The Flower I Grieve

I’ve spent most of my life focused on a certain flower that passed long ago. I believed it was the only one, never to be replaced.  I’ve grieved.  I’ve lamented over losing that beautiful flower.  Each year, I’ve gone to the place where the flower bloomed in its glory and cried.  I’ve memorialized its passing in writing and photographs.  At times, I didn’t notice all that was around me, catching only a glimpse of the wider world in my grief. 

In my pain, I’ve gone to mental health therapy week after week, year after year, determined to get to the bottom of the flower’s loss.  I worked with therapists for decades.  A few were special guides on this long journey.

The lost flower is a metaphor for my grief over sexual assault by adults starting as a very young child.  A child only knows what was done to them.  A child doesn’t know what they’ve lost.  “It was me.  It was my fault.  If I’d been different, it wouldn’t have happened.”  Each of these statements were worked through in an effort to get resolution of what happened and how it impacted me.  Each little strand was pursued in the search for my truth, my childlike understanding, and my adult understanding.  It is an epic journey comparable to climbing the highest mountain or circumnavigating the largest sea.  When I climb my high mountains, there’s no fanfare or public recognition.  It’s all personal.  Those closest to me who have touched my life know of the journey.

I learned this week via a chain of obscure facts that other children in my extended family, my cousins, were also sexually abused by evil men. Boys and girls were hurt this way. Not just girls but boys too. It wasn’t just being female that makes children vulnerable. It wasn’t because I wouldn’t give in, refused to cry, or had a vagina. It was because these men were sick criminals. Why they were this way is not my problem.

For nearly 60 years, I’ve hated my woman-ness thinking it was the reason for my being targeted. Now I realize I was assaulted because I was there, vulnerable to men willing to harm merely to assert their power over someone unable to fight back. Perhaps I don’t need to hate my femaleness quite so much anymore. It’s a long process. The grief can morph into anger, resolve, and finally, confidence. 

Like others during this dark year of the pandemic, I’ve been introspective, pondering the ever present questions of “What is my life?  Who I am?  Where am I going?”  There’s been an increase in richness that isn’t pandemic related.  I’m getting older and am in my last third of life.  Many I’ve known have not been so lucky.  I mourn them.  I celebrate that I am here and carry on the love they’ve shown me.

I know now the flower was never lost as I stand here remembering its fine color and beauty.  As I look up and around me, I see I am in a garden of flowers with a riotous display of colors, shapes, and fragrances.  It’s true that an individual flower was lost.  While I was looking down, I didn’t see that the rest of the garden was robust.  I’m able to see it now.

The garden that is my life is temporary.  The impermanent beauty is its essence.  I look at the splendor of nature and those I love.  No flower lasts forever.  The magic is in knowing that it’s here now, celebrating it, and knowing there will be others.  I will end.  Those I know and love will end.  But something will continue to grow strong, facing the sun, and listening to the night.  I’m honored I was ever here at all.

As for my younger self grieving for that lost flower all these years, thank you for your focus, determination, and for carrying on even when it appeared all was lost.  It was only through your diligence that I get to look up and see the whole picture.  Even a glimpse was worth the ride.  May we all be blessed to see the garden as we mourn the loss of a flower.  It isn’t perfect but it’s rich.

Joceile 

4.16.21

[Picture of a magenta peony.]

Resurge of the Recumbent

I’ve always preferred to walk at night. The dampening of the sights and sounds of daytime is comforting to me.  I’ve generally walked with my dog.  My dog buddies have been good companions.  

During the last ten years, the act of walking in and of itself was limited regardless of the time of day.  Four years ago due to an intermittent medical issue, my walking sputtered to a slow shuffle until walking at night could no longer happen.  I had to be content with night standing or mobility scootering.

Recently, my fortunes improved.  With an intermittent medical condition, I never know.  I’ve been walking better and able to walk the dog again.  My legs have been feeling stronger and more reliable.  At last, I thought I might try my three wheel recumbent bike.  

I love my bike.  I haven’t been able to ride it for nearly ten years but I didn’t get rid of it just in case I could ride again.  A few weeks ago, I uncovered it in the garage.  The tires were profoundly flat.  I was concerned they might not hold air.  I pumped them.  The pressure held.  My dog, Sheba, was waiting tethered to my waist as I pushed the bike out of the garage.  I straddled the bike and sat thinking, “Wow, this bike is comfortable.”  Sheba had never seen this strange bike before but she loves to run so she was game.  I started slowly peddling and we were off!  Sheba can run 15 miles per hour without much effort.  I could keep up especially going down hill.  The bike felt great.  The tires held.  The gears still worked effortlessly.  The breaks were spot on.  What a great bike!

After several day time runs, I was once again ready to bike at night.  The front and back lights still worked.  Their batteries hadn’t run down in intervening years.  Sheba’s pushing ten now and actually gets tired.  One night for my second ride of the day, I went alone in an effort to help me sleep.  After getting off our dead end road, there are two neighborhoods to choose from.  The older neighborhood has lots of trees and few streetlights.  Riding there, I feel I’m actually in the dark.  It’s my preference.

The other newer neighborhood has great blacktop for a smooth ride but way too many high street lights causing a hideous half light at night.  Still, there’s multiple ponds with thousands of glorious treefrogs singing.  It’s beautiful and clear tonight. The stars are clear but the light pollution blocked my view of most of them.

It’s a cool 37 degrees.  If I forget to exhale down, fog hits my glasses temporarily blinding me.  I love the night sky when it’s clear and cold.  The stars are pin pricks of light.  Because I can’t see all the stars, it’s obvious to me I’ve chosen the wrong path tonight.  I stop and listen to the frogs.  After restarting the ride, my legs signal they are getting tired.  This is much sooner than I would like.

It’s late.  I’ve run into two cars.  A pizza delivery person with the lighted magnetic sign on the roof and another car going a bit too fast through an intersection.  Though they have the right of way, they slow down when they see me as if to say, “Crap, too fast if pedestrians are around.” I pray cars don’t do anything stupid.  It’s not like I could avoid them by somehow jumping from the bike out of the way at the last minute like some agile A-Team member.  I’d be flattened like the squirrel I sadly passed on my way into this neighborhood.

I thought I might have blown my opportunity to drink in the night on my way back home until I started back down my road.  At the bend in the road across the lake, the view was breath taking.  A no longer quite full burnt orange moon hung in the sky just above the horizon.  Though it has nothing remotely to do with me, I feel amply rewarded for simply getting out in the night with all my senses alert for magic.

As I peddle home, I think, “Good night, Moon,” from a children’s classic.  I know there’s a song there somewhere.  The frogs know it even if I don’t.  I am lucky and I know it.  Yet, another children’s song.  No, that’s “happy and you know it.”  That works.  My inner child is delighted to ride at night.  My job is to keep her safe and enchanted with all the natural world has to offer.

To Life.

Joceile

4.5.21

[Picture of Sheba and I on the recumbent bike.]                         

Have You Done Your Paperwork?

I'm finding myself compelled to warn people to make sure they have really talked with their significant other or person who will be making health care decisions for them if they are incapacitated. My husband had a series of heart attacks and stents which lead us to have a lot of conversations about end of life and how much he was willing to go through. I thought I had a good idea of what quality of life he was willing to accept and what procedures were acceptable to him. For example, I knew he did not want to be on permanent life support or kept comatose in a nursing home and he didn’t want open heart surgery. However, when he did have a major incapacitating heart attack, I found myself faced with many smaller decisions on how much intervention we wanted them to take. The heart attack (widow-maker) essentially destroyed the function of the left side of his heart. He came out of the first life-saving surgery at our regional hospital with a 'balloon pump' already in his heart without either of us having any input. He went into A-fib in the ICU and I was asked if he could be sedated, intubated, and put on a ventilator (not permanently, just to stabilize him). Those steps required my permission. He was then transferred to a specialized heart hospital where I was told they had 'more options.' 

I never really heard the words ‘life support.’ The questions were an incremental slippery slope of decisions putting him more and more on life support. As I said, they had first asked if they could intubate him and put him on a ventilator (not permanently). My husband’s wish was no permanent life support so that was my guideline. Once he got to the Heart Hospital I was asked if they could put him on dialysis (again not permanently). Next, they told me he would die if he didn't have a heart transplant and they could keep him alive long enough for that if they put a Left Ventricle Assist Device (LVAD) in him which would be permanent unless he could receive a heart transplant. They showed me the pump that would do the work of the left side of his heart and said he would have a cord coming out of his abdomen to a battery pack and the computer/controller that ran it. He would run on batteries or be plugged into the wall or the car. This is where I drew the line and said no. There was no way I was going to wake my husband up and inform him he now had to be plugged in to live. If you knew him, you would realize how hilarious that prospect would be. I told them that if they could get him conscious and he wanted to do it that was fine but that I wasn't signing him up for that life. I heard later this was kind of shocking to them that someone had refused.

The medical team was able to get him through this stage and awaken him. He woke up furious, restrained, intubated, with 18 IVs in him, and me telling him not to move because there was a pump is his heart and if he moved his leg it would kill him. His first question was whether I had allowed them to do this to him. His perception was that he had been put on life support when he told me he didn’t want that. I tried to explain that it wasn’t permanent, and it was the result of many steps and not just one. We hadn’t understood the level of interventions now available and the choices we would be faced with. My husband did eventually agree to the LVAD as a 'bridge' to transplant, but there have been many times he questioned his decision, and he would have been very unhappy if it had been 'done' to him without his knowledge. By the way, if you aren’t eligible for a heart transplant due to age or other reasons, they call the LVAD a ‘destination’ device.  Time for a new marketing team.

At any rate, the point I'm trying to make is to make sure you have your living will in order and talk to whoever will be making the decisions because the health care machine takes over and you find yourself on what many would consider life support through a million little decisions. I was clear, at least, on what decisions I knew my husband would want to make for himself and maybe that is the key thing. If you have a particular health condition, make sure you understand what interventions they might offer you as your health worsens so you can consider them while you can still communicate your wishes and put it in writing.

By Anonymous

2021

Do You Know Where Your DeLorean Is?

In my dream life, I seem to be experiencing a series of very odd dreams.  Inevitably, there is some sort of crime involved.  I have to wonder about a mind that creates these weird, complicated scenarios.  Here’s a good example:

I’m working with my coworkers.  We are back in the work environment but it looks nothing like how it was.  In addition to well spaced work stations, there are flexible spaces including bathrooms with homey touches like curtains, shampoo, and tooth brushes.  We have bedrooms where we can chose to work on beds or chairs.

One of my coworkers is a talking dog.  I’m sorry I didn’t catch his name.  He’s big and brown.  He looks like my dog, Sheba, but without her brindle coloring.  I’ll call him Sam.

Sam has a problem at work.  He has a non-permanent appointment and applied for a permanent job.  It’s been a year that he’s been trying to get on permanent.  (Clearly, we work for state government.)  A woman, with the same experience as he, was hired permanently a year ago.  We all know this is unfair and Sam is being discriminated against.  However, it doesn’t occur to any of us that the discrimination is based on the fact he is a dog.  We just know management has it out for Sam.

Sam lives close by work with his extended family who are all human beings.  Our work building is situated by a lake.  One day, I look out the frilly curtained work window and see Sam’s DeLorean floating on the lake.  A young woman is swimming around the DeLorean treating it as a floating dock.  I’m surprised the DeLorean is floating.  As I watch, I see Sam’s precious car sink to the bottom of the lake.  I think, “Poor, Sam.”

Shortly after, Sam comes in the room.  I hate to add to his troubles but say, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Sam, but your DeLorean sank in the lake.”

“WHAT?!” He explodes.  I explain what I saw.  Sam goes to the wall phone and calls his house.  His niece was driving the DeLorean.  I hear him say, “What made you think it would float?”  Apparently, she thought it would because it was floating for a few minutes.  Sam has to make arrangements for the authorities and a tow truck (tow boat?) to fish out the DeLorean.  Sam and I discuss how many steps it’s going to take to get the car running again—possibly too many.

The dream moves into other political complications.  It’s the beginning of spring break.  People in the east are being told to stay home and NOT travel to the coast because there is fear of rioting.  The public is unhappy.  Because people have been targeting the state, my coworkers and I are happy mass numbers are not on the move.

I keep watching how Sam is handling things.  He comes to me.  He’s made a decision.  “I wanted to let you know.  I’m not going to fight it anymore.  If they don’t want to make me permanent here, I’m just going to leave.”

I’m sad to hear this.  I understand Sam’s frustration.  I’m sorry for Sam and for me.  As this plays out, eventually I won’t get to work with Sam any more.  Sam’s a great personality to be around.  I wish there was more I could do...

It’s hard to say what generates this elaborate dream life.  But since it happened and I probably won’t see Sam again, I’m writing it here as a tribute to Sam and also a warning.  DELOREANS DO NOT FLOAT!

Joceile

4.4.21

[Picture of Sam’s big, brown dog likeness.]

What is “going crazy?” An insider’s view

We all hear and maybe joke about someone “going crazy.”  Maybe we’re talking about ourselves or someone else. But what does “going crazy” mean?

I’ve spent a lot of time in my life in the “crazy” camp. This means severe depression and having ideas about hurting myself that were dangerous and scary. Fundamentally, it meant I was hurting and didn’t know how to process the pain in a healthy and safe way. 

Sometimes, there’s a chemical imbalance getting in the way of maintaining a healthy or balanced response to managing life’s curve balls. This wasn’t my issue. I know for many it is. 

Learning to process extreme mental anguish or trauma in my learning to experience life in all its forms has been a long road. It’s been a multiple step, decades long endeavor with quality therapists. The work is often a persistent weekly slog with no clear promise of reward. However, the work accumulates incrementally into a life perspective I can claim and gratefully appreciate. 

We all struggle. We all have moments wondering, “Will this ever end?  Will it get better?  Is it worth it?”  It’s always worth it. If I’m my best self, I get to contribute to the greater good and recognize I matter. 

There are parts of life I will never like. The worst is losing someone I love. Unfortunately, death is non-negotiable. I’m not too keen on injury or physical pain either. Still while I’m alive, I can listen to what my loved ones say, embrace them, and know I am one of the luckiest people on the planet. Insanity touched me. I wouldn’t have chosen it. But my opportunity to recover and pursue my life when I have food, shelter, and work I love is priceless. 

Going crazy wasn’t the worst thing. Giving up would have been. Celebrating life is the gift. We’ve all got our part. I’m not going to lose my shot. 

To Life. 

Joceile 

4.3.21

[Picture: Barbarian artist drawing of downhill racer.]

Prankster Code of Conduct

Hi, Friend.  To continue our conversation from last evening: There is a Prankster Code of Conduct.  As a practitioner, I have to strike just the right balance of quick believability with a dash of absurdity.  The goal is not to fool everyone.  That is too easy.  I use the 30/30/30 rule.  Thirty percent of people should know right off it’s a prank.  Thirty percent should be totally fooled into believing and taking some action as a result. However, the crafting of the prank involving the other 30% should cause this remaining group to be unable to decide whether it is a prank or not, wavering in their uncertainty.  If the prank is tipped too far one way, the precious balance is lost resulting in what I call outright prank failure.  It should never be immediately obvious that it is a prank or that it is not.

Consider this year’s Facebook prank post:

“I accidentally broke our glass shower door.  It’s a lot of glass.  Trying to glue the pieces back together is taking too long.  Any recommendations on a good company to fix it?  Geez.  No injuries, just a ripped shirt.”

The fundamental question:  Is this a prank?  If so, what aspect is the prank?  The placement of the words suggesting ideas is key in the prank.  It must be believable but contain enough of a hint of absurdity that the prankster can say, "Really, what day is it?"  The utterance of this phrase is the prankster’s version of the unveiling or dénouement  at which point the realization of the prank should occur to almost everyone.  Occasionally, a prank can have another unveiling following the first.  However, this is strictly for master’s level pranksters.  Multiple pieces must be in place for successive unveilings to work while continuing to maintain the 30/30/30 rule.

Questions the victims of the prank might ask themselves:  Did this really happen?  She’s not really trying to glue the pieces together?  Is she really requesting a company referral?  The questions themselves bring up the 30/30/30 rule.  A balance of recurrent thirds is maintained.  (Yes, it happened but a year ago.  No, of course she’s not gluing the pieces.  No, it’s been fixed for 9 months and we already knew who to call.)

Here are other examples:

“We’re thinking about buying a house in Mexico sight unseen since it’s not safe to travel. Any words of wisdom?”

Or this:

“I took a three hour art class via zoom with local artist, Lonnie Spikes, and this was my final product. Amazing!  He’s good.”

In each case, there is an element of truth. Where does truth begin and absurdity end?  With mounting evidence, at what point is the pattern revealed?  The worst prank is the one everyone believes. Such would be a dismal failure and would require piling on increasing layers of absurdity until the tipping point of the unveiling is finally reached. 

The 30/30/30 balance is found in the consistent uncertainty experienced by the 30% who cannot make up their minds how to respond.  Thus, prankster equilibrium is achieved.  This is why Pranksterism is considered an art form.  Although, this recognition primarily comes from other pranksters or astute observers of the form.

Oh, and as you are a numbers person, the other 10%?  That is the fudge margin used by pranksters to ensure they always get the 30/30/30 balance leaving no audit trail.  I am not familiar with the appropriate accounting terminology here.  Suffice it to say, it’s a slush fund where accounting balance is maintained by movement into or out of columns by using this fund to ensure each column balances.  Also, this mythical 10% is the  dénouement in this message for you, my friend, as you have been impatiently wondering what the hell happened to the missing 10% since the beginning of the discussion.

Thanks for studying the science of pranks with me.  Let me know if you have questions or feedback.  Another longer term question to consider is why some people such as I are drawn to Pranksterism?  We can analyze this question at another time.

As you can tell, I'm fond of you.

Joceile

4.1.21