Blank: Losing the Sense

I sit here. The gas fire burns, but gives off no heat.

As cold and blank as the palette for my senses.

I shiver, the goosebumps crawl up my skin,

settle in around my neck like a noose.

The jazz music plays, jars with the soft

conversations around me.

A large, harsh cough of a smoker.

The clang of dishes behind the counter

not calming, no, unsettling,

waiting for something to happen.

Hot coffee to warm me,

settling behind, between my teeth,

over my tongue. I taste nothing,

a hot wasteland waiting, and waiting.

Futilely.

The coffee cools, leaves only bitterness;

the aroma I should taste never arrives.

I hold onto the light, dimmed but clear,

not dulled to my eyes.

Only frisson on pleasure

coursing through my head.

I am left only the ripples on my skin,

in my eyes, allowing my soul to be

short of barren.

Much here to overwhelm, but I am betrayed.

Forsaken by the senses I was born with,

toned as a fine-tuned instrument,

yet falling flat on the stage of my mind.

(From the exercise we did at Java, Tea, and Scones Writers' Group. The exercise was to describe where we were--Panera Bread--through the eyes of someone who is hurting or just broke up with his/her girlfriend or someone who is very, very happy or *some* strong feeling--without saying that feeling....

Mine was using my lack of ability to smell...and how it dulls the senses.)

The Diagnosis: Allergic to My Life

One of my friends said, "At least you aren't allergic to writing!"

*sigh*

She's right. I'm not. But I am allergic to everything else in my life.

Horses

Dogs

Cats

Grasses

Trees

Molds

The list goes on and on.

The nurse, the discomfort, confusion and pity crossing her kind face, after finishing the diagnostic test, wasn't sure how to answer the desperation, the fear, and, yes, the heartbreak in my voice. I tried to explain, but the words bubbled in my belly, unable to move.

So she fell back to her rote script. "I am here to educate you." Desperately, “You could do nothing and forget we ever did this test.”

But, as I told her, my voice quiet and shaky, “Once you know, you can’t unlearn it.”

My whole life—changed in a moment.

For others, perhaps not devastating. But she told me, “Everything.”

She didn’t understand that she meant my life.

Only once did she break though her script, and say, "You are an educated person. You'll know what to do."

But this time the education was too painful, ripping my sense of superiority. My stomach clenched, my eyes tried to see through the haze.

Betrayed by my own body.

I've diligently, even fanatically, only used non-carcinogenic household cleaners on my family for last 13 years. My family and I are not going to die from cancers caused by carcinogens. I don’t smoke or do drugs. I don’t drink to excess. I try to eat healthily. I stomp my foot and declared it to myself and all who will listen.

Yet, it's not the carcinogens that hurt my body; it's the natural things, the things that I seek out for solace, for peace.

The sand and with it the sea.

The deep forests and the rocks, the trees of life, the birds.

Cheeses, wines—oh, the flora, the exquisite sensual flavors on my tongue.

Old books full of wisdom from people long dead, the musty smell like old perfume just waiting to bless me one more time.

Antiques to never forget the past, bringing a history to everyday.

The animals who fill and fulfill my life. The dogs who share my lap, my chair and my bed.

The cats, aloof and, yet, loving.

The horses. The majesty, kind and peace that no other of Nature's creatures can give. All that goes with them—grains, the delicious aroma of tender grass,

Burying my nose in it, listening to the musical notes of horses feeding.

The Nature that I, yes, worship, has let me down. No, not only forsaken me but become the Enemy. This allergy to *everything* in my life is not just physical, it's fundamental. The essence of my spirituality stems from a oneness with the Nature that God has created, and my body betrays me.

It seems so melodramatic, I know, and the poor nurse didn't understand--and, for once, the words couldn't come. They were trapped behind the wall of fear and betrayal and anger that I couldn't break through. Only sleep and then writing allowed those words and the answers to draw closer, be coaxed out and then freed.

Where do I go from here? Study, seek out medicines, alternatives, advice from friends who care.

But I can’t forget, and the knowledge has changed the colors of my life. Diminished the pleasures, knowing that my body rejects the very things that give me pleasure.

My friend is right, though. I’m not allergic to writing.

It is within the words themselves that Nature will give back the tranquility that’s been taken away. Perhaps it’s the way to, paradoxically, draw closer within elemental world by overcoming the allergy through the search for contentment within the world around me.

Find the calm, allow the words to flow and retrieve the colors of my world.

Alzheimer's: Wins again

Doug and I have had the same cell phone numbers for close to 15 years. Our home number has been the same since we moved in here 11 years ago. The girls' cell numbers haven't changed either.

Gram has them posted on her fridge.

She tried to call us all day yesterday, she says, because her toilet is stopped up.

I asked her what number she dialed. She tried to combine Doug's cell and our home phone. Ironic, the only day this week I didn't call and/or go see her.

:(

Printing up a list of all our phone numbers to put up beside her phone.

One more thing Alzheimer's is taking away.

Windows

We always went there first. With everything open and waiting for us, tradition trumped. We’d run and run to get there, racing across the concrete, and rarely did we have to wait in line. Hearts pounding, we’d laugh. For joy. Familiar whoosh and metal bangs as the giant tube’s doors opened, the narrow aisle pushing us closer than comfortable to the floor to ceiling windows. Stuffy, stale air they tried to keep cool, swarmed over us, even that early in the day.

Interminable waiting. Palms wet, rubbing them on our polyester shorts, smiles a little tense. Pretending calm, I leaned back and put my tennis-shoed feet on the guide bar in front of us. Mom and I always joked that God made us short—the better to keep close to the ground. Still, we yearned to go high, to go up. High above the world, the Great Lake, into the sky.

A bump, a closing whoosh and then the announcements. The murmurings from the other people settled, and we listened to the recordings. Mom and I could nearly recite them, at least the beginning. We listened to the history, the statistics as that giant tube turned slowly, spiraling into the humid sun-soaked air. Soaring high over another new roller coaster calling our names. “Can’t wait to ride that!” Forget that Mom shouldn’t ride because of her many back problems; life was too brief to let it stop her.

Bouncing in the seat, looking through the tall windows, inches from nothing, we pointed, planned. Wished already for a longer day. We could see nothing but amusement and delight in the glare off the waves. We couldn’t see the anger, the hasty words, feel the burning tears. The helplessness, the ache that never goes away. The organ's funereal tones hadn't yet drowned any clear thoughts, and my throat didn’t ache from saying, “Thank you. Yes, it was quick. Thank you for coming.” The future beyond our day at the park lay hushed and murky through the windows.

The descent sped by, then the bump. One final whoosh. Our journey to the sky ended, but the laughter, the smell of the coal from the train, the tang from warm blacktop erupted as we fled the giant tube as fast as we'd entered.

One more day together.

“Have a great day here at Ceeddaaarr Point!”

Land of the Free

I've been thinking a great deal about the Presidential candidates and who I will vote for and why. Although my friends see me, primarily, as a Democrat, I am not really. Just liberal in my thoughts.

You see, I believe in "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." Since fifth grade and Mr. Klopfenstein made us memorize the beginning of the Declaration of Independence, my mind and my beliefs have been ingrained with these thoughts.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. "

I don't fuss over the language. "Men" means all men and women the same. All men. Regardless of age, sex, sexual orientation, class, etc. None of it matters. All are equal.

It is truly that simple.

We, as those "men", have the *unalienable right* to believe as we want, to live the life that we want, to worship as we want, to be with the one we love as long ***as it harms no one else.***

And, yet, in the United States, many people believe that THEY have the right to choose what "men" can believe, what life men can live, how men can worship and whether men can be with the one they love.

If I choose to be a lesbian, Wiccan, living in the mountains with my lover and my cat, I should be allowed to. I am not hurting anyone else. (No, I'm not a lesbian or Wiccan, and Doug won't go with me to live in the mountains, so I am not doing that either, but I should have the right.)

What I want in a Presidential candidate is someone who won't tell me I can't have an abortion, that I can be with/have a civil union with my lover and that I can worship as I please. I want a Presidential candidate who won't take my money away to give to people who won't work and expect me to give them my money because I may or may not make more than they do. I want a Presidential candidate who, when he/she goes overseas, we, as citizens of the U.S., can be proud to stand behind him/her and say, "He/She is our President!'

I want a Presidential candidate who won't divide our country for political gain. I want a President who remember what this country was founded upon--The Bill of Rights.

1. 
   Freedom of Speech, Press, Religion and Petition

2. Right to keep and bear arms

3. Conditions for quarters of soldiers

4. Right of search and seizure regulated

5. Provisons concerning prosecution

6. Right to a speedy trial, witnesses, etc.

7. Right to a trial by jury

8. Excessive bail, cruel punishment

9. Rule of construction of Constitution

10. Rights of the States under Constitution

http://www.ratical.org/co-globalize/BillOfRights.html

For me, the most important is, by far, the First Amendment. These, Speech, Press, Religion and Petition, have been slowly eroded...I'm scared they will be gone. People being arrested because they want to hear a candidate speak; articles not printed because they may offend someone, not being able to worship because someone, somewhere thinks the belief system it is evil or wrong because it isn't what society says is moral; making it illegal for people to demonstrate or petition the government.

http://www.salon.com/2012/01/13/whos_afraid_of_the_tempest/

Take these away, and this is no longer the Land of the Free. It is the Land of the Oppressed, the downtrodden, not what the Revolutionary War was fought for. Not what our Founding Fathers wanted. They fought to be free from high, unfair taxes, to be free from ridicule and persecution for their beliefs. Many of the Founding Fathers were Unitarian and/or Universalists. They believe in the right to be free to worship the god or gods of their choice--not to be told by the monarch or the government who/what they could worship. They had suffered under the hands of despots and deranged monarchs for centuries--first Catholics and then Protestants, never knowing when their freedoms would be taken from them.

They came to this country to be Free. They called it the Land of the Free.

And now, in 2012, I want a Presidential candidate who will guarantee that we won't lose the freedoms we have fought so hard for. I don't care if he is a Democrat, a Republican. I don't care if he's Mormon, Catholic or a Pagan. I don't care his sexual orientation. None of those things matter to me. What matters to me is that he upholds the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.

I want the Freedom to Choose, and my choices are limited. If only someone would stand up for our Freedoms, that is the person I would vote for. I am not ready to give up what the Declaration spoke of--"life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." And part of that pursuit is to have the freedoms our ancestors fought for.

A detailed discussion of my rant above. Ironically, I started this 1/15. This was posted in The Washington Post on 1/16.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/is-the-united-states-still-the-land-of-the-free/2012/01/04/gIQAvcD1wP_print.html

Before It's Too Late

My mom died shortly before I turned 21.  I had already moved out, living with my grandparents for many reasons, but mainly because it was closer to the university where I attended.  Mom was my best friend, my confidante.  We shared an obsession to reading, writing, and the theater.  We loved to shop and visit historical places.  We both loved animals and spending time together.  We also had only each other.  My brother was gone to the military and happily married.  My dad, well, he lived his own life, even though my parents were still married.  Mom was the most important person in my life.

But, you see, Mom and I fought bitterly as well.  Hateful, nasty things flew out of our mouths.  Unforgivable things that, somehow, with the mother/daughter love would be forgiven anyway.  The fights started because she disliked my fiance, and I didn't want to see that she was right about him.  He was--and is--a good person.  He could be kind, generous and loving, but he wasn't for me.  He was too quiet, too self-absorbed and too different from me.  In a phrase, he was too much like my father, and Mom didn't want me to marry a man like that.  She was miserable, and she didn't want me to be.  (But that's a story for another day.)

My head and my heart burned with confusion and a desire to be an adult.  I longed to be independent, but I couldn't live on my own; I didn't have the money.  Mom wanted me to listen to her, but she'd taught me to be a strong, independent thinker.  I struggled to figure out when to make my own decisions and when to listen to someone who knew more than I.  

Unfortunately, I didn't listen to the one person I should have.

I fought against her advice.  I ignored her because I felt I needed to do what my fiance told me to do.  I wanted to be the future-wife he and his parents wanted me to be--even if that was not who/what would give me contentment.  I constantly struggled to appease them.  To change my thoughts, my actions to try to make them accept me.

Mom, I knew, would love me unconditionally forever.  She was, after all, my *mom*.  My biggest cheerleader, my guide and the wise woman in my life.

It was all for naught.

Mom had been in the hospital already, and the doctors said she could go home the next day.  Instead she died on that bitterly cold, early December morning.  The Catholic sister who was the chaplain and I were talking about how God wouldn't take a mother from her child when my grandfather came up the interminably long hallway and said, "Your mother is dead."  I lost the ability to feel.  My mind, my heart, my body were numb.  I couldn't breathe.  I wanted to throw up.  Everything had a white cast to it; color didn't exist in my life.

My mom was dead, with no warning, at age 42.  I would turn 21 in just a couple of months.

God had answered my grandmother's long ago prayer, but given no leeway at all.  When I was born, Mom almost died because her kidneys failed, and she went into a coma.  She had the worst case scenario of toxemia and uremic poisoning.  Gram prayed, pleading that He would let her live to see me grown.

He granted that wish.  But He took Gram at her exact words.

Ignoring that the need for a mother doesn't end when a child is grown.

After the funeral, a couple of weeks later, for Christmas, I went to his parents' house for dinner.  My grandparents had fled to Florida, my dad was somewhere with his friends, and I was in limbo.  Living alone in my grandparents' house filled with memories, and numb to it all.

It was late when I left my fiance's parents' house.  His parents and sisters were kind to me, and, yet, I knew, through no fault of anyone's, I would never fit in their family.  I drove home on autopilot.  The clock turned midnight, and I turned into the cemetery where Mom was buried.  She and Dad had picked a place far away from everyone else, near a row of mature oaks, quiet and peaceful.  I got out of my car, bundled against the slight wind, and followed the path of the moonlight.  The snow crackling, crispy under my feet, broke the silence.

The weather had been too cold to put up her tombstone, but the pungent smell of fresh dirt told the story.  Mom was gone.  It didn't matter to me whether it was Heaven or nowhere.  She was gone.  And I had so much left to say.  So much we'd planned on doing.  My wedding--to someone--my children, graduating from college, picking out curtains for my first home.  Calls to her in the middle of the night because my newborn baby wouldn't stop crying.  Laughing in the kitchen making Easter eggs and Christmas cookies.  Seeing her enfold my children in her arms just as she had tenderly held me.

I stood there, numbed to and by the cold.  The only ghosts in that cemetery were the ones pummeling my mind.  I don't know how long I stood there.  In the 21 years since then, I've only been back 5 or 6 times.  She wasn't there.  Then I didn't know where she was.

A few weeks after Christmas, my fiance and I broke up for the last time.  We continued to go out when we needed some company, but the calls dwindled off, and eight months later, I met Doug.

One day, in June, I was driving on an on-ramp and I thought, "I need to call Mom about..." and the numbness, the shield around my heart dissolved. I doubled over and sobbed until the tears dried.  They were the first, but they wouldn't be the last.

Slowly, after the anger faded away, I eased into the ache, and I allowed my mind to think about what had happened.  What I never had the chance to say.  Mom had asked to borrow a copy of our favorite novel.  I told her I would take it to the hospital for her.  I never did.  I never had the opportunity.  Later, I considered taking it to the cemetery and leaving it on her grave.  But, somehow, that seemed so futile...

Today, when I hear people saying ridiculing or decrying their mothers, I fight down the red I see.  I struggle against the words in my throat, "Don't you realize how lucky you are to have her?  Do you know what I would do to have mine here to fight with?"  Sometimes I can't stop myself, and the words come out.  I also know they don't understand.

I didn't.

As my daughters and I fight now, and we do sometimes, I see the fights from my mom's point of view.  They hurt, they keep me awake at night, wondering what to say to make my daughters understand. As proud of them as I am for being strong, I can't help wishing they would understand me.  But just as my mom never stopped loving me, I won't stop loving them.

You see, Doug and I have raised our daughters to be independent, questioning women just as Mom raised me.

I just hope they listen to the two people they can always count on--their dad and their mom.

Before it's too late.

Battles

Grandpa watches his grandson

swing from the thick grapevine

Hanging from the old oak.

The boy jumps off the hill

a hundred feet high, taut

muscles support his body

brave like the warrior his grandfather

was. His grandson gets down;

Grandpa in turn, reaches for the vine.

He knows he shouldn't fly:

his body will betray him.

His eyes proclaim

the war within, as real as the one

he fought in Germany and Japan.

Honor, truth, glory to be defended.

Unlike on those far shores, Grandpa hesitates,

strokes the coarse vine once more

--with hands scarred, abused and tender--

a last time, like a lover.

Lines around his eyes

belie the soldier’s youth,

alive in his mind,

torn from his body

after seventy years of conflicts.

His weapons lowered,

Grandpa walks away.

Grandpa sits on the basement steps and cheers

as his daughter and grandson play table tennis.

His loved ones cajole him to play:

Show us how good you are.

Hiding a smile, after all his disclaimers,

he plays to win.

He battles against time; his opponents are youth

-- today, at least,

he wins.

(C) Tori Whitacre Wilfred

Time: Arbitrary but Undeniable

Last night, I wanted to finish the previous blog post. I'd been trying to write it for several days, and I kept running out of time. After two days of helping my grandmother and one day of the Writing Group and all the other day-to-day tasks that come into play, I hadn't been able to sit for ten quiet minutes to write.

I handed the baby to Doug, to Aleyna, to Kyla, and said exasperatedly, "Please, let me finish this." They tried, but, of course, it was late, and the baby wanted to nurse and cuddle. *sigh* "Just let me have a few minutes, and then I'll take him." _Ghosthunters_ was coming on shortly, and I didn't want to miss the beginning. (I record it, of course, but still it's the only show I watch...)

Lance jabbered in my ear while I struggled to edit--one half sentence at a time. I begged him, kindly, to "just let me finish this." He read to me from his new Shel Silverstein books that he'd wheedled me into buying. (Hey, if he wants to read, am I going to deny him?!) I listened, my mind half on the words I clamored to get back to. I laughed with him when he finished, and Doug and I helped him figure out the harder words. His face shone with delight...he loves reading, and he loves to laugh.

"Let me finish this...I'm running out of time."

Then Mikyla comes in to tell me about her day. I don't envy her going to high school....that was a time I'm glad is over. I do enjoy listening about her (melo)dramas, and who said what to whom....but last night, I wanted to finish editing the blog and get it posted. I listened to her bemoan that her audition didn't go as well as she'd have liked. (She's rarely happy with anything she does, though. I took her worries with a grain of salt.)

Finally, I just gave up and hit "send". I read it today, and it's choppy and doesn't read as well as I'd like, but sometimes the time comes to move on.

Every day flies by, like a roller coaster gaining speed, and at some point (not yet), the ride will slow as it goes up the hill to the end. Then time will be sluggish, thick, heavy to get through, no babies to change, no melodramas to hear about, no tiny fingerprints to clean up. With Drake's birth that "slow climb up the hill" was pushed off several more years. I'll be 58 years old when Drake graduated from high school. An unexpected cog in the gear of time.

In the meantime, though, some days (or simply some moments), I long for peace to write, to fall into the never never land of other characters, other times that I've wanted to write about for so long. Throughout the first years of our marriage, I did write, then the kids came. I taught writing, which helped fill the void, but I wanted my own words. After teaching, I was too tired and too drained to put words to paper. Now, though, time doesn't stop. Postponing writing isn't an option. I'm coming to a midlife crisis. It's because of my mom.

Shortly, my time here on earth will be as long as the time my mom had here. She had 42 years, 3 months and 10 days to do the things she wanted to do. And she lived life. She did the things she wanted to do as much as physical and financial limitations allowed her. She spoke her mind and didn't bulldozed anyone who tried to hurt her or her family. People either admired her for her kind heart and determined personality or they despised her for her outspokenness and refusal to back down when she felt strongly about something. The first were blessed, the latter don't know what they missed. Her time was short but stuffed with so many blessings and challenges. (My time with Gram is making me appreciate these more.)

Time is too short to not *live*, and, yet, it's so arbitrary. We make up time. We change time. There are no numbers on the sun and the moon to tell us what time it is...we as humans illogically made it up so that we can live in polite society. Yet, we can't make it go any slower. We can't bring back time.

I keep begging Gram to write down her stories in a little book I bought her several years ago. She tells me, "I will one of these days. I want my great grandbabies to know me since I don't know anything about my grandparents...I will do it before I die." I must admit, it's not before she dies that I am afraid of--it's before she forgets...

Today I opened up my e-mail, and I read, stomach clenched, about a man I only knew from one of my e-mail lists and as a friend on Facebook who had been killed by a drunk driver yesterday along with his sons and nephew. He was a year younger than I am. His sons and nephew had Cystic Fibrosis, and it was a good day for them, so he took them to the batting cage for a fun trip out. They were killed on the way home. His last post on FB was how happy he was that the CF "monsters" were away.

I could ask, "Why?" but that never gives an answer. Was it by some horrible chance or divine design? Who knows? And, really, who cares? So senseless, so unfair for his time to be cut short.

Or my friend who was killed a few months ago or her husband who died a few months before that.

We don't know how much time we have.

So, yes, I wanted just a few more minutes to finish yesterday's blog, but I'm glad that I did take the time to listen to the kids. I still got to watch _Ghosthunters_. I watched it after they went to bed. There will be reruns too. But the kids are only little once.

I want--need--to enjoy them before it's too late.

I don't want to run out of time...

Poems I've written on Time.

A day in the life of a writing student and housewife

Between classes and feeding the dogs

I wonder how I will write.

The baby cries because I don't hold her

While she drinks her bottle--

it's about time to break that habit,

but who has the time?

The telephone rings--it's one of those pesty

Telemarketers again trying to sell me window shades.

The doorbell rings--

I forgot the carpet guy is coming to measure!

A sad sigh and a shake of my head,

I pray for a twenty-fifth hour.

All I want is a poem, not a short story

and only in dreams do I work on a novel.

As the baby sleeps the dishes glare at me to be done

But class work beckons when I sit at the computer

so I don't look like some lazy freshman tomorrow

who hasn't figured out you have to do your homework

to make the grade.

My guilt too overwhelming to caress the keys

with words from my heart.

As I carry the laundry basket up the stairs,

the sunlight outside draws me to write,

but too much needs done.

The baby needs a bath; the bills need paid;

the bank needs called about the check they said

never arrived to pay the mortgage.

Lunch needs made--Dinner needs made.

Always something keeping me from the keyboard--

And the release of the storylines I have floating

In my housewifey brain. Just to answer the questions

the characters drill me to ask.

The clock ticks on and finally

The husband comes home.

When I look for him for comfort,

I could almost kill him when he says,

"Honey, did you get any writing done today?"

--Tori L. Wilfred (c)

Taking the Time

I want to do

Nothing

—have a staring contest

with my favorite cat,

Wish upon the closest star

at noon,

Blow kisses to the evening

moon and

the beginning of one more

satin night,

Set free butterflies

shaped like words

from my mind

to sing to the wind,

Whisper God’s speed to a

young brown toad and

Bellow at bullfrogs

who want company.

I want to share

Nothing

With my daughter

Before she doesn’t have

time to do

Nothing

with me.

© 1997 Tori L. Wilfred

Alzheimer's: The Scourge of Old Age

I sometimes worry that I'm going to get Alzheimer's. It's not a distant, "Oh, what if" kind of worry. It's alive and knocking on the door, reminding me that I'm not getting any younger, and I can do very little to stop it from stepping into my life. You see, I'm 41, and it's already here.

No, heaven forbid, I don't have it--at least I don't think so. But it's a big part of my life. My grandmother, 85, has it, and it is like watching an old friend walk away, slowly and quietly. Gram has always been a major part of my life, and this change is in some ways heartbreaking, but in others, it's made me appreciate her all the more.

My mom has been gone 21 years, and Gram (Mom's mom) has been the maternal figure in my life since then. I was an adult (almost 21) when Mom died, but as anyone knows, sometimes you need a "mom" to answer questions that just don't make sense. Gram and Gramps filled the lack I had in my life. (My dad died a few years ago, but that's another story for another day.) So taking care of Gram is left almost exclusively to me and Doug.

(My mom's sister lives in North Carolina, and my brother lives outside of Seattle, so they can't help with the day-to-day, but they help a great deal with emotional support.)

Getting groceries, taking her to the doctor, taking her to get her hair done, making sure her bills are paid, making sure her dog has food, and that she has toilet paper are left to us. Day-to-day chores that seem so commonplace we rarely think about it--we just do them--suddenly become *very* important and a major obstacle to overcome.

Gram takes care of herself and her dog at home, feeding herself, taking her pills. Her dog, Max, is vital to keeping her active and happy. Her neighbor walks Max for her almost every day, and that is good for two reasons: 1) Max gets to walk with his buddies. 2.) Someone is looking in on Gram every day, even when Doug and I don't get over there.

A couple of days ago, I took Gram to the grocery store. The little restaurant located inside the store serves tasty food, quick and inexpensive. We've been going there since it opened more than thirty years ago. Although it has changed, the basic layout of the store is the same.

I helped Gram into the store, and we walked to the restaurant. She laughed and said, "A baby [Drake] on one side and a big baby [Gram] on the other." I laughed, but I thought how true that is.

Deciding what to eat is always a chore for her. Having too many choices is overwhelming. So I narrowed her choices down to a couple of items, and she chose for herself from those. She kept asking me, "What do I like?" It tears at me to know that she doesn't remember.

(She told me today, "My memory is about this long." She put her fingers out with only millimeters between them. I laughed and said, "Sometimes mine is like that too." I try to not deny it when she says things about her lack of memory, but rather laugh it off. I searched her eyes to see if she believed me. I think she did.)

Then after eating, I thought we'd go to the restroom before we shopped. She came out of the restaurant and headed the wrong direction. I said, "No, Gram, this way, by the front doors." She got her cart, and she walked on past the restroom over towards the front of the checkouts.

All these years of going to the store, and Gram couldn't remember where the restrooms were.

Throughout the store, she constantly asked me, "What do I like?" "Will I eat that?" "Have I ever eaten this?"

It took us almost four hours to painstakingly go through seemingly each and every item in the store. Too many decisions for her to make. Too much for her to handle. However, I refuse to take that bit of independence away from her. I never let her out of my sight because I was afraid she wouldn't make it to the next aisle.

Perplexed, she stood in front of the freezer and tried to choose what she would buy. Even just the contents of one freezer were too much for her to pick and choose from.

I fought back my tears.

Finally, we got through the checkout and out to the car. Gram said she was exhausted. After trying to keep the baby happy (he fell asleep in the cart for awhile) and making nearly all of Gram's decisions, I was exhausted too.

It's ironic--and wonderful--that Gram does well at home. She is more confident and knows what to do. Even putting the food away, she knew where she wanted it. She's fine there. It's her home, the home that she shared with my grandfather for nearly 60 years. I will not take her from there unless I am physically not able to take care of her. Fortunately, my husband and my kids understand that. I know it won't be easy, but it's what I must do.

After taking her home, helping her get her food put away, making sure that she had her evening meal and pill, paying the bills that were due right away, then heading home myself, it was all I could do to drag myself and the baby to my car. But my day wasn't done. I had my own groceries to put away when I got home--and doesn't it figure that Aleyna couldn't help much because she's getting over mono (although she did a great deal), Lance helped (but would rather eat the junk food that I bought instead of helping . We badgered him into doing the cans.), and Ky and Doug weren't home. *sigh*

Before I finally stumbled to bed, I changed and nursed the baby and cuddled with him until he fell asleep (I know I shouldn't, but tough! ). Calming gratitude filled my heart for the blessings and the challenges in my life. I understand why Gram is still here...she is teaching me the patience I've always lacked, the compassion I need and the heart to appreciate the joys I've been given.

I just hope that I can always *remember* them as well......

Unhappy Marriage: When Only One Spouse is Horse-Crazy

Yesterday I wrote about a couple of my friends who are going through divorces for many reasons. Ironically, the descriptions fit several of my friends clear across the country. It's sad how the reasons for divorce are eerily similar no matter where people live. But sometimes the divorce is only thought of, but not gone through...what, in my circles, is the main reason for unhappiness in a marriage?

I received a phone call yesterday afternoon from a friend I'd not spoken to in years. No reason except that she lives a couple of hundred miles away and is in a different part of her life. A friend if I need her, but time and distance keep us apart. We started talking about her horses (she has Morgans, of course) and how her husband refuses to help her with her horses or even join in a ride or enjoyment of them. They've been married 30-odd years, and he's only gotten worse about not giving her any money for the horses, constantly badgering her to get rid of them, and, perhaps most telling of all, not celebrating with her the little things--a welcoming snicker or the warmth of a mare's breath.

I don't get it.

I always think that there must be something fundamentally wrong with people who don't love--or at least appreciate--the majesty of a horse. Of course, it's true, I'm biased :), but still... :) :)

Seriously, though, how can someone totally ignore and deride something that is so intrinsic to the happiness of the one you profess to love? But perhaps that's *really* the problem.

He doesn't love her anymore--if he ever did.

He is comfortable in their life. They are financially secure, nice home, nice cars. He spends time doing his favorite hobbies, and, when he comes home, he has a lovely wife who's made dinner for him for a relaxing evening watching television. He doesn't see the need to change anything, and he'd rather get rid of the "nuisances" and the waste of money that could much better be spent on cars or a new golf club, or the newest and greatest computer gadget. He doesn't understand that those nights when his wife can't sleep that going to the barn and listening to the rustling in the straw and the sweet, musty scent of a horse's hide is worth thousands of dollars of therapy.

He doesn't understand, and he doesn't want to.

I wonder what that says about whether he understands his wife--and whether he wants to.

The sad part? I know of several other women (and a couple of guys) in the same situation. In long-term marriages where only one of the partners doesn't even give lip service to the joys of his/her partner's life. For most of my friends, it is horses, but it could be anything that makes the other person happy.

Those women (and men) are like secret smokers, trying to hide their addiction from their spouse. Downplaying the horses, hiding expenses, enduring the cold--or blank--stares when the horses are mentioned. Constant negativity on something that is so important to someone would force anyone to make a choice.

Choose the spouse--someone who thinks only for himself, who simply doesn't understand and doesn't care about the things that make her happy. He doesn't care if she shares his passion because they are two people living together living two separate lives.

Choose the horses (or other enjoyment)--and lose decades' old relationship, financial and emotional (?) stability.

But it isn't easy, is it? It isn't easy to get out of any relationship, even one with emotional abuse. Constant digs and nudges at your self worth. Knowing that what matters to you is irrelevant to the person you've vowed to spend your life with. But he vowed to love and to cherish you too.

My friend has lived with this for thirty-odd years, knowing that she would have to put up with his not caring. Not calling if one of the horses obviously is colicking. Not watering on a hot July day when the horses drink more than she thought they would. Not feeding one night in a year so that she can stay out and share a drink with a high school friend. Not mourning the loss of a stillborn foal.

I don't know how she stays. I don't know how she handles the letdowns. The hoping, wanting just once for him to share with her the kindness and joy found in a horse's eyes.

One of my friends didn't stay. She is divorced now from a man she married more than 20 years ago. He ridiculed her body, her every action, the meals that she prepared. He would allow her to lie awake at night worrying how to pay for hay when he had tens of thousands of dollars he wouldn't let her use. "That is her problem," he told me once.

Isn't marriage supposed to be giving/receiving 110%? Celebrating the joys and mourning the losses together? I'm often told how lucky I am to have a wonderful husband who does share with me the ups and downs and joys and challenges of having horses. Would he have them if I didn't want them? Probably not. Did it get to be too much when I was pregnant, and I couldn't do anything in the barn? Yes, I'm sure it did. Did he do it anyway? Yes.

But do I do the same for him? I try. I don't golf. I love to watch golf (Go TIGER!), but I don't play. I don't share that joy with him, but I don't scorn the fact that he does. No, I go with him to the golf show, go to professional matches near us, and if I can't, I encourage him to go without me.

Ever since we were first married, he has played poker with a group of his friends every month or six weeks. Only two or three times in the last 19 years have I asked him not to go, and I had good reasons to ask. I understand that his time is vital to making him happy. On the same token, he doesn't say anything when I visit with my friends once in awhile. It is a give and take. I prefer to share my life with my husband--including my passions, which, of course, includes our horses. (Yes, *our* horses....)

That's what being married is about. At least *happily* married.

That is what I thank Doug for...and I wish for my friends. And if that means leaving a marriage, then that's what they should do. Life is too short to not enjoy the pleasures that make us happy.

Small Town Writer worries...and appreciates

I laid awake last night thinking about a friend of mine and the situation she is in. Actually, several friends are going through the same situation--bitter divorce. The two women I am thinking of don't know each other, but their situations are eerily--and sadly--similar. Both of them have soon-to-be ex-husbands who have consistently and systematically attempted to destroy their relationships with their children. Constantly deriding, complaining, accusing their wives of being selfish, arrogant and cruel.

Do you think these women would be my friends if they were any of those things?

No.

For anonymity's sake, I will call one friend "Jane". Her husband has for years not understood her, has not even tried. He has never attempted to sympathize by word or action the abuse she endured growing up. He only continued to compound it by pushing for more than she could give. So, unable or unwilling to face his own inadequacies, he blames her for everything wrong in their marriage. Lack of passion, lack of compassion, lack of friendship in their union. So he is determined to destroy her life.

He scathingly mentions her name and her "sins" to anyone who will listen. Of course, their children will listen. And, because Jane lives in a Small Town, others listen too. His claims I won't repeat. I won't hurt her that way to repeat them...plus, I'm saving them for the lawyer, if need be. They are lies--or twisted truth. Same thing.

But others listen, and her children believe their father, and they keep her grandchildren from her. You see, this marriage isn't new, but decades old. No affection is left, only contempt.

My friend is strong, but her patience is waning....

My friends call me, and I listen and struggle not to cry. What can I do? Light a candle and say a prayer.

My other friend, Stephanie, finally fought against her husband's nudges and not-so-veiled comments about her weight, her eating habits, even her reading choices. She shares nothing with him. She raises Morgans like we do, enjoys reading, writing, her children. He bowls, plays video games, and abhors her horses. (I told her that should have been her *first* clue against him! ) He has not attempted to be a part of her life, and she doesn't want him in hers because of his criticisms. I don't blame her. He accuses her of putting her horses's needs before her children's. He doesn't understand the incredible bond between a horse and his rider--and probably doesn't want to. Animals, to him, are nothing more than commodities. Good only for what they can give to him. He doesn't understand that their compassion is priceless. He also doesn't understand the unbreakable love of a mother for her children.

Listening to my friends, I thank the heavens (and Doug) that I have such a wonderful husband who puts up with my idiosyncrasies and failings. He treats me and our children as though we are his world--and I know we are. Doug, against our wishes, puts our desires ahead of his own. Unselfish and loving to us as we go through our lives. That's what this blog is about--our life and my writings and raising a family in a Small Town.

***Dates, details and names have and will be changed for protection and anonymity