Surgerical Removal and Loss

We're always talking about surgical removal of wrinkles, bunions, tumors, warts, and extractions of impacted teeth. I'd like to discuss the surgical removal of space.
Not as in Space, The Final Frontier, but space, as in the gap between bone and tendon,the crevasse between at-rest and forward movement.

Last week, I subjected myself to the closing of a 3.5cm gap between my right humerus and my supra- and infraspinatus tendons and muscles. Shorn right off they were, nary a tab hung in the wind to which my surgeon could reattach. He opted for four titanium - Super Power I like to call them - screws and a bunch of Kevlar suture by which to lasso these muscles to their metallic pier. Second time I've had some Kevlar sewn into this shoulder. I should, essentially be bullet proof by now.

But it's the gap to which I refer here. The gap that allowed so much to occur and fall to the wayside. The cavern of air in which energy was lost and desired outcomes not completed. I had no idea how large this was until I was told recently, and by then, it seemed that there was so much damage, a repair seemed delayed, essentially late. Like wanting to see the tide roll in at dawn but waking up after the sunrise and discovering the beach and all cool shells are already swimming under water.

It has been repaired, though. And now, the pain ensues. The sutures have closed the gap, healing must follow, but not before so much damage has already occurred behind it. Closing the trench only seals a part of the wound that ripped apart long ago, little by little until, at last, it laid, open-mouthed, untethered, and basically ignored or unnoticed. Loss of life in this forward moving structure during these past couple years has made the recovery and rehabilitation a little more painful.

Look ahead, don't forget what occurred in the past to make this injury come about, learn from it, grow from it, and renew. It hurts, yes, but, ideally, it will get better and ultimately, the ache, loss, and pain will subside. Like a surgical removal of loss, perhaps now I can have a surgical removal and replacement of what disappeared in this vacuous gully.

I want to heal this wound and recover and grow from what still remains.

Birthdays

Friends, siblings, doggies are aging. Even I'm getting older. Of course, I'm thinking of all the peops I know who celebrate -- or don't -- this annual step towards maturity or Medicare.

I wanted to say that the collective birthdayers -- or 'we' -- are headed towards graying, but many of my friends aren't gray, or, perhaps those melanin-lacking hairs don't show for one reason or another. I need to mention the unintended step towards wrinkling, not in a bad, but because this is what age brings us. Most of my shriveling posse leans towards the contented side, which usually means they're not knitting their eyebrows together in typical angry fashion to earn those forehead wrinkles. They're a pleasant crew, aging well, aging steadily. I, too have discovered the facial caverns on myself: Crows feet from too much laughter may crevasse on the outer perimeter of eyes, but again, this results from smiling, not bitterness nor a history of (ew, yuck!) smoking, although I may admit I am headed toward a juvenile version of elderhood.

Basco's ten years old. A good age for a doggie. I'd say a great age for a dog who went blind three years ago. He's graying a bit, mostly on his hind legs, just over his knees. He's always been an old soul, even when he was a puppy he had a gently whitened, muzzle. He seemed okay with whatever life presented to him. I'd like to age gracefully like him.

Mom made sure that each of us celebrated our birthday, one way or another. My brother John was usually shafted: his day fell in mid-December when most of us had school plays, concerts, and other events that trumped his special day.

Mom's birthday was one never to be missed. She wasn't the biggest fan of Mother's Day, thinking it a useless reminder of her motherhood. But her birthday? Never Forget her day. Never. Call, send a card (in advance), order flowers or a gift to arrive early or on the day of. She loved yellow roses, but as an 8 y/o, I stole her heart when I gave her a bouquet of 3 dozen pink carnations which the florist sold me for a wrinkled dollar. I'm certain I looked like a street urching and he simply wanted me out of his boutiquey store.

She once said to me that celebrating her birthday was a way to show her she mattered, that she was loved, that we honored her presence. Her day is coming up and believe me, even at rest, I know that she's hoping for us to toast her on May 22nd. I will. I always do.

Alas, the birthday is unavoidable. It arrives a mere 12 months just after the last one. Even if those around us do so, it's one of those dates that we simply cannott forget, unlike Jury Duty obligations or the semi-annual dental appointment.

Thus, I suggest we toast the day of aging. Raise a glass to those who are avoiding another year and to those who embrace the day (or month) of their birth. Glad you're here getting old with me. I raise a tasty, frothy beer to each of you and to those whose birthdays are upcoming. Many good wishes and best of luck during your year.

Atrocious Acts

Unreported in Alameda County:

An evil cat hoarder had three -of 15- cats (that I know of) taken from her home. Basic abuse of innocent animals, this is a recurring legal and, obviously, ethical issue with her. She's been previously cited by Animal Protective Services numerous times yet finds a way to scoop up more felines and destroy their simple, unsullied short lives.

The cats were ill: one whose face bore a huge,uncared for mass that extended from nose tip to lacrimal corner of the eye. Another sported matted, clumpy fur and appeared malnourished, and an essential flea haven. Fluid poured from the third's nose. If they survive, how long will it take for their feral, survival instincts to soften before they're willing to trust another human?

Sadly, this isn't one of those Animal Planet/Animal Cops shows. Real life, real abuse, real sickness for the kitties and resulting from a reproachful, poisonous woman. She lives alone - is that a surprise?

It leads me to wonder what drives the human mind to such measure? Why don't we protect the innocent a little more and burn more fire under the offenders, especially repeat offenders? We let rapists out of prison in 7 years or less ("good behavior") only to find them lurking and assaulting women again; it's up to her to prove that she didn't provoke him. We move molesting priests around from parish to parish to hide their heinous, life-damaging acts. A college professor molested a baby --yes, a baby--with the approval of its mother. I don't know what's worse here: the molestation or the mother who allowed this to happen. A woman who takes in kittens and roving cats only to kick them, snap their legs, and/or ignore their medical & physical needs? What kind of people do this?

We say that the laws to protect animals are 'good enough' because, well, 'they're just dumb animals.' I have to say that sexual predatory laws are equally as ineffective. Who upholds these lame laws, these sweep-under-the-carpet molestations, these 'good behavior' gives you freedom options? Obviously 'prayer' and a good chastisizing waggly finger does not make the priest change his ways. I can't help but wonder, if it make the defendant/offender/convict feel better to know that he/she has gotten away with something and will only receive a slap on the wrist?

Oh, it just irks me. And then there's the Tea Party idiots.

Olympic Reflections: 2 tiny similarities

I watched some of the events of the Winter Olympics this year with great zeal, others with mild curiosity.

The bobsled, skeleton, and luge are all engaging 45 second runs. However, after seeing three in-a-row, I was bored. The focus of the boring NBC commentators was on Curve 16, the deadly, rupturing curve that cast a dark shadow on the Games before they began. I was reminded, though, why I do enjoy watching some of these sledding events.

In my childhood neighborhood, during the worst of snowy-icy snowstorms, many of us took to the 10% grade hills for Skeleton-like sledding. As we all know, the best time for Mach 5 sledding is at night, when the temperature drops, the ground hardens, and, of course visibility decreases (especially if it's snowing or foggy). Toss these latter factors in and multiply times 20 if a passing car travels along the sledding route. At that point, there's a bit of quick-action decision making, given the fact that most cars have little control under such wintry conditions.

My sister owned the best sled: light, small, and always waxed on the rails, it tore down Council Crest Drive and with intensive full-body steerage elbowed into a right turn down Beaverton Avenue. Major ice, velocity, and non-stop leg-pumping (just like on a swing) enabled the sledder to continue down the 100 yard, 12% grade Himes Street. This was a true vertical slope, similar to the ski-jumping hill, but without the open space at the bottom: a road, a guard rail, a bunch of icicle-laden ivy that crept out underneath the metal barrier, and a grove of barren maples and firs just beyond.

And if the thrill of zooming down Himes wasn't enough, there was always the thrill of the curb on one side (often with parked cars) and the 15-foot cement wall on the other. Due to the laws of physics, motion, and gravity, these hazards presented themselves as reasons to Bail Out. Take the Tumble. Let the unmanned sled plow into the asphalt while the rider rolled and Supermanned down the hill, coat zippers and boot toes serving as the only frictional tools towards reduced speed.

At the bottom of Himes, once the sled was retrieved or the ride savored a choice was made. Take Chesapeake or trudge back up the 1/2 mile and repeat. Chesapeake was a snaking, 10-foot wide, potholed, sparsely-lit road that simply tore down hill. In the multiple I took the hill, (with an Olympiad's running start, legs pumping, and knuckles clawing at the ground) twice I made it to a point far enough to not know where I was and rather than take some road to a neighborhood unknown, I plodded back up in the blackness of the night. Most times I spilled off the right edge on a maniacal left turn that dumped me into hill of ivy and ferns.
I suppose that it's here in these wild-night memories that I find myself drawn to the luge track.

On another note, I would like to point out that I watched some of the snowboarder events. And each time Shaun White's face appeared, I kept thinking, "Who does he remind me of? Who is this person?" Well, there are those internet 'similarity' photos between people and dogs: Carol Channing and a pug, Joe Lieberman and (Deputy) Droopy Dog, Wilfrd Brimley and some grouchy-faced fat cat.

Shaun White rang a similarity in me that was equated with a human, not a 4-legged. Today, it came to fruition with the article and adjacent regarding a potential inter-denominational marriage. Shaun White and, yes, Chelsea Clinton are veritable twins. Same hair, same face (hers appears a bit cheekier), same height. Sure, she might be a Rhodes Scholar with some sort of intellectual awards and he a two-time gold medal Olympian, but one could easily step in for the other if the paparazzi aren't sharpening their focus.

And there, my friends, sans the fire place and snowflake-patterned turtleneck are my Olympic reflective moments. Shaun White doubles for Chelsea Clinton, and vice versa. And skeleton and two-man toboggan syncs with nighttime, streetlamp sledding (and pigpile sledding) on Portland's west hills' icy streets.

The Walk

When I stepped into the unit, I found Mom walking down the wide, 25 yard-long hallway. As if blind, she bumped against the right wall which caused her to straighten her inner steering mechanism and veer back towards the center. Her gait was driven, forceful, not fast but definitely furtive, her head bent slightly forward like when we're drunk and our bodies are drawn by some green exit sign to the world beyond or a faraway lavatory's magnetic pull towards relief. The difference being that she didn't stagger. She wasn't inibriated.



Lacking shoes, I saw that a flap of extra blue sock hung out beyond her right toe like a tiny, cozy flipper while a thick red sock snuggled around her foot perfectly. Her definitive step thumped out a clear drum beat across the carpeted plywood flooring. I worried in that moment that walking without foot support would hurt her, cause the bone spurs in her heels and the bunions on the lateral left to scream out. She only grimaced slightly, perhaps because when I caught up with her, she'd reached the end of the hall, the locked exit door, the closure of any escape her mind might have conjured in some single, or, perhaps repetitive moment.

Was she trying to get out? Or, was she trying to get out of the disease that seeped into her intelligent mind? She'd tried on numerous occasions to escape: once she saddled up next to the nutrition staff who carted in an 8-foot metal box filled with hot food trays for the residents. As he wheeled out, Mom stepped in line with his cart and slipped out the door to freedom, to the unlocked, assisted living area where the senior aged front desk woman caught her heading out the front door. "Mary! Are you going out for a walk?" She knew that Mom was a Houdini of sorts. "You'll need a coat. It's quite cold outside." And from there, she escorted Mom back into the locked Alzheimer's unit where she could take a stroll within the confines of the locked courtyard and gardens.

Walking kept her going. She wasn't idle until the disease began to affect her balance -- about a year later. Her muscles and tendons stiffened and she spent a lot of time in a love seat rocking up and back in ab-killing half-crunches. I tried these at home and couldn't accomplish even half the amount she did during one visit.

Who needs an Ab-Cruncher (for three payments of just $19.95 + shipping & handling if you act now!) when you could simply try following the Mary Strohecker exercise regimen? She did half-crunches from the cushiony couch, like a rusty bear trap's jaws that opened only slightly before slamming shut again. She was a Jack LaLanne fan forever, starting many mornings with his 5am televised exercise routine before she headed off to work. While I sat beside her in the over stuffed couch, I wondered if this was one of the episodes he recorded: non stop crunches during a cocktail party.

Mom walked. She walked endless laps in the hallways, she once told me 'to keep her muscles loose. Everyone here is so staid and stale! Nobody moves!' She'd windmill her arms then tuck her elbows in and ante-up her velocity in a power-walker mode. For as long as possible, she walked away from, or perhaps, tried to escape the Alzheimer's that crept up on her and nibbled away at her life, intellect, love, and energy.

That green EXIT sign never allowed her to get away from it.

Dead Stuff

In order to break through 'writer's block,' one guidebook suggests to open a drawer and write about the contents inside.

I haven't had the block for a while now, but I did open my lil' desk drawer today to withdraw a pen. My desk only has one, slim drawer, in which I've packed in a standard, black desk tray complete with three small divots that hold paperclips, clickster pencil refills, and other sundries, and a longer, scallop that's filled with writing implements. I have another, undivided white plastic tray that's filled to the one-inch brim (the drawer's height is only 2 inches so I need to be a good packer) with important items including white-out (important while working on a computer), an unpeeled Bandelier National Monument sticker with Kokopelli figurines, a tiny, jawbreaker-sized orange iMac computer screen with "hello (again)"

Back to the sectionalized tray. Funny, it's really a black, plasticine version of our old school lunch trays, minus the rails on the bottem used to slide along the lunchroom's stainless steel bars when selecting a square of overcooked spinach mush or salisbury steak & an icecream scoop of mashed po's. Intelligent design, I suppose, using all those long lost trays as tool and trinket holders in our desks. Portion sizes prob became too small for the American appetite, just the same.

Inside my drawer, beyond the moat of unused wallet, memory sticks, and broken-armed reading glasses, the left, corner tray cup draws my attention. Life forms, or items that once were life forms lay upon each other like ancient carcasses. A sickle-shaped tooth, capped on the root end with silver intended for a key ring or necklace with a silver tip covering the point. It's smooth, like a polished stone yet without the polish. Years of pocket time or endless nights spent beneath a handkerchief in my mom's jewelry drawer wore it to a sheen.
Beneath it rests a tubular antler piece, calamari-sized, sans the breaded edges. It, too is smooth, but the grooves of time and age are darkened, like rings on a tree. Two opposite holes bored through it, ideal for a string tie or a very eager worm working in one direction. It peaks on one side, such that when it's resting on my desk like a standard ring, and I look down at it, the pointy edge becomes a nose a beneath it, the gaping hole a mouth. Behind the mouth, of course, is that cavernous ring, then on the backside, the opposing hole or mirrored mouth: the backdoor for that hungry worm.
To its immediate left is a postage stamp sized square of what I'm assuming is tusk. It's wafer thin and yellowed from at least 75 years of ownership in Mom's jewelry drawer. She showed it to me once when I was a curious little first-grader digging through her strings of artsy necklaces and clangy bracelets. "Alaska" sweeps across the top of a single-line mountain ridge in 10-pt cursive engraved font. Beneath is an etched caricature of a hooded musher - his back to my eye - leading a packed sled with distinct rail lines which slices across the curved, ivoried snow. A perfect hole, just wide enough for a b-b sized brass ball keyring punctures through the upper left corner above musher's head. It's smooth on its underbelly in the small concave arch. The etching, though, is rough like an Alaskan winter. The chiseling is deep and time-defying.

Mom told me once that her Uncle Charles gave this to her when he traveled up to Alaska. She loved her Uncle Charles and he doted upon her even from across the country.

Sand-blasted snail and clam shells and a miniscule, urn-shaped seed small enough to fit through a buttonhole round out my drawer of non-living items. The seed's gradation in color from desert tan at its round base to its rich mahogany tip shows how time and change affects even the tiniest of life forces such as a seed.

There's a certain comforting strangeness to all these dead things, these bony relics that fill my little square cup in the corner of my desk drawer. This is especially odd when I contrast those once-livings with the tiny broken string of baby blue beads, some the size of tapioca and others a slightly larger, say, blanched papaya seeds. An embossed 'W' on a pearly papaya bead separated by single blue tapioca, then ten more pasty whites spells out my last name and reaches out to the tail of five baby blues again. This was my father's i.d. bracelet when he lay in the maternity ward just after his birth. His name, his life denoted by this tiny 10-inch bracelet which wrapped around his pudgy infant wrist two times showed passersby and the nursing staff who he was, who he'd become.
Now, it's a simple sign of life that snakes around these little momentos of once-life in my drawer and reminds me of how the past steps into the present and back again.

Curtains

I slipped inside the oak phone booth and picked up the handle of the payphone with my thumb and forefinger. It's a public phonebooth afterall, no matter the location be it an urban sidewalk or an esteemed private womens' college, these things are still scummy. When I unfolded the glass and wooden door into place, the bare bulb overhead did not automatically illuminate. Dark wood, a tiny, cornered slat for sitting worn to a darkened, graffitti-engraved sheen, a black metal phone and dismal sunlight sneaked through the scratched, personally, and unprofessionally etched glass which made it nearly impossible to see the vacant plasti cover where a phone book once hung.

I held the receiver in my left and tugged on the broken handle with my right to accordian the door once again. Lacking a good caulking since 1947 and suffering from far too many angry, door-slamming conversations, the glass rattled when I banged the two sides of the door into its closed glass-to-glass position. Air and diffused light from the ancient hallway poured in.

I punched in the numbers, checked my watch, and knew that my 20 minute break would be taken in entireity. I added tall-man finger to my receiver grip for strength while holding the ear piece just on the edge of my ear cuff. Two rings and a giggly "Hello?"

"Hi mom, it's me, Cass."

"Honeylamb! I've been trying and trying and trying to get in touch with you. Where are you?!"

"Well, I'm still down here in California. Remember, I told you that I had this two-week seminar and I'd be rather busy during the suummer months?"

"Oh. What's the seminar about? And what about your 4-legged friend?"

"He's at home watching squirrels in the trees. It's a science seminar. I get to learn different methodologies for developing some life science techniques in the classroom and I get paid for it too."

"How much?"

"About $400. Not a lot, but enough to put away for a rainy day."

"Oh, that's a lot of money! Is it raining down there? It's lovely here. I've got to finish putting the mulch on the flower beds. The Dahlias are just coming up now. You know Bud has cancer."

"Well, there's not much rain here in July" I wiped my ear and the phone receiver with my shirt tail and readjusted my grip: elbow on wall just below an I LUV CINDY 18 point carving. "Yea, I know he has cancer. You told me when I talked to you two weeks ago. Remember, I was up there for his oncologist's appointment with you. We talked about his options and all that."

"Options? Is it snowing then? Remember it was soooo cold during your graduation. There was snow on the ground and then there was that asterix next to your name. I almost died when Elizabeth told me what that was for."

"Mom I'm not in Montana and I did finally graduate two months later. That was four years ago. Remember? I graduated?"

"[Giggle-snort]No, not exactly. I keep getting these curtains that come down, like a sudden darkness then it seems like it's gone. I forget things."

"Huh. You seem to remember the stuff that I'd prefer you forget. So, when does these happen? At night? In the morning? When? Do they hurt like a headache?"

"[Giggle] Oh, I don't know. Why does it matter? They just happen, like a curtain, then it's dark."

"Are you standing or just waking up? Does it make you fall down or lose your balance?"

"Does what make me fall down? Honeylamb how come you sound so worked up?"

"I'm not worked up, I'm worried about you. The curtains. The shroud of darkness that you feel does it make you dizzy or anything like that?"

"How'd you know about those?"

"Mom, you just told me. You just said that sometimes you can't remember something, and it's like a curtain comes down, like a darkness falls over you."

"Oh."

"Mom, you need to make an appointment to see your doctor."

"Why? I feel okay except for these darned sniffles."

"Mom, you need to get these curtains checked. It could be more serious like mini-strokes or something like that."

"What are you talking about? I feel fine."

I checked my watch. Three minutes remained during my break and people were already filing back into the classroom. I still needed to use the bathroom before returning.

"Mom, these little blackouts. You need to talk to Dr. Naito and have them checked out. Maybe he could do some tests or something."

"Dr. Naito? How'd you know about him? Gosh, you're a smart little cookie! Now, tell me about your 4-legged friend. How is he? How's Nancy?"

"Mom, please. I have to get back to my class. Will you please call Dr. Naito and make an appointment to get these mini blackouts checked?" One minute.

"What class are you in? I thought you had a break from your students. How are they this year?"

"It's an adult class, mom, for me. A seminar. Mom, I have to go. Please call Dr. Naito and make an appointment. Please."

"For what?"

"Mom, get a pen out and write this down." A colleague walked by and mouthed an 'Are you okay?' I shrugged and turned inward towards the dark wall. I ran my finger over the various LUV and FUCK carvings on the wall. Gum wads filled the holes where other carvings expanded into giant zeroes.

"Okay, I have a pen and some paper." Paper ruffled in the background.

"Not the newspaper or the margin of some magazine. You need to get a blank piece of paper. I know there's a yellow post-it pad in the drawer right in front of you."

"How do you know where I'm standing?" A drawer opens and more ruffling. "How'd you know this pad was here?"

"I'm smart. Okay, write this down on the pad. Call Dr. Naito make appointment to have blackouts checked."

"[Giggle] This is quite funny, you telling me what to do. It's just like skiing: there was no time to admire the view. You made me keep heading downhill! [Giggle] Such a Bossybeehive you are!"

"Yep. Sassy Cassy too. Can you read the note back to me?"

"Uh, oh, I need my glasses. Okay. 'Call Dr. Naito appointment for blackouts.' What's this for, anyway? Who needs to call Dr. Naito?"

"Mom, you do! Is Bud there or around where you are?"

"He's in the basement. He's got that Rush blaring on the radio. He gets so angry when he listens to him. I don't even go near him."

"Okay, well Rush will do that. Can you call him please? Tell him I need to talk with him?"

"[Giggle] Okay honeylamb. Bud! Bud!" Pause. Footsteps fill the void as she headed towards the top of the basement stairs. A tinkling of metal on metal syncopated with a flap-flap of
giant ears that whap together. "Oh, hello Mabel! Good girl. Bud!" Mabel is a basset hound.

"What?!" a distant voice snapped.

"Cass wants to talk to you. She's on the phone." Mabel shook her head again. Probably rubbed up against mom's leg to get petted. "Yes, now!" Stomping feet.

"Where?"

"On the phone. Here."

"Hello?" He was panting. His shallow voice grabbed for bits of air.

"Hi Bud, it's me, Cass."

"Oh, hey there Cass. How are you?"

"I'm alright. Hey, I only have a second. But I need you to do me a favor. I asked mom to write
down on a yellow pad that she needs to call Dr. Naito and make an appointment. The pad should be there on the kitchen counter."

"Yes, I see it. It says 'Call Dr. Naito appointment for blackouts.' Is this it?"

"Yea. Mom seems to be having interludes of forgetfulness and these mini blackouts. I think she needs to get checked by Naito."

"She does?"

"Um, yea she's been having them for a while. So, can you call and make an appointment for her?"

"Yea, sure.
Gosh, I didn't know that she was having these. Mary, have you been having little blackouts?"

Water ran from the tap. "How'd you know?" I heard a toothy crunch. Her mouth was full of some raw vegetable. "Did I tell you this?" She snort-giggled again.

"Okay Cass, I'll make the appointment. You know, she parked the car down the street the other day then walked home. I had to go out and look for the car."

"It was a beautiful day. I just wanted to go for a walk!" She laughed in the background. "Mabel, do you want to go for a walk?" Mabel shook her head again and her collar and tags clinked together like bells. Toe nails happily clicked across mom's kitchen floor and a door creaked then slammed.

"That'd be great Bud. Let me know and I'll come up and go with you."

"Okay. Is that all?"

"Yea, I have to go. Take care of yourself. Tell mom I love her and I'll talk to you soon." I hung up the phone and heaved a diaphragm-filling breath. Outside the wall of windows, bees crashed-landed into the camelia blossoms that adorned the building. A hammocked spider's web extended between four twigs that appeared vacant of passing insects and the spider. She was probably waiting on the outskirts for her supper.

Another deep breath lifted my shoulders to my earlobes. I wiped my left ear with my shirt collar, just in case phone cooties jumped ship and walked back into the classroom where everyone was delving into shallow basins filled with crawfish. I was 10 minutes late.