The Calendars Had It Wrong

My daughter was born on February 14, 1987.  When Alex was old enough to start looking at calendars but unable to read them, she saw that every February 14th had a notation. It was the first thing she checked on every calendar.  She was certain it referenced her birthday. She was gleeful. All those hearts and flowers everywhere, she was sure they were happy about her. 

It was a sad day when she learned to read and discovered the calendars simply said, “Valentine’s Day.” We hadn’t prepared her for this disappointment.  Parents feel we can never prepare enough for our children’s disappointments. It’s a burden we all share. They survive as do we. Both job growths are difficult. I’d have done some things different but I wouldn’t give it up for anything.  Happy Birthday, darlin’!

2.14.22

Joceile

[Picture:  Me with Alex, under one year, sitting in my lap with a Jack-in-the-Box toy. 1987]

An Unwinnable War

 In 1989, I had been fighting a long war with my mother. I was nearly 32 years old. I realized the war was unwinnable and made the decision to withdraw my troops.

It’s now early 2022. I approach 33 years since I withdrew from the war. I’ve been out of contact with her almost longer than my lifetime of being in contact with her. 

How is that possible?  We are both still alive on this planet. Yet other than two brief events lasting only seconds, I have not seen nor spoken to my mother longer than since I was born knowing her. How can this be?

Ronnie often comments how she’s lived in Olympia longer than in her life growing up in Queens. A friend of mine recently noted how her experience in this country is far longer than that of her childhood in Germany. These things seem right and proper. They make cultural and mathematical sense. 

But living apart from relationship with my mother longer than being in relationship with her feels wrong to me. It seems far fetched, outrageous, and inconceivable. Not because she lives in China, Australia, or Africa. She lives only 55 miles away. It’s because she is unreachable through the veils of mental illness. She’s not institutionalized or under a doctor’s care. She’s simply in a part of the mind disturbed by illness in the form of a lifetime of grievances espoused in constant vitriol. 

I miss my mother. I always will. I miss her playful side, her volumes of family history, her knowledge of my childhood, at least, in the nonviolent aspects. She can’t be safely in these parts in my presence, or I’m told in any other’s. 

I have a desire to see her one more time before she passes. I have a recurrent fantasy where we meet on a park bench with a nice view. Through an intermediary, we both agree to speak no words. We communicate only through our eyes and with our smiles. As we look from each other to the view and back again, we reach out our hands to tentatively touch and then grasp. We sit there quietly holding hands, exchanging smiles, and watching the view in each other’s presence. 

My therapist would say I can create this moment in my mind’s eye and visit it whenever I like. I will most assuredly do that. Still, I would like so much to do it in person while we both continue to have physical form and breathe the same air on the planet of our birth. 

I love you, mom. 

Joceile 

2.1.22

[Picture of my back in a plaid jacket and jeans facing my mother wearing a jeans jacket and red turtleneck standing behind a restaurant counter in 1973.]

An Act of Generosity

Today as I was leaving Kaiser Permanente Medical Center to get to my parked car, there was a fair amount of coming and going just before lunch.  I came up to a main cross walk at the same time as another woman who was moving slowly using a cane.  

I started across with her and laughingly said to her, “I’ll take this side, the direction the cars are coming from, so they’ll take me out before they get to you.”

She laughed and said, “Thank you. It’s very unusual for someone to be willing to give their life for a someone they don’t know.”

We neared the other side.  “Yes, well, it’s a calculated risk in making an act of generosity I’m unlikely to be taken up on.”  I chuckled.  “Have a good afternoon.”

“You too.”

I pondered that small exchange for several minutes. In my response, should I have taken credit for being brave hearted?  I couldn’t do that.  It was a humorous offer that nothing was likely to come of.  And if I died by being hit by a car before her, I would die with a generous, loving spirit.  

That’s the thing.  Death will come for me.  Better it should find me with a kind and open soul.  Since I don’t know the actual date with Death, it’s strategic to walk around in a loving state of mind.  It’s a calculated risk that is likely to pay off one day.  I just won’t be around to report on how it goes.

——

I wrote these words at midnight, reflecting on my day out in the world. After finishing, I noticed the light from a nearly full moon and stepped outside to look at it and the lake. My 84 year old neighbor, Penny, has been at the end stage of life with cancer for two months. Her sons have been taking care of her alone at times without help due to COVID. 

Ronnie and I have been doing our own vigil. In her living room, her bed is only a few short feet from us. She had grown so weak. We knew the end was near. On our deck, I walked over to Penny’s side at her window sending her waves of love. I told her it is okay to go and said my only Hebrew prayer before getting ready for bed. I don’t understand Hebrew. All I know is I’m saying a prayer.  

Her son texted us at 7:15 this morning saying she had passed at 3 a.m. It was time. Her body could no longer sustain her life force. Laying in bed, I shared the text with Ronnie. I didn’t cry. I’ve already cried many times at losing Penny.  She reminded me of my Granny.  A woman who’d survived tough times, presented an inflexible countenance, but radiated love for those she cared for.  Many times, she said how happy she was to finally have neighbors she was close to.  Ronnie and I are lucky enough to be two of those neighbors and enjoy her fierce presence.  I can’t make those I love never pass away.  I can only enjoy them in my life and hold them close when their bodies fail.  Rest In Peace, Penny.

Reporting from Life’s Front.

Joceile  

1.19.22

[Picture of a clouded night moon reflected on the lake.]

When Almost Nothing Hurts

Occasionally, I have a couple minutes where almost nothing hurts. Physically, I mean. I have no great expectations of this as an emotional state. Though, I sometimes get ten minutes of being at peace with the world. If I’m lucky and the schedule allows, I can catch a nap wave, a feat so pleasurable it eclipses my imagined experience of real surfing. If I was a praying person, I’d pray for more of this. But that ship has sailed. 

When I was 23, I started counseling with Barbara. She asked me what my goals were. I said, “I want to be pain free.”  Bless Barbara, she didn’t burst out laughing. Nor did she say, “I’m sorry, Joceile, there’s no such thing.” They probably teach you in therapist school to be more circumspect. 

Over the years, I’ve reflected on the impossibility of that goal and my youthful misunderstanding of what life is. It didn’t take very long in my work with Barbara to find ever more concentric circles of pain, emotional and physical. I kept thinking, “Wait! I don’t remember signing up for this.”

No one asks like some sick carnival barker, “Hey, you can have searing emotional pain or terminal cancer. Which would you prefer?” 

“Is there maybe a door number three?” I’m sure I’m on the wrong game show. 

Everyone who’s managed to get to the ripe old age of 64 knows there’s no such thing as a pain free life. Aging changes our imaginings. I look at strangers older than I struggling to get around, walking, shuffling, or being pushed in wheeled conveyances, and I know they were once vibrant, light stepping young people. I know that young person is still in there. I know I need to remember this and not believe they are as they appear. If I’m lucky one day, it will be my turn for my body to be merely a shell holding my yearning heart and lightness of spirit. How will I look to others?

My next door neighbor is dying of cancer at 84. Her body has been failing her for a couple years. Penny loved golfing. She took it up later in life. She was competitive. When she broke her leg, her most frequent comment was, “I want to be able to golf.” Her sharpness of mind is still there, but her body is skin and bones. She probably weighs 70 pounds. She’s still more than I can lift. 

Penny likes angels. We put battery operated candles in our window for her. She has an angel light in her window. We check it repeatedly, day and night. Her hospital bed is along the living room window looking out at the lake. We can see that her big TV is on.  She can’t take care of herself or get out of bed without help. Three of her four sons live locally. Between them, a daughter-in-law, grandchildren, and paid home help, she’s being cared for. Ronnie and I have done a shift. 

Penny is a crusty old broad. When we moved next door nine years ago, she announced she was the “Bitch on the Block.”  It’s all for show unless you cross her. She’s as tender hearted as they come. I love her. I can’t make her well. I have to live with the pain her dying brings.

Penny’s still pissed off at the neighbor who built our house. She was a poor single mother of four boys always in need of money. Gratzer built the roof eaves of his house over Penny’s property by a foot. Gratzer was a grumpy guy. Penny pointed out his error and said if he paid her a thousand bucks she’d forget about it. Gratzer was having none of it. He took his circular saw and cut a foot off his roof. I’ll never look at that roofline without remembering it. Penny says she just wanted the money. She can still get animated about it over forty years later. 

I don’t want to say goodbye to Penny. I don’t want her to suffer. I don’t want a new neighbor. Life doesn’t give a shit about what I want. It just happens. The whole pain thing revolves, spinning like our planet. If I can sneak a few minutes of almost nothing hurting, I’ll take it. It doesn’t last. It’s a blessing when I catch the wave before the next wipe out. 

If there was magic, I’d use it. Just like all the other times I’ve wanted it. The magic of life is that there’s any life at all. Blink and it’s gone. I watch it carefully. I want to soak in all I can. Pain or no pain, it’s the spark that keeps the world evolving. Not being in charge, I get to enjoy the show while I’m in it. 

I love you, Penny. I’ll keep you close to my heart…always.

Joceile 

1.8.22

[Picture of an ominous looking big white fluffy cloud reflected in the lake.]

Old Age & Lesbian Sex

(It Ain’t Pretty)

In my age group, the agility of sex is ever more challenging.  In youth, I never considered senior sex. Now, I’m old, out, loud, and not so proud.  In youth, we didn’t need more than slippery stuff.  Planning for travel required only, “Did you pack the slippery stuff?” Woe to the partner who said, “I thought you were bringing it.”

We had only to be in the mood with a bit of privacy. Parked in a quiet corner in a cemetery? No problem. We were contortionists.  A little repetitive discomfort did not cause serious injury.

Sixty and beyond is a different matter.  We were doing good when an errant elbow to the head caused only, “Ouch!”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”  

“Good, we can keep going?”

Our mantra became, “It's okay as long as nobody is knocked unconscious.”  (I’m typing this with eight fingers due to dominant hand thumb surgery.  You can imagine what it does to my dexterity in other areas.) 

We advanced to proper supportive pillow placement. Getting numb hands was okay as long as we could keep the movement going. Now, we fight cramping muscles and attend to our spinal alignment.  All this while focusing on orgasm.

“I can’t stay in this position.”

“What do you need?”

Later, I started fantasizing about specially designed senior sex furniture.  How does one hold their head in the proper position for muff diving?  My tongue wags freely but there are positioning issues.  I need an adjustable stool and an elevating bed with a “V” design for extended legs so I can get proper mouth placement in the crotch.  Or perhaps a sling design for my partner to gently descend into the right position and “Hold it!”  Or some kind of neck and back brace.  

Carpal tunnel, spinal stenosis, bone on bone joints.  Suddenly, sex is climbing in the alps without the proper climbing gear.  REI does not have equipment guidance for sex safety.  No floor specialists to make educated recommendations.

We thought water buoyancy would help. The hot tub water was warm but this created an additional distraction of keeping one of us from drowning.  

With everything on the same level, floor sex might have worked except that floors are hard (really, any surface is); there are still positioning issues; and if we’re both on the floor, who’s going to help us up?

Even cuddling is tricky.  All furniture is now the enemy, either too hard or too soft, in an aging Goldilocks hell.  When traveling, we don’t look for views or romantic walks.  We drill into furniture details. Lofts with ladders are out.  If we rent or borrow an RV, we need a bed we can roll into and out of.  We can no longer crawl.

You’d think with all our sleeping issues we’d have lots of time for sex.  Certainly, the reverse was true when we were young.  We could have sex all night and wake up only mildly tired.  Now, we have no sleep and no sex, and we’re exhausted.

The good news is we’re still madly in love. Now, we know we can go the distance.  We enjoy each other’s company and still make each other laugh so hard we pee.  So, you young people, work on your humor.  If you’re lucky enough to get old, you’re going to need it.

Joceile

12.19.21

The Four Legged Government

Our cat and dog buddies have a two party system of government at our house. Call them the Cat Party and the Dog Party. They have represented their parties for eight years now. It is fascinating to watch them negotiate treaties, organize trade agreements, and commit to mutual defense. Like any system of government, these things do not come easily. Gradually, by identifying mutual interests, war can be avoided. 

When Sheba came into the household, Scarlett was strongly positioned in the government with five years’ experience. Initially, Sheba did not recognize Scarlett’s well established occupational rights. Moreover, Scarlett did not understand her understated but mighty influence over the human providers. Fortunately for her, the human providers had a stake in keeping Scarlett in her exalted position. Think of the human providers as the Supreme Court. 

Negotiations began. It was the eight and a half pound kitty versus the eighty pound dog.  Reestablishing the balance of power required equalizing the playing field involving the dining room table for Scarlett and treats for Sheba. Think of it as the Civil Rights Act of 1964 or the Americans with Disabilities Act. (Don’t think of the Equal Rights Amendment which did not pass.)

Each evening, Scarlett was retrieved from hiding and taken to a new place at the table with wet food. On a down stay in the living room, Sheba was given a treat every time she looked away from Scarlett. This would have made Henry Kissinger proud. The negotiations were lengthy but ultimately resulted in Sheba allowing Scarlett to inhabit spaces she had learned to love. An unintended consequence of this government intervention is that Scarlett now has rights to the dining room table. A status heretofore unheard of. The Supreme Court is not impressed. 

[Scarlett’s found a box seat at the table. Photo by Ronnie]

Neither of them like loud noises or invading armies. In mutual defense, Scarlett runs to the under-the-bed bunker while Sheba sets off the rabid-dog-bark alarm. Soon after, government stabilizes. No one is ever surprised by a sneak attack. 

Competing interests in laps still cause a saber-rattling dance with each relying on their greatest strength in rapprochement. As a result of the impaired historical memory of the Dog Party, this is a nightly occurrence. The Dog Party thinks might-makes-right by protecting laps from any potential approach and subsequent occupation. The Cat Party relies on patience and stealth. 

The human providers developed subsidized assistance for the Dog Party. When the paws of the Cat Party reach the purple pillow on the lap, the Dog Party gets a treat. Watching the Dog Party’s failure to remember the previous night entertains both the Cat Party and the human providers. The Dog Party must choose between competing interests: protecting the lap she’s too big to make use of or getting the government subsidy. This attitude can be self-defeating.

The Cat Party’s intellectual abilities enable her to reference historical trends and utilize a predator’s patience. The Dog Party can’t hope to prevail but gives a valiant attempt night after night.  

[Scarlett on the purple pillow AND loving it.]

Recently, there’s been a twist. A second lap has been identified by the Cat Party as desirable. However, there are no government subsidies in effect for this lap. In an act of supreme generosity and strategic power demonstration, Scarlett goes to the purple pillow lap first so Sheba can get a treat on her way to the non-subsidized lap where she settles. The human providers are impressed and touched by the checks and balances in this governmental system. Not every action has to be a power grab. Resources can be shared.

One wonders. If the Cat Party and Dog Party can create a working system of government salvaged from historical animosity, shouldn’t humans be able to make a go of government by identifying mutual needs, strengths, and vulnerabilities to create systemic sustainability? Perhaps not. Four legged creatures are superior. It is undisputed. 

To Life. 

Joceile 

12.14.21

[Picture of Scarlett and Sheba waiting. Scarlett is waiting for evening wet food. Sheba is waiting because Scarlett is waiting. Sheba hasn’t a clue.]

Clothing Wars

“My clothes are bothering me,” I say to Ronnie. 

“What’s wrong with them? Are they too tight?”

“No.”

“Too big?”

“No?”

“Worn out?”

“No! That’s not it.”

“Then, what?”

“They keep touching me! I don’t want them to touch me!” Even I know this is problematic. 

With my body aging, a certain skin sensitivity has arrived along with aching of one sort or another. To combat our various issues, Ronnie and I have discovered that massacring our clothing is the new shopping.  Barbaric alterations are all the rage at our house.

• Sleeves bothering me? Cut them off. 
• T-shirt collar too tight. Cut it into a V-neck. 
• Pants too big? Sew in an unsightly dart. (My shirts are never tucked in anymore anyway.) 
• Sock tops too high? Cut ‘em. 
• Warm-up pants too long?  Ditto.
• Need shorts? Cut the legs off an old pair of pants.

Ronnie looks at my feet with raised eyebrows. “Are you wearing your socks inside out?”

“Yes. The outside is softer than the inside.”  I’m not defensive. It’s just the way it is.

I never hem anything. My cotton clothes don’t ravel. It’s not like anyone is seeing us. It was only recently I had to wear a decent shirt for work video meetings.  I can’t believe I used to be comfortable in those shirts with those collars and a tie all day.

This isn’t new. It’s not like we discovered the Titanic. I certainly knew about cut-offs when I was young.  Somehow in the intervening years, I thought clothing must be good looking and tidy.  But, the shear number of cutting options has been a revelation. I believed alternations had to be done by skilled professionals, but a good pair of scissors works wonders.  We are the Scuff Patrol now. This works in pandemic life. It maybe normal in the over 65 crowd. Just like all recycling, we’re making old clothes new while simultaneously discovering the power of Who Gives a Damn?

Reporting from the front. 

Joceile 

9.20.21

[Picture of massacred clothing samples with an inside out sock.]