OMG!

I forgot Maya Angelou!!!!

The Thing About Beauty

07/21/10

The Thing About Beauty

The other day I was visiting “Hipstercrite," a blog I try to follow fairly frequently. Lauren, who is in her twenties, posted a piece called “Silver Foxettes.” I was intrigued from the moment I read the title.

The post is about beautiful older women, and Lauren published a list of her favorites, along with photos. Here’s a link to the post: Hipstercrite

Over the last couple of days, I thought in depth about physical beauty, no matter what one's age. I think I am more beautiful at 62 than I was at 40. Imperfect though I may be, is extremely important for me to look in the mirror and see a beautiful face and body, and I have learned to love the way I look. It gives me great strength and a sense of empowerment.

No, I don’t look like a movie star, and my body, well, is rather Rubinesque, but not in a bad way. I love myself, and I wish every woman alive could feel that way. I include teenagers in this statement, but I am realistic enough to understand that they are in a category all their own.

Since I was in my teens, girls have been held to a perfect standard of physical beauty, and have striven to meet impossible criteria of how their bodies should look - skin and bones. We “older” women, at least many of us, grew past that when we reached mid-life, though every day I see woman my age and older whose clothes look as though they came from their daughter’s closet. These woman are rail thin, nipped and tucked ad nauseum.

And in case you think of me as one of those anti-cosmetic surgery zealots, au contraire. I had my eyelids tightened up and a little fat sucked from under my chin. Plastic surgery only becomes the enemy when overdone, when its victims begin to look as though they might melt if they stand too close to the fire.

Please visit “Hipstercrite” and see these fantastic photos of women of great physical beauty. Being 62 myself, I was particularly interested. Like me, when you see these photos, you will begin to think of many others. What about Meryl Streep? Holly Hunter is 50 this year. What about Candace Bergen, Helen Mirren, and Lauren Hutton and Susan Sarandan? What about Dianne Feinstein? What about you and me? We are everywhere, ladies. We are all over the place.

I know this a subject that has been analysed, dissected and written about for years. But after all these years, nothing has changed. As a society, we still value physical beauty more than spiritual and emotional beauty.

It’s a real shame.

© cj Schlottman

Searching for Myself

Just the other day, I read a thought-provoking post over at inJayne’sworld about stereotypes and prejudices. I have linked you up to the post. Her remarks about blondes made me start to wonder why, for most of my life, I have masqueraded as a straight-haired blonde, when in reality, I am a curly-haired brunette.

I began to wonder from whom I have been hiding. Why was it so necessary, at a gut level, to look a part, fit in with my friends and all the blonde celebrities? Was I afraid of the real me? Did I worry that, if I were a curly-haired brunette, the real world wouldn’t see me as hip and well put together?

Then I remembered Rosanne Roseannadana from “Saturday Night Live.” and began to wonder if she were the stereotype I was trying to avoid. If so, then why? She was a fictional character played by a brilliant comedienne, successful and in one piece.

But then I began to wonder if any of us in in one piece. Of course not. We are many pieces, many people as we are called upon by life’s circumstances to be different people at different times.

But back to me. Letting my wild hair go natural has been one of the most liberating experiences of my life. After Clint’ death, I knew that it would be necessary for me to carve out my own identity, to be my own person and no longer his wife. I don’t know how to be a professional widow. I have to find myself in a world without Clint.

Figuring out who I am has not been easy. I am, as they say in the old cliché, a work in progress. I was surprised recently when I felt a sexual attraction to a man, an old friend. I guess that is growth, one hint that I am working my way back into the world of men and women and sexual desire. When Clint died, I was completely certain that I would never want another man in the sexual sense. I have not yet made the leap. I believe that I am more lonely than needy. To embark on an affair now would be harmful to me and unfair to my friend. I still want Clint.

So, here I sit at my keyboard, wondering what my future holds. I start work on July 26, and in many ways, my job will be key in defining just who I am. It’s scary, and I am anxious, but at the same time, I am eager now to walk down the road to find cj without Clint.

Lately, I have spent too much time on memes and reading and commenting on other’s memes. I do not consider it time wasted, but I do believe I have neglected this story, and I intend to spend more time here than elsewhere in the land of blogs. I have a poem rolling around in my head like a pinball. I need to let it spill out and see where it takes me.

I’m off to start the laborious task of putting a poem together. Look for it in the next few days.

© cj Schlottman 07/18/10

Worthy Quotations

This is a copy of a post I published on Cheap Therapy. I'm adding a button at the bottom of this page so you may visit Jennee and join in the conversation.

Like Jennee, I believe quotations can be a big part of our lives. Here are three of my favorites:

1. “If only we'd stop trying to be happy, we could have a pretty good time.” - Edith Wharton

Edith Wharton hit the nail on the head with this one. Although I have traveled widely, I have lived in Georgia all my life. Here in the South, we make too much work out of trying to be happy, searching for happiness, pretending to be happy when we are not. Happiness is not something that we can find and faking it just doesn't work.

We make our own happiness. I recognize that to be an over used and worn out cliché, but it works here. We are the only source of our own personal happiness, and we, in many cases, choose whether or not to be happy.

Exception: After profound loss, such as I have known, it is very difficult to conjure up much happiness. We must grieve, and grieve well, before the happiness is us is accessible.

So, in most instances, happiness is a choice, and yes, we can be happy when our lives are in chaos and change. We are the only ones responsible for the way we react to our life circumstances. Nobody else can make us happy!

So, I am learning to stop trying to be happy, but instead, opening my heart and mind to it, so that there is room for it in my soul.


2. “Never submit to the will on anyone for whom you are merely an option.” - Unknown

Have you ever found yourself saying “yes” to an invitation, even though you are relatively certain that you were second, or even third choice? Ever say “yes” just so that someone’s dining table will be balanced out by our presence? Clutch the pearls! Heaven forbid that there be a odd number at the table.

Ever dated a man who you know is dating someone else and who only calls you if she says “no?” I haven’t, thank God, but I have friends who do.

To allow ourselves to be merely an option is to denigrate ourselves and diminish our sense of self worth. It is a form of self torture, I think.

So, I don’t do it! My life is complicated enough without me making matters worse for myself.



3. “Don't compromise yourself. You are all you've got.” - Janis Joplin

This almost speaks for itself, and it ties in with the quotation above. By settling for second best, we cheat ourselves out of the potential for real growth and honest self-assessment. I am worth more than that, and so are you. We should love ourselves enough to muster the strength to avoid compromising our beliefs, our talents, our strengths.

Ever turn your head the other way when someone utters a bigoted remark? I must confess, that in the past, I did that, convincing myself that to speak up might cause an argument or even a scene. Not any more! These days, I speak up, and not one person has gotten nasty with me. Often they apologize.

We are powerful enough to be our true selves, no matter the circumstances. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that fact, but a fact it is.



© cj Schlottman 07/14/10

Yes, There are Honest People Out There

Yesterday afternoon, I received a call from Miami International Airport's Lost and Found. They have my bracelet! Whoooooo-Hoooooo!!!!!

Just when I think the worst of people, along comes an honest soul. All I had to do was go online and set up a FedEx account, so they could ship my bracelet to me. I was on my way to the clinic when they called, so I waited until this morning. I just finished setting up the account, have talked to MIA again, and the package is on its way. By the way, the ring was on my finger, so it was only my precious bracelet that was lost and then found.

This incident gives me great pause to consider my general outlook on the world around me. Before Clint died, I was the perennial "glass is half full" optimist. But since his death, I have become more guarded, less trusting and, yes, a little cynical. This experience has lifted my heart and given me permission to, once more, become that optimist.

I don't think it will happen overnight, but for the first time in 13 months, I feel a softening of my heart that is very warm and healing. When Clint died, my devastation was so complete and dark, I was unable to see anything in a good light - not really. I managed to put on a pretty good show, but the heavy darkness never left me.

To my sweet and caring readers, I thank each of you for your concern and prayers and comfort. When I began blogging, I wasn't sure what to expect. I had no idea that I would become a part of a community of other writers who are, in a real way, like family to one another.

I am happy, really happy.

Another Piece Gone

07/12/10

Well, I’ve done it again, lost another piece of Clint. Will the devastation never end? While going through security at the Miami airport, I was asked to remove my gold, half-inch monogramed bangle, a gift, along with a matching dome ring, from Clint on our fifth anniversary. While being pushed and shoved, and in all the chaos, I forgot to retrieve it from the basket where I placed it.

Now, here I sit, at 31,000 feet, with another piece of my heart broken off, another piece of Clint gone forever. The losses keep piling up, and just when I begin to feel my strength and to trust my judgment, I do something like this. What in God’s name is wrong with me?

It is all I can do to prevent myself from weeping on this plane, breaking down in sobs. Shit, we all know I’m crazy. I have the papers to prove it, but must I forever be distracted and nervous and so anxious that I am careless with the things that mean the most to me?

Yes, it’s just a thing, an inanimate object. It can’t talk to me or kiss me good night or cheer me when I am sad or make love to me or wash my back, but it sure as hell made me feel better every time I put it on, a reminder of Clint’s love and exquisite taste.

What a crappy way to end what was otherwise a successful trip to Miami. I will ask the flight attendant if there is any hope of getting my treasure back, but I don’t believe there is. I am deflated, flattened once again with grief and loss.

I suppose if anything good is to come of this, it will be a poem, something I hopefully cannot lose.

Things Are Looking Up

07/11/10

This is Parrish on July 11.

The quiet is disconcerting. It’s 3:30 on Sunday afternoon, and Parrish and I have said our good-byes. He was actually eager to go back “home.” We took a cab to Starbucks, lounged around for a while drinking coffee and eating pastries, then we called another cab to take him home and deliver me here to the hotel.

The very fact that he wanted to go home, missed his routine and his roommate, gives me great hope. He is coping well with his illnesses, both physical and mental, and I am now certain that he sees Family Rest as his home, however crude it may be. It is his safety zone, in spite of his complaints. As happy as he was to see me and for us to spend time together, two days was just about long enough, especially in light of his lengthy absence when he was in hospital.

He has a routine that he follows each weekday, and it is on Sunday afternoon that he washes clothes and gets ready for the week. I mistakenly thought that his “program,” as he calls it, starts at 8 AM, but it starts even earilier, at 7. He is busy with computer lab, group therapy, and 12 step programs until 1 PM. He eats both breakfast and lunch there, which means he only has to eat dinner at Family Rest.

I am relieved and pleased that he sees the value of that time, and that he is motivated to return. He admitted to me that he doesn’t really want to sue Danny; he just wants him to do what is right. As rustic as his surroundings are, I believe sincerely that a move would be traumatic and that he would have to adjust all over again. His program is within walking distance from where he is now. Who knows how far he would have to if we moved him? Questions, questions. The only decision I have made is to not make a decision right nowl.

Without knowing it, P has found something of a niche for himself. The only educated resident, he is helping Freddy study for his GED. His roommate frequently has seizures, and Parrish has learned how to care for him when one comes. I’m not sure he is fully aware of his ability to care for others. Remember me saying Freddy, 22, looks up to him as a role model?

Now that Danny, the owner of Family Rest, knows that I will come down here, unlike 99% of the families of his other residents, I believe that things will run more smoothly for Parrish. It’s almost nauseating to know that leverage is what it takes to get people to do the right thing, but it is a fact of life.

On the trip home I will compose a snail mail to Danny, outlining just what I am pleased about and also areas where I see the need for improvement. For example, the “administrator” rarely answers the phone. P and I are in a routine of him calling me, because days can pass when I can’t get anyone on the phone. Calling the residents phone is always iffy, too. Frequently it is broken, and when it’s working, the residents rarely answer.

I want Parrish to have access to his money if he needs it. I see no reason that I shouldn’t be able to call Doris, the administrator, and give her permission to give him money for extras or something special - if only she would answer her phone. As it stands now, while Doris is in the office all day, if I want to give permission for P to have extra money, and sometimes even his allowance, depends on when Danny decides to stroll in. One several occasions I have called him to remind him that Monday is allowance day.

I would be out of here on an afternoon flight if there were a seat, but I can’t complain. I’m using the time to collect my thoughts and remember to be grateful.

Things will get better. I have faith.

Saturday In Miami

Biscayne Bay from our table at Monty's









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Key Lime Pie!


Parrish and Freddie at News Cafe

07/10/10

Parrish went to sleep yesterday afternoon as soon as we arrived at our hotel. He woke briefly in the early evening and ate his leftover salad from lunch, then he went back to sleep and didn’t wake until 7 this morning. He woke looking like a different man, the dark smudged and sunken look of his eyes disappeared overnight. His appearance, though still painted with fatigue, is more like his normal look.

We rested late, and at noon, James came to fetch us for lunch. Parrish asked if we could go by the ALF and pick up a young man, a native of Hialeah, who suffers from bipolar disorder and who has been abandoned by his family since his diagnosis. His name is Freddy, and he looks up to Parrish for friendship and, in a way, a father figure.

I was delighted that Parrish wanted to bring a friend. He has a giving heart and wanted Freddy to have a treat. I was happy to have him along. The weather was fine, and we ate lunch outside at Monyt’s on one of the marinas on Biscayne Bay. The view was spectacular, the yachts elegant and glowing white in the bright sunlight, the water sparkling like dark emeralds. The stone crab was, well, delicious. The men had sandwiches, but not I! Freddy is shy and very sweet.

When we finished lunch, James drove us to South Beach to The News Cafe, a landmark hangout where patrons are encouraged to linger as long as they please, sipping drinks, reading the paper, enjoying sumptuous desserts. The men had key lime pie while I dug into a bowl of New Stand Nachos, a layered ice cream concoction of vanilla ice cream layered with chopped strawberries and kiwi fruit to look like a layered Mexican dip and served with cinnamon sugar tortilla chips for dipping! Divine.

We dropped Freddy at ALF and came back to the hotel, where Parrish and I both took a three hour nap. Yawn and stretch.....pizza delivery for dinner......... ......My Cousin Vinny on TV. Parrish is fast asleep, and I’m joining him now.

My soul is soothed, and the anxiety that has plagued me since Parrish was so ill has abated. There are no words to express how grateful I am that he is recovering and how happy I am to be here with him. He is himself, stable on meds, and I can now see the old Parrish in him, his kindness, his easy and friendly way with people, his intelligence, his sense of humor.

Yes, I am very grateful.

And I am grateful for dear James, our driver. He is a man of elegance and generosity of heart. A kind person, he is.

The Perils of Parrish

07/09/10

This is how Parrish looked when I first saw him on July 9.

I’m reporting from somewhere over Florida, as I travel to see my son in Miami. Some of you know that Parrish, who was 41 yesterday, suffers from the devastating mental illness called schizoaffective disorder. It’s an unfortunate combination of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. He lives in an assisted living facility (ALF) in Hialeah, Florida.

Why so far from me, you might ask? Six hundred miles is a long way. The short answer isn't really short, but I’ll give it a go.

In 1995, Parrish was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and though a college graduate and all around good guy, he, well, ran off of his tracks. He resisted therapy and assisted living, lived on the streets and in the parks and under the bridges of Atlanta for for 14 years. There were two year stretches when I didn’t know where he was. He was mugged and robbed so many times that he lost all of his teeth. He was bounced in and out of the legal system and the state mental health system. As you probably know, state agencies cannot keep patients against their will for more than seven days without their permission. Every time he was admitted to a state psych hospital, having been deemed by the legal system that he was a danger to himself or others, he was back on the streets in a week.

Finally, in January of 2009, when he was released from a state facility, newly diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, they gave him a bus ticket and two boxed lunches and sent him to a rehab facility in Miami. (Like most untreated bipolar patients, he had long since become alcohol and drug addicted).

After a week, he had deserted, but finally having hit that famous “bottom,” he presented himself once more for help. The director of the center described him this way, “We scraped him off the bottom this time.”

They got him sober and on the anti-psychotic drugs he needs, got him integrated into Social Security disability and had him enrolled in both Medicaid and Medicare. Having done their job, they placed him in the ALF where he has resided for a little over a year.

His disease is under good control, though his meds need to be tweaked from time to time. He is clean and sober. In fact, he is more lucid and reasonable and has better judgment than when he was in college.

After all that, the reason he lives so far away from me is twofold. He is where he was when he got clean and sober, 700 miles from his old stomping grounds and his drinking and drugging buddies. It is best for him to stay where he is for that reason alone. Then there is the codependency thing that happens if we are too close. It never works and each of us ends up sicker if I play a big role in his daily life.

Information overload? I hear you.


So, later, after I have had some time with my son, I’ll be ready to edit and post this. I know many of you are already praying for us. Thanks. For others, if prayer is what you do, we could use more. If you communicate with the universe in another way, please include us in your meditations and other spiritual routes. We need all the good energy you can send our way.


Later, in Miami. In my post of 07/05, I wrote:

“I spent a hour in my paper journal. Parrish is in hospital with a spider bite that could have cost him his hand or his arm or even his life. A Brown Recluse bit him on his hand last Monday, while he was taking a nap in his bed in the assisted living facility, and because of their negligence and that of two separate emergency rooms, he is now in hospital at a third facility. He has been there since Thursday, wracked with pain and getting continuous IV antibiotics.”

Now it’s July 9, and I am in Miami with Parrish. He was dismissed from hospital yesterday afternoon, and though his hand and arm still look bad, he is being treated with antibiotics by mouth, and it seems that he will have a full recovery, albiet with a scarred hand.



I had a face-to-face meeting with the owner of the ALF as soon as I arrived, and we came to terms over my disappointment with the way Parrish was treated. He reassured me that, in the future, Parrish will not be denied care when he’s sick or injured. I am not completely comfortable with all of his excuses, and I made that fact clear to him - in a diplomatic way, of course. Parrish and I are planning to shop around for another ALF when the time is right.

This is a hard time for me to be away from home, because I start my new job in two weeks, so we will work on this over the next few months.

Parrish and I had a nice lunch, and we are now resting in our hotel. He is anxious to get back into his mental health program, so he will stay with me until Sunday night when he will return to his ALF in order to be ready for his 8 AM computer class on Monday. I will be flying back to Atlanta later that morning.

I am encouraged by his attitude and the worried Mama in me is somewhat assuaged. To say that I am exhausted from worry and sleep deprivation is, well, an understatement. I’m going to take a nap.

Food for Thought

This morning I am linking to Katie Gates: Stories and Opinions. Katie is a talented writer with an easy style and her opinions are worth sharing. Click on the title of this post and pop over and check her out. Just click on the title of this post. Happy Reading!

I'll be back later with a post of my own.

Only Loneliness and Spider Bites

07/04/10

I took photos of my little gardens, desperate to find a place to put this despondent energy, this anxious melancholy, but I failed. Oh, the photos are nice, but they left me unsatisfied, still mournful, still suffering the absence of My Dead Husband. There are still those days when his absence is all that I know. It fills the house, chills it, even in this oppressive heat. How is it possible to be hot and cold at once?

I woke early and began cleaning my little house, dusting and polishing and shining all the mirrors and tables, filling the hours with labor, sweating from the effort. Then, still not satisfied, I began to bake cheese straws, dozens of them, not for me but for others. I could not allow myself to sit, knit, watch TV, read. It was as though I were fleeing the emptiness, trying to fill it with activity and sweat. But it remains, more oppressive than ever.

07/05/10

Tears rolled down my temples as I lay on my blanket last night, while the fireworks at our club filled the night sky with magic and color. I wanted Clint to be there, felt isolated in the crowd gathered to celebrate our nation’s birthday. I wanted to wear Clint’s Old Navy shirt with the American flag on it, but I couldn’t find it. That made me cry, so I went to Old Navy and bought another one in size XL so I could pretend it was his.

Today is better. I’m devoting it to writing this post and reading blog posts from my favorite sites. And yes, I see Proust in my day. My affair with him is almost at an end, having made it all the way to the seventh volume, Time Regained.

I spent a hour in my paper journal. Parrish is in hospital with a spider bite that could have cost him his hand or his arm or even his life. A Brown Recluse bit him on his hand last Monday, while he was taking a nap in his bed in the assisted living facility, and because of their negligence and that of two separate emergency rooms, he is now in hospital at a third facility. He has been there since Thursday, wracked with pain and getting continuous IV antibiotics. I will write the entire story in my Rants and Raves blog after I have had a chance to go to Miami and see him.

That has to wait until Wednesday, the 14th, because I have finally, reached the last step in my effort to become employed, and I have orientation and testing until Tuesday.

What next? I suppose there are those out there who would say to me, “Be grateful that Parrish is not dead. Be grateful for what you have, your sweet memories of Clint.” I try. I really do.

My Little Rust Gardens

Summer has been brutal in Macon, so my little "Rust Gardens" aren't as lush as usual, but I want to
share them with you along with a sweet memory of Clint.

He never understood the rust thing, always wanted to spiff them up with a coat of paint! But he was a kind a gentle man of great humor and he suffered my silliness with love and laughter.

The day I brought home the little pine bench, he said, "Did you PAY for that?" When I replied in the affirmative, he declared, "Well, we might just as well start a bonfire, because one of us has money to burn!
















































It was fun to put this together, and I'm glad you came to visit.

Of Butterflies and Hurricanes

In a shameless attempt to get some of my readers over to My Poems, I am publishing a new one here!

Tiny butterlies flap their wings
high up in my chest, in the back
of my throat, sending sparks up each
side of my neck, prickling my scalp.
They spread into my chest, growing
into sparrows or wrens stealing
the space where I breathe, filling the
hole where my heart was with chaos.
I breathe long and slow to settle
the havoc, but to no avail.
The pounding penetrates to my
back where an eagle spreads his wings
bruising my rib cage, clawing my
wounds, pecking at my pain.
A hurricane, the energy
breaches my diaphram and roils
my gut, leaving me heaving with
nausea, tingling with thorny sweat
gasping for air.

Grief Reactivated - Again

06/27/10

What is it about this thing called reactivated grief?  My stepson's mother-in-law died yesterday morning - on the 6th anniversary of her daughter’s death from breast cancer.  Such a cruel irony, that.

When I learned of her passing, I went numb for a while.  Then it happened.  Anxiety sneaked up on me and wracked me with unease, and I felt as though Clint had died yesterday, too.  Tears gathered behind my eyelids and spilled out all over the place, and soon I was sobbing, heaving with pain and loss.  Again.  I’m still reeling from the death of Loren’s father two weeks ago.

Ann Carol, my therapist said that reactivated grief would be part of my life for a long while, but she said it would get easier over time.  Not yet, at least not yet for me.

Jesus.  I want my husband.  These are the times I need him the most, the times that my heart cracks anew and I need his comforting way, his pure and reassuring love.  Just how many ways can one heart break, how many times will it pump poison throughout my entire body and cause me physical discomfort?  Yes, the pain is physical.  Every muscle in my body is in a state of rebellion, so much so that I have turned on my heated mattress pad and climbed into bed to take advantage of its soothing warmth.  

My gut is wrenching, but earlier I gathered myself together enough to go by to spend some time with my step-granddaughters, offer support for these young women - 21 and 13 - who, like me, have suffered such grave loss at a young age.  Kristy came by and drove me over, and I took them some of my famous cheese straws.  But when we arrived, the girls had gone to the pool at the club.  Crestfallen, I managed for a little while to interact with the adults who were milling around aimlessly, some chewing on chicken, others cutting into a ham or dishing up barbecue or munching finger sandwiches.

The kitchen counters were covered with food, and two refrigerators were bulging with more.  That’s what we do here in The Deep South.  We hide our grief behind food.  We think eating will fix just about any hurt, so on our way home, Kristy and I stopped at the store for me to buy some more cheese.  Now I have some cooking to hide behind.  I’m just as fucking crazy as the rest of them.  

No Fathers Here - Just a Photo

06/20/10

Father’s Day.

Here we are, my dogs Honey and Belle and I, females all.  Mr. Palmer, our Betta fish, though male, is childless because of his ill temper.
   
My son is a father, but he is not here, trapped as he is in the bonds of schizoaffective disorder.*  He is 600 miles away in a personal care home, where he exists with the assistance of mental health professionals and pharmaceuticals. 

His daughter is not fatherless, adopted years ago by her stepfather.  She has a daddy, and I thank God for that.

Clint was a father, had four children with his first wife, but as we all know, he died last year just days short of Father’s Day.

Me?  My daddy died when I was six, so I’m accustomed to this day when people celebrate what I have never known.  I do have this photo of him during World War Two.  Handsome, with sweet eyes.

I guess I can count the father bird whose nest of babies just flew away.  Every year, a pair of wrens nest in an old floor lamp in the garage, preventing me from giving it to Goodwill.

No, we are not complaining.  We, the two dogs and the fish and I, are escaping the 106º heat index outside by holing up in my room, ceiling fan creating a small breeze for us, watching the U S Open golf tournament and being happy for all the fathers and sons and daughters we see there.


*schizo-affective (also schizoaffective)
adjective (of a person or a mental condition) characterized by symptoms of both schizophrenia and manic-depressive psychosis.

Carly

06/18/10

Today, Nancy, my friend of 38 years, came and picked me up to go eat lunch at a Mexican restaurant we frequent, though less often now that we’re in our sixties and take Prevacid.  When she parked the SUV, I climbed out of my side and glanced over to see her looking in the car parked next to us.  She wore a look of shock and fear.  I rounded the front of her SUV and looked for myself.  There, in a black car, two windows slightly cracked, on the passenger seat, was a tiny white puppy with brown ears .  She was mewling like a kitten, panting, her eyes wide and terrified, beginning to cloud over.  There was no water in sight.  I clicked The Weather Channel icon on my Blackberry to find that at that moment, the temperature was 95º with a heat index of 100º!

Yes, some idiot person(s) who should be arrested and made to sit in a black car with no water and inadequate ventilation in 100º heat had left that little puppy, who looked as though she were too young to be taken from her mother, in the car under the blazing sun, no shade in sight.

I was almost physically ill, choking back the taste of bile that rose in my throat.  We rushed into the restaurant and I went from table to table until I found the two teen girls whose combined IQ must have been that of a squirrel, who said the puppy was theirs.  I asked if I could take him some water before he died of heat stroke.

“The windows are cracked.”

“Yes, they are, but in this heat the temperature of that car is probably close to 135º.  May I please take the puppy some water?”

Shrugs.  

“We have a water bowl, the younger of the two said.”

More Shrugs.

“May I please put some water in it?”

“Okay,” the older of the two finally said. She appeared to be about 17, and she handed her younger sister the car keys.  Nancy had gotten a cup of cold water and handed it to me as the girl and I walked outside into the scorching heat, me praying that the puppy was still alive.

She opened the driver’s side door. The puppy was nowhere to be seen.  I was at the passenger door and had to ask her to unlock it, and she reached across to let me in.  The puppy had crawled under the front seat seeking shade, I suppose, and she was still crying, only much more softly.

I reached under the seat and pulled out the puppy and put the cup to her lips.  She drank weakly, hardly able to lap at the water, but as he continued to drink, her tongue started working harder at getting the water down.

“Where is the water bowl?  Will you give it to me?”

The girl, who seemed to be about 12, opened the trunk of the car and retrieved the water bowl.  Now there's an idea:  leave your puppy in a hot car and her empty water bowl in the effing trunk.  I poured the cool water in the bowl and placed it beside the puppy, whose name, as it turns out, is “Carly.”

“How long have you had your puppy?”

“I got her yesterday.  She’s a early birthday present.  My birthday is on the 25th.”

“Don’t you want this dog to live until your birthday?” I queried, coming as close as I would to losing my temper.  "Please, if you don’t have a safe and cool place for her, take your food to-go and take her home.  I’ll buy your lunch if you will take it to-go.”

She said not a word, and returned a blank stare in my direction.  I walked back into the restaurant with her, imploring her and her sister to remember how hot that car would get.  Another shrug.  I asked them to keep an eye on the dog.

Nancy and I choked on our food, so worried we were about the puppy. I got up and went outside to check on it and found it lying beside the bowl, a quarter of the water gone.  She looked a little better, had some shine in her tiny eyes.  The mewling had stopped.

The restaurant manager approached the girls and gave them a stern lecture about dogs in hot cars, and they finally got up and paid and left.

And that’s not the worst of it.  Carly is in for a tough life, and I wonder if she might have been better off to die right there than to go home with those careless girls.  

What kind of people raise children who don’t realize that puppies are not stuffed toys, that they have hearts that beat and lungs that breathe and that they need to be protected from the world around them?  I have been weeping all evening, every time I think of that puppy.

This feeling of helplessness is almost paralyzing.  Should I have called the Humane Society from the restaurant, written down their car tag number?  Shouldn’t I have done more?  

The awful truth is that it’s too late now to do anything.  All I can do now is pray hard that some of what the restaurant manager and I said made some impact on the girls.  Maybe, just maybe, they heard what we said.  I don’t think I can sleep if I can’t convince myself that they did.

It's Official. I'm whining.

06/17/10

It’s official, I’m whining.  The job I have been trying to land since April 13 has not yet been filled.  Human Resources says Hospice has my application, but Hospice is in the middle of a computer training class, and they have not returned my call from Tuesday asking them for an update.  I just left another message with them.  What’s up with professionals not returning phone calls?  It’s rude.  That’s the only word for it.  

Trying to land this job has been one of the most exasperating experiences in my life.  It has also been a tremendous disappointment.  I paid a $500.00 tuition to be reentered into nursing and get my license back, then I did a four week preceptorship with Hospice, during which I worked my ASS off for them (for free).  They wooed me, pursued me to come to work for them.  They sent the State Board of Nursing a glowing recommendation, and I had my license in a week.

The job finally showed up on the HR web site on May 21, and I applied that day.  That was nearly four weeks ago!

Life is hard enough around here without Clint, and this situation has me sliding back into the depression that has plagued me all my adult life.  It’s making me miss him more, making me angry again, making me bitchy, all the things I don’t want to be, all the things that are toxic to me.

Sure, I volunteer at the free clinic, but that is only a few hours a week.  I’m getting out with friends, but the sad fact is that I need to have some money coming in if I’m to continue that.  I haven’t been on a real budget in years, so watching every dollar is tiresome - if necessary - to me.

No, I am not headed for the poor house.  I have a nest egg, a sizable one, but I don’t want to dip into it.  I’m only 62, after all, and I plan to live a long time.  That money is for my old age, not for now.

I have resisted applying to work with any other Hospice organization, but I just made the decision to do that.  I made it as I wrote.  Medical Center is opening an inpatient facility, and my agreement with them was that I would apply for and take the shitty job that is home care nights and weekends and that nobody wants.  If I agreed to do that, they assured me a full time position in the inpatient facility.  I’m not sure I can trust them any more.

I’m going to apply at other places and then plan a dinner party for some of my friends, my close friends who will bring a bottle of wine or an appetizer.

I know I can do this, but it certainly is a roller coaster ride that keeps my head spinning and my spirits in jeopardy.  Hell, I have survived a year without Clint.  I can do anything..

(I burst into tears when I wrote that last sentence, and I had a hard time stopping.  I am really whining, and I'm going to whine and cry for a long as I want).

Heat

06/14/10

I promised  myself I would not write anything today until my house was clean!  Hah!  What a gratuitous lie that was!

To begin, it is as hot as the hinges of hell here is Macon, Georgia, and even the air conditioner cannot stay ahead of 95º with a heat index of 104º.  (By 3:00, it will be 98º)!

Here, in my little air conditioned house, I have cleaned my bathroom and the guest bath.  Period.  Sweat is dripping down my cheeks and my sports top is glued to my torso, feeling like a wet bathing suit.  Yes, I do remember wearing one of those, but not lately.  To make matters worse, I’m wearing a back brace that my 14 year old doctor says I should wear when I work around the house.

The copper fountain has lost its splash, needs to be cleaned, the water merely draining from one leaf to the the other with no more than a faint hum.  Water evaporates quickly in this heat. 

Both of my dogs are lethargic with crabby expressions on their faces.  They know that their walk will have to wait until 8:00 tonight...........

...................Back from cleaning the fountain.  I couldn’t contain myself.  Once I wrote it down, it became real and I was so ashamed of my neglect of it that I had to do something.  Guilt is a great motivator.

My room is scary.  I can only see a few little spots on the top of my dresser, so strewn it is with stacks of old journals, new journals, my iPod, notes to myself, - some written weeks ago - my new vocabulary lists.  There are several of them because when I add a new word, I frequently am unable to find the last list.  There are stacks of books, one of them on the verge of causing an avalanche of sorts, framed photos, a head band and two clips, my coffee cup from this morning, and the tiny brass lamp Kristy gave me one time.  Last week, cheat that I am, I moved everything around a little and dusted with one of those Swiffer things that goes 365º. 

My bedside table, oh, shit, my bedside table.  I have to leave the tubes of medicine there or I will forget my dogs’ maladies.  Honey has an eye thing, and Belle has an ear thing.  I can’t put my lip balm in the drawer or I will forget to use it before I go to bed.  Ditto the nail stuff.  Mine are little stubs.  I need the CD remote so I can turn on my relaxation music when I turn out the light.  Pictures of Clint and Addie, well, there is no room for negotiation there.  They stay.  And I dust them off every day.  Mr. Palmer, my betta fish, lives on my beside table.  He’s the only thing in the house that looks at all cool.  I guess I’ll take the dirty glass and empty Gatorade bottle to the kitchen.  The trash can in here is overflowing.

Never  mind the chair in my room, just never mind.

God, I hate this sweat.  For the uninitiated, here in the Deep South, the humidity invades our homes, even with the air conditioner cranking out air that is supposed to keep us cool.  Someone once told me that an AC can only effectively cool a home more than 20º below the outside temperature.  I believe it to be true.

I’m going to tackle my dresser, then take a cold shower and lie naked beneath the ceiling fan that hangs over my bed......or maybe I’ll clean the den first.

It Came and Went - © Claudia Schlottman

06/11/10

The first anniversary of Clint’s death came and went, leaving in its wake waves of sadness and loneliness and yes, despair.  I knew I would not wake up on Wednesday morning and be well, but I didn’t expect be so painfully sorrowful.

My wonderful friend, Loren, lost his father on Wednesday, and his loss reignited my grief - once more.  Will it go on forever?  

I am dressed to go out to run errands, but I'm having trouble getting to the door.  My toenails really do need a top coat.  I need to read my favorite blogs and take time to comment.  I need to clean my house, which was left in a moderate state of shambles by the get-together on Tuesday night and to which I have not done one fucking thing.  It was yesterday morning before I loaded the dishwasher and late in the afternoon when I unloaded it.  I found some Burger King sacks and some greasy spots on the cocktail table in the TV room, but I didn’t do anything but throw away the bags. 

Last night I went with my usual group to Bonefish for happy hour drinks and food.  It sat and wished I could be anywhere else in the world, anywhere I’m not known and friends won’t look at me with their furrowed brows and whisper, “Are you all right?”

Hell, no, I am not all right.  I have been a widow for one year and that’s not long enough to be all right.  I have done some healing, and I love my friends for their support and caring, but no, I am not all right.  I want to escape but don’t know where to go.

This morning, I cried while practicing yoga.  I think crying during yoga might be against the rules, so I pushed aside my tears and dammed up the rest for later.  And there will be a later, maybe tonight or tomorrow or today in the middle of Wal Mart.  They are there, lurking, watching for an opening.

I want to be NIN’s Sabina for a day or two.  No, I don’t want to have her sexual exploits, but I want to pretend I’m someone I’m not, flirt with strange men, eat exotic food and surround myself with people who have no idea who I am or what I want or what I need. Maybe on some level I do want to have gratuitous anonymous sex.  But would I come away from it any different?  Would it heal me?  Would it hurt me?

So many questions, so much sadness and uncertainty have me feeling lost and confused and impotent to live my life as I know I can.  Maybe tomorrow will be better.  God, I hope so.

2 Weeks from Hell - Part 5

06/06/10

So we had Clint for three more days - at home where he wanted to be.  In turns, we lay with him, whispered our love in his ear, even napped with him.  That's Kristy in the photo with him. Until noon on Monday, he knew all of us, and we guarded our secret that he was here and dying.  None of us wanted to waste one minute of our time with him to answer the door and take a casserole from a well-meaning friend or neighbor.  None of us could eat, anyway.

On Monday morning, when his breathing became laced with rattles, none of the others could bear the noise.  But I stayed with him, and until noon, he answered me every time I said, “Iove you,” with his stock reply, “I love my darling.”  After that, he would open his eyes when I spoke, but as the afternoon wore on, he stopped even that, and I knew he was safe in a coma, away from his pain.

This is one of my poems I wrote only a few weeks ago, but this is where it should be.


Your Leaving

I grow a shell  armor
against your pending death
steel myself for the blow.

And then you get too tired
to live and we dress you
in your soft sweater
and I drop moprhine under
your tongue to give you peace
and let you go.

I lay my head on your
chest, cashmere soothing my
tear stained face and listen
as your heartbeat fades &
you breathe the breath that
is your last.

Now I’m a turtle on
my back  feet fighting the
air flailing to upright
myself  hemorrhaging
tears & wondering how
I got here.

I rock hard, roll back and
forth  struggle to right my-
self and crawl after you.
I fall deep in the dark
grope in the ink-black place
for your touch - one more touch
allow myself to sink
dreading the time I will
paddle to the surface
to find you gone.


I have a long way to go.

Two weeks from - Part 4 - We go Home - © Claudia Schlottman

05/30/10

It was the middle of the afternoon when we arrived at our house, and our hospice nurse, Nicole, was waiting for us.  After the EMTs had deposited Poppy into his bed, I began pulling off his hospital gown.

“Mrs. Schlottman,” said Nicole, “you may want to leave that on him so it will be easier to keep him clean and dry.”

“No hospital gowns,” I said.  Clint sleeps in boxers and a cashmere sweater, and that is what he will wear.”  

She looked skeptical but did not argue.  

“He has a catheter and a rectal tube,” I said.  That will keep him clean and dry.  He’s not going to die with a gown on.”  

So, I chose his softest sweater and a pair of Tabasco boxers with an alligator on them, and we dressed him for bed.  He was asleep in 30 seconds.

I had a meeting with Nicole to go over hospice procedure.  Having been a hospice volunteer, I was familiar with the routine.  She ordered medicine for anxiety and pain for Clint, to be delivered by a local pharmacy.  

“Mrs. Schlottman....has Dr. Schlottman asked for any alcohol?

“No,but if he does, I will give it to him.”

“Right answer.”

And I said the truest words that ever left my lips, 

“I will not deny him anything he wants.  I will not say ‘no’ to a dying man.  If he says he want to soak in the tub - he soaks every day - we will get him in the tub. He might die there, or it may take the fire department to get him out of the tub, but believe me when I say I will deny him nothing.”

Two Weeks from Hell - Part 3 © Claudia Schlottman

05/29/10

The gardenias didn’t bloom last year until after Poppy died.  Today, I’m at my desk, looking out over the back yard, and it is filled with hundreds of blossoms and the perfume sneaks around the closed doors and windows.  Maybe they bloom for him?  Or me? 

A year ago, early in the morning of May 4, 2009, around 1 AM or so, Poppy was restless and pulling at his tubing and fussing at me.  The ER doctor walked into our little room - not even a real ER room because they were so busy.  

“His ammonia level is over 330,” he solemnly reported.  

“Oh,” I said.  “That explains his crankiness and confusion.”  (Normal ammonia levels in human beings range from 10 to 40).  I asked for the papers, the ones I swore to Clint that I would sign if there were no hope.

“Care and comfort only,” I said.  Try to get him stable enough to take home.  He does not want to die here.”

I called Kristy, and she came right away, then we decided to call Robert.   We saved our call for Gretchen until after daylight since she was 1200 miles away.

Clint was transferred to a real ER room, and a friend of our family, Donny Robinson, a chest surgeon, drained a liter and a half of fluid from Clint’s chest cavity.  It was not pleural fluid, it was abdominal fluid called ascites which collects in the abdominal cavity in the last throes of liver failure.  There was so much fluid, it had breached Clint’s diaphram and was what was causing all his dramatic shortness of breath.

I stood at the head of his bed and whispered “Fight, Darling, you have to fight.  I know you can do this.  Don’t give up, keep fighting.”  He looked into my eyes and slowly moved his head back and forth to say no.  I could read in his eyes that he was too tired to fight, so I told him we would go home.  He nodded yes.

“I’m ready to start the discharge process,” I said tearfully to Kristy and Bert.  “Poppy is not going to get well this time, and I want to take him home to die.”

“I have to hear it from the doctor,” said Kristy.  I don’t believe he is dying right now.”

“Then let’s talk to the doctor and see what she says.”

We made an appointment to see Dr. Bickley on her lunch hour.  She agreed that this was Clint’s terminal episode, but she had good news, too.  There will never be a way for me to thank Kristy for insisting on seeing the doctor.  Dr. Bickley asked to keep Poppy overnight, saying there were some procedures to bring down his ammonia level so he would be more himself.  Then we could take him home.

We called Gretchen and got her on a plane.

They moved Poppy to ICU, so we couldn’t stay with him, so on Thursday night I went home and tried to rest.  Gretchen got home at 2 AM, and I got up at 4.  I dressed and went to the hospital and begged the nurses to let me in to be with Clint.  His nurse told me that, three times during the night, he asked her to call me to come get him and take him home.

We made hospice arrangements, and I went to tell Poppy we were going home, and that we would be taking hospice with us.  He said, “I think that’s a good idea.”

His mind was clear, his ammonia level was normal, but it was only a matter of time before more fluid would build up and his ammonia level would, too.  

So we went home, but not before he ate a lunch of roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy and green beans

Two Weeks in Hell - Part 2

05/28/10

On Thursday evening , May 29, Clint was in so much respiratory distress that I was afraid to go to sleep, so on Friday, I called for home oxygen.  That night we both got some rest, but he continued to deteriorate.  His son Robert, helpless as the rest of us, wanted to help his father with his breathing treatments, so I turned them over to him.  Though Clint was never able to complete a treatment, Robert hung in there and got as much medication into him as he could.  

The sound of the O-2 concentrator made me physically ill, reminding me as it did of the one my brother John had when he was dying of kidney cancer.  It was the sound of death lurking around the corner, but I continued to tell myself that it would not come right away, that we had months more time with Clint, maybe even a year.

Denial is an incredibly strong emotion.  I am a nurse, for God’s sake, and I could not see that my husband was dying before my eyes.  I listened to his chest, hearing breath sounds that weren’t there, calling them muffled or diminished.  I did not check his blood pressure.

We struggled along.  Clint became more and more confused, but I couldn’t see it - called it fatigue.  In Robert’s absence, he tried to give himself his breathing treatment, not wanting to bother me, and he tore up the adapter and I had to call for another one. 

The days were filled with long naps, coughing spells, useless breathing treatments and attempts to watch old movies.  Clint was cranky with me and I was exhausted.  Why did I not see that he was not himself?  Why did it take me until the following Wednesday night, June 3, to realize that if I didn’t take him to hospital, he would die at home - in agony?

Late that evening, I called 911, asking for an ambulance only to help me transport Clint to hospital.  After I called them, Clint got into his chair, wheeled himself into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, gathered his dop kit and peed.  By the time the EMTs were here, he was coming around the corner into the living room with his dop kit in his lap saying he could get himself outside to the ambulance.  He could hardly breathe, but he put up an incredible front.

Since the stretcher was already in the living room, the EMT very gently suggested that they go ahead and put Clint on it, and he acquiesced.  (The ambulance had arrived, siren blaring and with a fire truck close behind, thundering and honking).  So much for asking for transportation only.  I’m sure everyone on the block was awake to see the ambulance pull out of our driveway.

I followed in my car, scared out of my mind that he would die before I got to the hospital.

Two Weeks in Hell - Part One - © Claudia Schlottman

05/26/10

On Monday, May 25, 9009, I admitted presented Clint a the emergency room with a blood pressure of 81/40!  He had fluid in his chest cavity and was having a great deal of trouble breathing and was in pain.  (When he admitted he was in pain, he was in PAIN, so stoic was he).  His blood work was all crazy, and he had an irregular heart rhythm because his magnesium level was so low.  We were assigned an “Hospitalist,” a dreadful new trend in medicine.  Our hospitalist had never laid eyes on Clint.  We told her that we knew his condition was related to liver failure due to alcohol use.  Clint patiently explained to her that he knew his life was limited and that he had no intention of stopping drinking.  Then she refused to give him any pain medicine that had to be processed through the liver!  (Did she not get it, that it was too late to worry about his liver, that is probably looked like cheesecloth at that point)?

I had some of his home meds in my purse, and I gave him something for the pain.  We asked to be transferred to the hospital where our doctor works and went there for one night.  

When we got him on Wednesday, Clint was weak but stable.  Emily had an All Star softball game that night, and Clint wanted to go!  His breathing was not good enough, and he was cranky - and secretly relieved) when I refused to take him.  He needed complete bed rest, and I saw that he got it, in spite of himself.

Screaming in the Shower - © Claudia Schlottman

05/25/10

Last night night I stood in the shower and screamed, shampoo running into my eyes and into my wide open mouth.  I thought I would drop to my knees, but I held myself upright, rinsed my eyes and mouth, them slid down the shower wall and covered my face and screamed until my throat ached and I was hoarse.  I washed but couldn’t remember what parts I had washed so I did it all over again.  I poured conditioner on my hair and finally stood to rinse it out.

One year ago today, we had been home from New Orleans and Baton Rouge for 3 days, and Clint was dying.  He tried to tell me, but I could not hear.  My depression was getting on his nerves, and he was getting on mine because he was so cranky.  (Later I would learn that his blood ammonia level was getting high, which is part of end stage liver disease and causes personality changes).  

We drove to New Orleans on May 13, spending one night on the road because travel was so hard for Clint.  His 50th Medical School Reunion at Tulane was on Friday, the 15th, and I wanted him to have a day to rest.  (I believe in my heart that he willed himself to stay alive to go to that reunion and then drive to Baton Rouge to see Prentiss and Susan).  When I look back at how erratic his behavior was on that trip I should have suspected he had elevated ammonia levels.  But my denial was overwhelming. I was not capable of believing what I knew in my nurse’s head but could only work with what was in my heart.  I was not ready to believe he would die.  I’m still not ready for him to die, and he's been dead nearly a year.  These next weeks are going to be hell.

The Longest Year © Claudia Schlottman

05/24/10

My recording of Grey’s Anatomy just finished, so the TV is turned off, and I am lying here staring at the ceiling fan telling myself not to cry.  It’s not working.  It’s miserably hot for May, and I cranked down the temperature on the air conditioner so I wouldn’t be too warm in The Red Sweater

I need the Red Sweater tonight, need to feel covered up with Clint, even sprinkled it with a fresh dose of Old Spice.  I need to smell him, touch his skin, feel his arms around me, his mouth on mine.  Soon it will have been a year since he died, and it has been the longest year of my life.  I will never smell, touch or kiss him again - not for as long as I live.  But I still want it, still weep for its loss, still burn in my gut with emptiness.

Friends exclaim, “I can’t believe it has been nearly a year!”

I respond, “You wouldn’t say that if it were your husband who died.”  

The nights have been longer, the days more tedious than one could imagine.  I still wake, in fact I did this morning, reaching for Clint and finding only Belle, my Boxer.  I wake with things to say to him, the need to touch him, but the bed still stretches on forever, barren and dry except for my dogs, my best friends, my little saviors who love me so much and who so unconditionally accept what I have to give them.  They are my little family, and without them, I cringe to think what kind of shape I would be in today.

Working has been the only thing that has made me feel better.  My preceptorship, while harrowing at times, was the best 4 weeks I’ve had in more than a few years.  Since I am still waiting on my regular job to open up, I signed on at our local Volunteer Clinic for patients who are working but don’t have health insurance.  That helps.

But when I get right down to it, I am facing  the heartbreaking milestone that will come with June 8 at 6:33 PM.  And it’s killing me, eating me alive knowing that on that day I will relive those last hours when, burning with fever, my one true love, faded and left this earth.  I still wish I could have gone with him.