so with a matter of fact demeanor, no tears, knowing it was the right thing. I need to move on, and it has been a torturously slow and painful process.
I applauded my courage and was sure I had done the right thing. Then Thursday arrived, and I woke in a pit of depression. I now know that it is called delayed grief reactivation.
Over the last week and a half, I have been tempted to move the silent butler back into my room and reload it with Clint’s things. It needs to stay where it is, appropriately available for guests to use, but when I look at the empty place where it stood against the wall on his side of the bed, I suffer periods of weeping and feeling as though he died only yesterday.
Work days are not so painful, and I am going to request to be scheduled to work on Sundays. They are the hardest, the days when we Poppy and I lolled around the house watching golf or football or tennis on TV. We usually had vodka and orange juice with a small brunch around noon. Then we would take a nap and get ready for whatever game we were planning to watch. Yes, Sundays remain difficult in a striking way.
And I continue to have frequent episodes of excruciating grief, tearing up at the mere thought of him, of how disappointing it is to be mired in this agonizing cycle of healing followed by more sadness.
When Clint died, my therapist warned me that it would be a long process to reach that place where I am more healed than wounded. Her exact words were: “The more you have lost, the harder it will be and the longer it will take.” She was right, of course, but this latest episode has me feeling disappointed and cheated. Part of me wants to move on, but there is a place at my core where I am still holding on, hoping he will return. It is a dreadful infirmity.
Could it be that I was so defined by my relationship with my husband? As years have passed and I cared for my brother and my mother, only to see them die within 2 months of one another, I was the brave one, the courageous backbone of the family. Was I drawing all that strength from Clint, his complete support of me, his willingness allow me the privilege of spending as much time with them as I could carve out of the calendar?
Then he got sick, and I thought I could will him to live, thought that if I unyeldingly wanted him to live, he would. On occasion, I would try to imagine what life without him would be, but I was never capable of believing that one day he would actually die.
Am I not my own being? Am I the other half of Clint Schlottman and therefore only half a person? Where did my strength go if it didn’t leave with him? How am I to go about finding my whole self? Will it ever happen?
No, I am not suicidal. I am far too responsible to do a thing like that. It has never occurred to me to run away from this by killing myself. There has to be another way.
But where is the path?
© cj Schlottman
On Sunday, January 2, 19 months after Clint’s death, I bravely unloaded his silent butler, stowed away his pants and belts and slippers and moved the silent butler to the guest room. I did so with a matter of fact demeanor, no tears, knowing it was the right thing. I need to move on, and it has been a torturously slow and painful process.
I applauded my courage and was sure I had done the right thing. Then Thursday arrived, and I woke in a pit of depression. I now know that it is called delayed grief reactivation.
Over the last week and a half, I have been tempted to move the silent butler back into my room and reload it with Clint’s things. It needs to stay where it is, appropriately available for guests to use, but when I look at the empty place where it stood against the wall on his side of the bed, I suffer periods of weeping and feeling as though he died only yesterday.
Work days are not so painful, and I am going to request to be scheduled to work on Sundays. They are the hardest, the days when we Poppy and I lolled around the house watching golf or football or tennis on TV. We usually had vodka and orange juice with a small brunch around noon. Then we would take a nap and get ready for whatever game we were planning to watch. Yes, Sundays remain difficult in a striking way.
And I continue to have frequent episodes of excruciating grief, tearing up at the mere thought of him, of how disappointing it is to be mired in this agonizing cycle of healing followed by more sadness.
When Clint died, my therapist warned me that it would be a long process to reach that place where I am more healed than wounded. Her exact words were: “The more you have lost, the harder it will be and the longer it will take.” She was right, of course, but this latest episode has me feeling disappointed and cheated. Part of me wants to move on, but there is a place at my core where I am still holding on, hoping he will return. It is a dreadful infirmity.
Could it be that I was so defined by my relationship with my husband? As years have passed and I cared for my brother and my mother, only to see them die within 2 months of one another, I was the brave one, the courageous backbone of the family. Was I drawing all that strength from Clint, his complete support of me, his willingness allow me the privilege of spending as much time with them as I could carve out of the calendar?
Then he got sick, and I thought I could will him to live, thought that if I unyeldingly wanted him to live, he would. On occasion, I would try to imagine what life without him would be, but I was never capable of believing that one day he would actually die.
Am I not my own being? Am I the other half of Clint Schlottman and therefore only half a person? Where did my strength go if it didn’t leave with him? How am I to go about finding my whole self? Will it ever happen?
No, I am not suicidal. I am far too responsible to do a thing like that. It has never occurred to me to run away from this by killing myself. There has to be another way.
But where is the path?
© cj Schlottman
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Fighting the Slide Backwards
Depression is a cunning bastard. It sneaks up on one when least expected and has its way with you. I find myself in transition from one medicine to another, and this morning, I woke feeling as though an ague had overtaken my body. I even took my temperature as my head was aching and my entire body felt as though I had been without sleep for days, though I logged in nine hours last night. My limbs are fatigued and my stomach is just short of nauseated, queasy enough to make me miserable.
For those who don’t suffer from this cruel condition, it may be news that it doesn’t just affect your spirit. It can make one physically ill also. I shutter to think of working today, grateful that I am at home.
This morning, I forced myself to do some work around the house, but I got so tired, I came to bed and did some computer chores. I am sleepy but unable to sleep.
I’m not really sad, just physically uncomfortable and with an ennui of spirit that has me uninterested in anything. I have both of my phones turned off, having no desire to speak to anyone about anything. My sister-in-law, Lisa, and my nephew, Wil, are coming to stay overnight with me, and all I can imagine is how I will put forth some semblance of normalcy.
I start my new job on Monday (the one I have wished for and am anxious to start) and because we are expecting an ice storm on Sunday night and Monday, I am imagining the worst, fearing driving on the icy roads, wondering if the hospital will send for me if I can’t get out of my driveway. Maybe by then, I will be well enough to view the whole event as an adventure.
I’m attempting to stave this off. I have been writing, doing shitty little jobs that I have put off for months. I’m saving gym, but I am too exhausted to even attempt it. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll wake up as the real me.
I’m going to read some blog posts, something I have been remiss about of late. Maybe that will make my stomach stop hurting.
© cj Schlottman
01/08/11
For those who don’t suffer from this cruel condition, it may be news that it doesn’t just affect your spirit. It can make one physically ill also. I shutter to think of working today, grateful that I am at home.
This morning, I forced myself to do some work around the house, but I got so tired, I came to bed and did some computer chores. I am sleepy but unable to sleep.
I’m not really sad, just physically uncomfortable and with an ennui of spirit that has me uninterested in anything. I have both of my phones turned off, having no desire to speak to anyone about anything. My sister-in-law, Lisa, and my nephew, Wil, are coming to stay overnight with me, and all I can imagine is how I will put forth some semblance of normalcy.
I start my new job on Monday (the one I have wished for and am anxious to start) and because we are expecting an ice storm on Sunday night and Monday, I am imagining the worst, fearing driving on the icy roads, wondering if the hospital will send for me if I can’t get out of my driveway. Maybe by then, I will be well enough to view the whole event as an adventure.
I’m attempting to stave this off. I have been writing, doing shitty little jobs that I have put off for months. I’m saving gym, but I am too exhausted to even attempt it. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll wake up as the real me.
I’m going to read some blog posts, something I have been remiss about of late. Maybe that will make my stomach stop hurting.
© cj Schlottman
01/08/11
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Happy New Year - Changes
My new year is beginning on a good note. One amazing thing that happened is that, one week after accepting a full time job in psych, Suzanne from Inpatient Hospice at Pine Pointe called me to say she had received a resignation from one of her full time nurses and offered me the job! That is always what I wanted - a full time job in Hospice. (I need the benefits, not to mention the money). Funny how it took me taking matters into my own hands for things to work out the way I wanted. I start my new job on Monday, the tenth!
On that day, Tuesday, the 28th, I was in Savannah for a private tutorial with my writing mentor, Rosemary Daniell. We did quality work on some of my poems and set some goals. I came away feeling very good about my poems and fortunate to have such a good teacher. And I’ve been working hard on revisions of some older work, and I have a new poem rolling around in my head.
I spent Tuesday night with my granddaughter, Addie, and her family, so the trip was a double success. We had a late exchange of gifts, and they gave me the most precious wrist bag by Coach. The best part was being with Addie and her family.
I had a watershed event on Sunday, when I, after nearly 19 months, I was finally able to take Clint’s trousers off the silent butler and put them away in the closet. They were the last pants he wore before he went to the hospital for his final visit before coming home with Hospice. I took down his belts and hung them in the closet and wrapped up his Ugg bedroom shoes and tucked them away with his old Birkenstocks. I did it without crying, so the time must have been right. Until then, I wasn’t able to even consider moving those things. I polished the silent butler and put it in the guest room to be used by company.
Changes. Some bigger than others, but changes nonetheless. I feel challenged and energized and less depressed than in a long time.
© cj Schlottman
01/04/11
On that day, Tuesday, the 28th, I was in Savannah for a private tutorial with my writing mentor, Rosemary Daniell. We did quality work on some of my poems and set some goals. I came away feeling very good about my poems and fortunate to have such a good teacher. And I’ve been working hard on revisions of some older work, and I have a new poem rolling around in my head.
I spent Tuesday night with my granddaughter, Addie, and her family, so the trip was a double success. We had a late exchange of gifts, and they gave me the most precious wrist bag by Coach. The best part was being with Addie and her family.
I had a watershed event on Sunday, when I, after nearly 19 months, I was finally able to take Clint’s trousers off the silent butler and put them away in the closet. They were the last pants he wore before he went to the hospital for his final visit before coming home with Hospice. I took down his belts and hung them in the closet and wrapped up his Ugg bedroom shoes and tucked them away with his old Birkenstocks. I did it without crying, so the time must have been right. Until then, I wasn’t able to even consider moving those things. I polished the silent butler and put it in the guest room to be used by company.
Changes. Some bigger than others, but changes nonetheless. I feel challenged and energized and less depressed than in a long time.
© cj Schlottman
01/04/11
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