Changes

I've been trying to write this "first post" for a while (it's intimidating!) and I've been trying to find the right words.

Change has always been a problem area for me. Just ask Kevin how much of a fuss I put up when we decided to go to Ludington, Michigan for CFV one year instead of the trusty old Rivers Edge Resort in Wisconsin Dells. When you're perfectly happy with the way your life is, it's difficult to give it up for something else, even if it will be better for us in the end.

I find myself in this period of transition, not only because of graduation and college, but also because of the significant changes in the absence of very important and loved people in my life. I don't think I need to try to convince anyone that saying goodbye to Diana was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. And once in the aftermath, we're stuck in an area between the event and the future, where people say things get better. I wonder if this is how a caterpillar feels in a cocoon- half transformed and very vulnerable?

You know the old cliche, "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger"? I'd also like to believe that what doesn't kill us makes us who we are. (<---- Shamelessly stolen from song lyrics, I admit) What else are we made up of other than skin, bones, memories and learned lessons?

And once things do change, once we are different, what do we do with the parts of us that were once all of us? I can't help but wonder if I would enjoy life more if I just went with the flow instead of trying to swim upstream, against the current that rushes me into change. How does one make the transition between fighting change and accepting it?

Any thoughts? Thank you for allowing me to share mine *smiles*

Don't Leave your Camera Lying Around

I've been meaning to post these for a while now. When I got home from dp's memorial, I found some surprises on my camera. Kevin's family will recognize them.

Sam and I before the garage

I'm too lazy to go start Walker's computer, which has the majority of our photos on it.  I like this picture a whole bunch anyway.  My Dad chose words the way a Hasidic Jeweler chooses diamonds.  On the back of the photo, in a hand I used to describe as "seismographic" (jagged vertical and diagonal lines), dad wrote:

"Sam and I before the garage."

Mostly what I have from this flood is survivor guilt.  I have a new job that focuses on providing mental health support for disaster recovery workers who will cover a 10 state region and even muster to other parts of the U.S.  I'm trying to learn my job and all around me people are mucking out and helping each other in these small, really cool ways.  Our house and stuff are fine.  We didn't really consider flood plain issues when we bought our lot.  We can't take credit for choosing our location.  Got lucky.  I feel selfish sitting at a baseball game, but I'm really tired.  Between leaving Four Oaks, Diana dying, new job, and the disaster all around us, I'm just spent at the end of the day.  My body cries out for NAPS!

Mom's birthday was Friday.  After some consideration, I decided that what she'd really like was to be taken out for a cocktail.  I was correct.  We went to Beckett's and she had a glass of shiraz.  I had a shot of Laphroaig (sp?  Kev.  Go buy a bottle and tell me!) and a Bass.  We ordered mussels, cooked in wine and herbs and butter.  Yum.  We dribbled on ourselves.

Mom always tells me how she really wants to move, to get out of "that place" and find a little house.  She doesn't really need a car and she'd like to live where she can walk to things.  I talk about this a little and she won't back down or be distracted.  I go over the recent history of her discharge, the choices, the move, the need for assistance?

"Why?  I feel fine!"  Thankfully, she can't remember all the mistakes, miscues.  She feels like her old self.  Because of this, she remembers us.  Because of this, history must repeat itself, as we drag it, like a corpse, through the middle of an otherwise happy evening.

"I'm the only person you can talk to about this," I comment to her, and Mom smiles.  She's pleasant to everyone,  and a little distant.  She hasn't made any close friends like Ruth, her drinking buddy across the hall at Ridgeview.  For a minute, she realizes that we're doing this again, ruining our night.  She gathers herself and sips her wine and we talk about Caitlin and how independent she is.

She is seventy-two.  She thought she was seventy-two last year, and she remembered this when we talked about it, laughed, and agreed that this actually gives her two years at the same age.  A bargain.

"I'd like to live to be eighty,"  Mom said.  "Nobody in my family ever lived to be eighty."

Receding Waters

The water level in Iowa City has been falling since Monday. By tomorrow, it should be down to the 1993 high water mark. I understand the President was here for a photo op today, but I didn't see anything (unless the big army helicopter was for him, and not flood relief).

Jeff and Faith are the hardest hit of our circle, I think, but Bree and Bill have postponed the wedding while they're relocated to Drew and Cinda's. When I talked to Jeff tonight, he said he figures the water topped off about 5 1/2 feet high in his house. He's rinsing and bleaching what he can, but most of it is just beyond salvage.

I worked shifts at the City's 'Flood Command Center' phones Saturday and Sunday. Saturday morning, things were really hopping -- there were four phone lines, and I think I was on one of them 95% of the time. The majority were people calling to volunteer -- from Iowa City, Solon, North Liberty, Pennsylvania and California. We also took calls from businesses and groups who needed more sand, bags, or volunteers. By Sunday, things were slower -- all the sandbagging was done, and a lot of the calls were about how to get to Chicago or to Cedar Rapids (the official answer was to take the detour through Des Moines).

I've become a bicycle commuter, and I get to pass a lot of cars on the way home. We've got I-80 and I-380 back, but Hwy 1 is still one of the few ways to get to them. The weather has been great for it this week, and it only takes me about 15 minutes each way. I'm getting fenders and a grocery bag put on tomorrow.

Marie likes the Hospice people well enough. Our staff has been trying to heal a couple of skin sores for a couple of weeks now, and Connie is getting pretty frustrated. Hospice sent over a wound specialist last Tuesday, and he thought that they were healing pretty well, but they still haven't gone away. She's comfortable enough, but her appetite is pretty sporadic, so low blood sugar is becoming more problematic. It feels like she's winding down.

Headwise, I'm mostly okay, although there are still days that I'm surprised by how much I miss dp. Progress seems to be more cyclical than linear, but it's progress nonetheless.

Let me know if you want a t-shirt...

Desert View

I thought this might be refreshing for those of you up to your armpits in flood water. It is a view of the desert below Acoma Pueblo about two hours west of here. The Pueblo was built on top of the highest mesa ("table" in Spanish, or a flat-topped mountain) in the area so that the inhabitants could see anyone approaching to attack. Then they dug pits to collect rain water.

The Iowa and Wisconsin flooding have put my issues in perspective this past week. I have been struggling with my work situation for several months now. It is becoming increasingly difficult to work my 12 hour night shifts along with the 1 hour drive each way. I've been looking for something closer but haven't found the right fit for my skills. Two days ago I decided to stay with my present position for now but change my shifts to 12 hour days. The new schedule will start July 13th. I will lose some compensation in the form of shift differential, but I think I can make that up by picking up an occasional extra shift which pays double time. That will be easier to do because I won't be constantly sleep deprived!

The only goal this solution does not meet for me is a reduction in commuting miles. I'm going to look into alternative modes of transportation. I think there may be more choices developing in the near future given the current "energy crisis". (The crisis isn't new, but it's finally getting the attention it needs.) And compared to being flooded out of house and home, $5 a gallon gas just seems trivial!

Down in the flood

Well, it's sugar for sugar
And salt for salt,
If you go down in the flood,
It's gonna be your own fault.
Oh mama, ain't you gonna miss your best friend now?

--Bobby Dylan

My friend Geoff was chastening me not to lose my stuff and go stale in a government job.  I think he was concerned that I went for the money and that I won't be challenged.  I'll tell you what, friends, if you can't get interested in the largest disaster in Iowa history, you just are not paying attention.

I hung out today at the Red Cross shelter and talked to people this afternoon.  Our team has been taking turns helping staff the place.  There was a depressed diabetic guy who was really sad and his blood count was high and he wouldn't eat.  I got him talking and someone brought him a sandwich and we commiserated and pretty soon someone from his church offered to take him out to see his place, and I slipped the church guy a banana for the old guy to munch on the way.  

There were some other down and out folks, some of whom had tales of losing their children, or domestic abuse, or just the hell of losing everything you own and not knowing what the next thing to do is.  They were hosting and helping each other, though, sharing information and watching the kids, who by day 3 have made themselves at home.  I sat around and worked on getting folks food and listening and feeling grateful that my house is dry and everyone is safe.  Pretty soon the worried diabetic guy came back and his friend made sure I saw the banana peel.

I think I'm going to blog the story the worried guy's girlfriend told me.  They are a couple of lost folks who have found each other.  It was really sweet, actually.

We'll be talking about this spring for a long time.

By the way, did you know that this is Cedar Rapids' "Year of the River?"

Forty Days

Forty days and forty nights
since my baby left this town

Sun is shining all day long,
But the rain keeps coming down.
-- Muddy Waters


It's raining. Again. Like a lot of midwest, we are experiencing what the experts call a "500 year flood," and only 15 years after the last 500 year flood. This one is starting a month earlier than the last one, and if it stops raining today, we're still more than a week away from the projected peak outflow, now estimated to be about 15% more. The Coralville dam has now gone over the spillway, so the Corps of Engineers no longer has any control over the outflow of the Iowa River. When that happened in 93, the resulting erosion left the Devonian Fossil Gorge, exposing stuff that had been buried for over three hundred million years. I wonder what we'll find this time...

Perry called Jeff last night, but he couldn't come out and play because he has to evacuate his house. The city of Cedar Rapids has issued a mandatory evacuation for his area, as well as a 9pm curfew. Bree and Billie, who were planning on getting married on their property by the river this weekend, are now investigating other places to wed, and to live. Sam started his new Americorps job Monday, and yesterday I heard that the entire town in which his office is located has no electricity, and they don't expect it to be back for a quite awhile. Ah, well -- at least he should have access to a good labor force...

I don't know that I'm getting magical, but there is all kinds of symbology. When I was describing the difference between my heart attack and dp's cancer to somebody, I used a tornado/flood analogy. A tornado hit suddenly and briefly, and then, if you're still alive, you can proceed pretty immediately to deal with the damage. A flood starts slowly, builds gradually and relentlessly, and then takes a long time to go away. You can sandbag, and fight courageously to stave off the effects. If you're lucky, and you can outlast it, and after some months, begin to rebuild. If you're not, you still lose everything, courageous fight or not. That's happening on Normandy drive today -- hundreds of people have been out sandbagging there for a week, but as of this morning, they're being evacuated mandatorily.

I can sympathize.

(I didn't take this photo of City Park. Dan Williamson took it for the Press Citizen, and I've shamelessly copied it here.)

Short pants. . .

. . . are people's response, often, to high water.  They are, in fact, referred to as high water pants.  We will be wearing high water pants if we venture toward downtown Cedar Rapids tonight, and I dare say these hybrid pants are currently appropriate in Iowa City.

Most of us are hill dwellers.  We are safe.  We visit but don't live close by.

Jeff went down last night and helped with the sandbagging.    There is a general sense that it will breach.  City is turning off the gas in Czech Village, and contiguous lower-lying neighborhoods.  The river is as high as the top of the levee, which is high as the roofs of the houses across the street from it.  If the dike goes, Jeff is concerned that his basement might fill. Woulda been nice if it'd done that before we sheet-rocked it.  He's probably in the worst shape, because of his neighborhood, so close to the river and Ellis Park.

I love rivers.  They don't care a damn about us, though.  They just roll on by, high or low, taking with them what they can, what will shake loose, always leaving us behind and always going by us and always right next to us.  The river's indifferent paradoxes fascinate.

Sometimes I live in the country

Sometimes I live in the town

Sometimes I get a great notion

To jump in the river and drown.

--Leadbelly

High Water

Yep, Iowa City is flooding again -- yesterday, they shut down Dubuque Street, which is one of three ways to enter Iowa City from the north, for the first time since 1993. Life at work is liable to get interesting for awhile -- I need to go shoot photos to document flood damage to City facilities today. Here's a couple I shot yesterday to use as backgrounds for information pages on our cable channels.


I can already see a big difference in the traffic on our highway, since it's one of the two remaining north-bound routes. In 93, it ended up being the only one.

I feel like a social butterfly this week -- Thursday, Trooley and I went out to Lauren and Michael's for supper and conversation with Drew and Cinda, and Friday, I hung out in Iowa City's highest penthouse with John and Janet. It was the fruits of somebody's (Legal Services?) silent auction, so there were a couple dozen people doing wine, munchies, and aerial views of town. I, of course, brought a camera. The view is nice, but I wouldn't trade it for the one out my back door. I ran into several other people I knew there, and I met a couple of new folks.


I finished The Year of Magical Thinking, which is the book Joan Didion wrote about her experiences around the very sudden death of her husband of forty years. They were eating and dinner and he collapsed - massive heart attack, and that was it. (On the other hand, he did have a history of heart problems, so her shock points to some magical thinking even earlier..)

That part, for me, was very different. We had a year to get used to the idea, and then a full month of certainty. The more I think about it, the more I see advantages and disadvantages - my own year of magical thinking began sometime last year, I'm thinking, and I got to work part of it out with my spouse. That's gotta help.

Didion's story is complicated by her daughter's six-month bout with some mysterious brain ailment, which began only five days before the death of her husband, so there are a lot of hospital caretaker experiences to which I can relate.



Her 'magical thinking' was that her husband was going to come back, somehow, as long as she didn't really let him die. She didn't want to get rid of his clothes, because without them it would be just that much harder for him to return. She seems to want to avoid reminiscing about him for the same reason, going to great lengths to avoid places that would remind her of him.

I don't have any of that. Certainly I miss Diana, but it's not particularly painful to remember something about her. Okay, I haven't got her stuff packed up yet, but that's about procrastination of a near-herculean task (I am chipping away at it and I've resolved to replace both of her dressers with two or three coat trees...)

If I were going to get magical about Didion's situation, though, I believe I'd be looking at the fact that her daughter was near death, her husband died, and then their daughter got better. He used to regularly express his love to her with the idea that he'd gladly trade his life for one more day of her happiness.

I don't see much of that in my situation, other than the whole 'that which does not kill us makes us stronger' thing. I keep coming back to my zen catholic creed -- shit happens (and if you're a tobacco user, shit happens more often).


Later, that same day...
Got mail from Hospice today, including a form letter from a counselor I didn't talk to saying 'it was good to speak with you the other day.' (good thing I'm not a cynic, eh?) It includes a stapled packet (marked 'Month 1') that includes the 'Rules for Grief.' Rule 1 is 'There are no rules for grief.' I recognize the packet -- I used to write much the same thing for ex-cult members. It's mostly normalization, with a lot of permission to grieve uniquely. There's even a paragraph that says 'don't fret dealing with your spouse's belongings..'

That's enough for now. After reading Cranium Man's entry, I prescribed a heavy dose of video game therapy for him, which I intend to administer later tonight. Perry and his kids arrive Tuesday night, the CR Disc Dog tournament is next Saturday -- we're defending the title we've held since 2002.

Last Friday

Restless.  

It is my last Friday at work.  Afterwards, early, in fact, a few of us go for a beer.

Then I'm going home, wondering "what next?"  I return a few calls, one my mother asking for toilet paper.  Seems like a reasonable request.  Robyn makes me a margarita.  We sit in the sun and breeze and talk.  I want to jump out of my skin.

I drive up to Marion and buy toilet paper, floss, paste, a toothbrush.  There aren't any with small heads.  We have small mouths, my mother and I.  (Ironies never cease.)  

Does she remember that she prefers smaller brush heads?  She seems to be changing her tastes.  I remember when Mom was adventurous, liking spicy, exotic foods.  She seems to prefer old lady food these days, a little bland.

Mom is sitting in her room.  The television is off.  I tell her about my new job and she exclaims over my good fortune, new again!  We talk a little and I put her things away.  I remind her the cat box needs changing.

"You look tired," I offer.

"No," she said.  "I'm bored.  There's nothing to do here."  Mom has forgotten how to control the television.  When people come in to clean, they change the channel to Jerry Springer and then Mom can't find IPTV again.  I'm thankful they actually clean.

"Is your t.v. working?" Euphemism.  I mean "can you work the television."  "Have you had dinner?"  Mom's expression is flat.

"I've had dinner,"were you going to take me out?"  She brightens.

"Not today, this is a rescue run.  A sad lonely voice on my phone, begging for toilet paper."  

She laughs.  She always laughs at my jokes.  It's a social contract we have.  But she's dying for me to take her and I don't have the energy today.  We talk a while longer and then I say "goodbye."  On an impulse, I turn back into her room and offer to get her television to the channel she wants.

"Oh no, that's fine.  I don't want to watch t.v."  

She sits, disheveled in her chair.  She won't wear a bra and it makes her seem lumpy.  Her hair needs a wash today.  There is a resentful passivity to her.  I feel as though somehow there is something I should do, but there is nothing.

Mom, the chair, the room, full of art with it's big window and finches in the feeders.  The room is stuffy because she's often cold and doesn't know how to adjust the temperature.  Waiting for nothing.  For the next thing, whatever that is.  Resenting not knowing.

"That didn't make me feel any better," I think to myself on the way home.  

Caitlin and Nathan are hanging out when I get home and we get Nathan talking.  For a while, I get to know this boy who talks for hours on the phone with Caitlin every night.  They sit on the sofa, her legs across his lap, and sort out their busy lives: work, Boy's State, the television he spent every last of his pennies on, Caitlin's plans for the week.  They are driving, pushing, moving forward with fresh urgency.

Robyn and I move upstairs to make room for their smooching.  My parents did it for me.  It's only fair.  After a while, Nathan calls good night.  Caitlin takes Robyn's car to pick up Walker at the movies.  I feel myself settling.

Tomorrow our tasks and duties, choices and opportunities, will unfold before us.  We will forget to be thankful for what's available to us, in our hustle:

The next thing, and knowing what it is.

Last Monday

I was thinking about Kevin's post and about how he and I are comparing and contrasting our morphing experiences.  Neither of us is under any mistaken impressions about whose life change is more drastic or challenging.  Kevin wins that dubious honor.

Still, we're changing our identities out of varying degrees of choice and necessity.  Kevin's not a couple, although his pants are still full.  I'm not a professional specializing in family therapy, teens and chaotic families any more. . . and my pants are not full.

All this thinking about change made me want to post about how good it feels to be middle aged and to be upright and able to make intentional change, to take risks, to make decisions.  Wanting to post made me think that I had finally bought batteries and that I should go take some new pictures flowers in the exploding yard (Danger!  Exploding Yard!).   Then I could post about middle age and limitless vistas of change.

 I put the new batteries in the camera and started to focus on the pansies potted on the porch.  This choice was for Walker, who is concerned about my flower-picture hobby.  That and my preference for Mint Mojito Orbit gum make him very worried about my manliness.  The camera warned me that the batteries were dead.  My new batteries were "dead."  This means that the other re-chargable batteries may not have worn out after all.  Maybe my camera is worn out.  Dammit!  Again!  Same camera!  The camera was originally damaged, I think, by one of these young hooligans.  They were making videos.  I suspect the camera inadvertently became on of the props.

My camera must be diagnosed.  I can't take pictures of the lovely flower exploding (Look out!) on my lawn.  I am frustrated and limited.  I'm a middle aged man and my gadget doesn't work like it used to. 

Easy come, easy go, eh?

We're always thinking about adolescence as a time of great change, but I think Gail Sheehy had it right when she suggested that we are all moving through a series of passages, and we all negotiate them, time after time, and the change simply does not end.  We evolve, redefine, push our limits or recognize them.  Sometimes we recognize a passage as such.   

Sometimes we pass and only know it after.  

The last push on a swing, the last whispered "I love you," the image of the peak of a musical career in the rear view mirror driving away from Telluride, the last bit of sage advice, the sound of musical laughter,the feel of a hand held, all things are finite and must be relished.  They will be spent.

Squander them.

Fifth Monday

Things are going okay in da Woods. The cottonwoods are flowering right now, so the edges of the woods are all frosted in white. I took some photos of the current flowers -- here are some of my favorites.


dd, Marie and I met with the Hospice admissions people Tuesday. She's still basically in pretty good shape, but she's been losing weight pretty steadily (We didn't have any weights to prove our case, but dd was able to show how Marie's back brace is nine inches less in circumfrance than it was last year). With the VNA ready to switch nurses anyway, we figured it would be a good time to make our own move.


We spent an hour or so with two nice women, and it was determined that Marie can be admitted to their program under a 'failure to thrive' diagnosis. That has to be re-evaluated every three months, and if they decide she's thriving, we'll have to go back to the VNA. Day-to-day, it won't be much different. We'll get a bath aide three days a week instead of the two times that we're doing now, and they might be able to get some volunteers to cover a couple more hours a week. dp left her state retirement pension death benefit to Marie, so we can afford to cut back a little on Pathways adult daycare for private staff.


We all think Pathways is a good thing for Marie, but the bus trip can be hard on her. In theory, dd and I are now job-sharing the care coordinator job so that I can phase myself in to overseeing Marie's care. dd's ready to phase herself out -- eldercare administration has never been a field to which she aspired...


I took the day off today -- I'm realizing with 20/20 hindsight that Mondays are particularly bothersome -- today is the five-week anniversary of dp's death. On the flip side, though, It occurred to me this weekend that I'd been carrying around a fair amount of fear for the last year. Realizing your greatest fear is actually kind of liberating -- now that dp has actually died, I'm pretty much freaking fearless.