| Dinner For One, Part Thirty-Four |
[May. 3rd, 2012|08:21 pm] |
“The worst part of life is waiting. The best part of life is having someone worth waiting for.” –Jessica Brumley
“Love looks through a telescope; envy through a microscope.”—Josh Billings
“The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish your feelings - words shrink things that seem timeless when they are in your head to no more than living size when they are brought out.” –Stephen King
It’s been said by many writers and critics that fiction writers are liars (among many other words of praise and condemnation alike, thank you very much). There might be some truth to that. I tend to think that the act of writing fiction requires the same talent set as a good liar has: you have to be able to spin a tale and make it believable. You also have to be able to keep your fictions straight in your head or, believe me on this, the critics will come after you like piranha.
As I was out to dinner with some friends a few nights ago, we got to discussing this simple aspect of writing. And Charles Rutledge, a co-author and friend, brought up a salient point that Stephen King made eloquently: King said, “Fiction is the truth inside the lie.”
I tend to believe that’s an incredibly accurate assessment. Okay, to be fair, I tend to think that Stephen King is incredibly accurate far more often than he is wrong. It’s the mark of a truly phenomenal scribe: A writer sees everything and sometimes, if fate is kind and the stars are aligned properly, that writer can even find a way to explain what has been seen with mere words.
I believe that fiction writers—maybe all writers, though I’m not experienced enough at non-fiction to make a proper judgment—have to carry an element of truth in their words, or else they fail in the task of telling a compelling story. Truth can be a painful thing to deal with. Maybe that’s why I prefer fiction: less painful or at least the truth is diluted that way. Let me give you an example, if I may.
As I have made clear before, I knew that barring unforeseen incidents, there was every likelihood that I was going to outlive my wife. We both knew it. The cards had been dealt and there is absolutely nothing kind or gentle about a chronic illness. Let me be direct here: Diabetes is a chronic illness. You treat it the right way and your life expectancy isn’t the best. You ignore it and you’re likely shaving decades off of your life. Decades. That is not a gross exaggeration. The thing I can’t emphasize enough is that it’s one thing to know that intellectually and another to really comprehend it. Sometimes I think you want to sugar coat the universe you live in, whether or not you are conscious of that desire to make the world more palatable.
And that’s where the truth comes in. I don’t think you can lie to yourself constantly without some rather unpleasant side effects. I think that maybe if you manage the feat of lying constantly and convincingly you just might find yourself on the path to mental illness. What makes me say that? Common sense and a little perspective, really. Perspective is also not always easy. I’ve told people before that now and then an editor is a writer’s best friend, because now and then the editor can offer distance when a writer is too close to a subject. I don’t necessarily mean with the subject matter, though that too can apply. I mean that as a writer, I KNOW what I’m trying to say and sometimes I can’t convey it properly (Hopefully that’s a rarity) and other times. I think the mind tends to put the right words in the right places for me. Not on paper as it were, but behind my eyes when I’m reading. Put another way, though in this case it’s very much accidental, the mind lies. What I meant to say in a sentence might be “She spoke to the policeman and gave him all the details she could clearly remember.” And that might very well be what I SEE because my mind knows what I’m trying to say, when in fact the words typed are “She spike to the please man and save him all the details she could clearly remember.” It’s close, but it’s decidedly not what was intended. Sometimes the mind lies.
Other times, the mind insists on the truth, and I think that if it can’t force the truth into your conscious mind, it will find other ways to handle the situation. It might, for example, affect your dreams to the point that you have repeated dreams of looking for a new job when you fear for whether or not your current employment is going down the crapper. Or it might offer up a dream of your potential love interest sleeping with someone else, someone you desperately despise, to let you know that said possible paramour is slipping away and losing interest. Seems like just another dream but there are signals from your unconscious mind. Then again I could be completely off the mark. I am hardly a psychiatrist.
So, a little evidence to consider then.
It seems I was preparing myself for Bonnie’s passing. I’ll explain. Bear with me. I wrote a novel called DEEPER a while back. About two years before Bonnie passed, actually. The main character of the novel was a man named Joe Bierden. Joe is an average guy and he has a wife and two kids. He loves them, of course. Hey, if you’re going to write a novel, here’s a hint for you: if your main character has no one in his life it’s going to be a good deal harder to make anyone care about him or her. Characters who stand alone and don’t play nicely with at least a few people tend to be unsympathetic. That tends to make your readers not care at all about the trials and tribulations that character faces. Look back on a few of the novels you liked the least and you just might see that played a part in it. Of course it could have just been a really bad novel or a bad time to pick that particular book. Hard to say, but I’d guess there might be a little something to my suggestion.
My point is, Joe is a likable enough character.
I actually felt a little bad about murdering his wife.
I don’t work from an outline. Most of the time the story is in my head and I just write and let it sort itself out. Now and then that leads to the darnedest challenges. In my very first novel, UNDER THE OVERTREE, that led to a character that refused to die. I mean, seriously I tried to kill her a dozen times and she just would not let me kill her. Obviously I wasn't done with the character, but it was both an amusing dilemma and a frustrating one.
Joe’s wife was a bit different. I never planned to kill her originally. It just sort of happened. She was taken abruptly and when he finally got to see her again, it was too late. The following section is from the novel. Well, the second draft at any rate. There might have been a few changes but this should make the point well enough.
***
As bad as the phone call was, it was nothing in comparison to looking at Belle’s lifeless face. She was as beautiful as ever, as calm as I had ever seen her, and yet her body was a cold, dead thing.
I would never know her touch again, or hear her laughter, or feel her breath on my neck while we hugged. Or look into her eyes and marvel at the way she looked when she smiled. Or kiss her again. Or hear her gripe about the fucking Red Sox when they blew a game. Or taste her cooking, or hear her fuss good-naturedly about the fact that she’d married a slob. She would never surprise me with breakfast in bed again, or pretend to be surprised herself after I’d made a mess of the kitchen while trying to return the favor. She would never wake me from a doze and lead me to the bedroom on a cold winter’s night when I sat too damned close to the fire and I was going stir crazy from a month of not working every single day for three or more months. She would never again keep me at bay and fend off a much-needed hug because she was still frying another pan of potatoes and ham. She would never, ever kiss me awake again.
Dear Lord, the list of things she would never do again was endless, almost as vast as the gulf that separated us as I stared down at her refrigerated corpse, unmarked but still so very, very dead.
I know I talked, eventually. I know I did things. I took care of matters, because, really, that’s what you’re supposed to do. I made arrangements to have her body transported back to our little town, and I called the priest at our church and the insurance company, and a hundred other numbers. I know I spoke to my kids and listened to them cry, listened to their slow realization that it wasn't just a social call because I missed them.
I remember all of it in a distant way, like it happened to somebody else. Because for all the world, the only thing that mattered to me was that Belle was dead.
Belle was dead.
Murdered.
Stolen from me for all time.
There are things we do in our lives that we regret. For every single thing I got right in my life, I suppose there is at least one action or idea I had that I would gladly do over. That’s the way the world works.
I never regretted any part of my time with Belle. I was ashamed of certain things I did, and if I could have changed those things, I probably would have, but none of them involved her, not directly at least.
***
It's fiction, of course. My wife was not murdered. She was merely stolen away by the Grim Reaper. There are differences, naturally, because I was not writing about Bonnie. I was writing about Belle. At least I thought I was when I wrote the piece. Now I suspect I was merely telling myself a truth I didn't want to face. I was getting ready for the inevitable in the only way I could.
We try to prepare ourselves, I suppose. We try. As a writer, I think the truth wants to come out, even if, sometimes, you don’t necessarily approve of that truth. You may rest assured; I don’t have an easy time reading the words above. They come too close in a lot of ways, though to be fair they are diluted. The reality was far, far more intense than my words conveyed.
I did not mean to write about Bonnie’s death. I did not intend to prepare myself, because I wanted very much to believe she would always be with me. It’s been almost two and a half years now, and I still miss Bonnie every day.
But we move on, don’t we? I never thought that would be possible. I still miss Bonnie every day, but, yes, I can breathe without having to remember how any more. I can sometimes go several days without feeling a sudden onslaught of tears.
We move on. I’ve been thinking about Bonnie a lot lately. To be fair, I’ve never stopped thinking about her. I sincerely doubt that I ever will. But now and then I can think about moving forward and I can make plans instead of simply forcing myself to get through the day.
I continue to work out every day, and I am still dieting and trying to get rid of the extra pounds I managed to put on through the course of years. Judging by comments made, I’m doing all right in that department. My pants are too baggy again, and sometime soon I’ll likely invest in new threads a few sizes smaller. I still work at Starbucks as a barista, and I still write novels for a living. One of my regulars is looking to start a private school and has asked me if I’d be interested in teaching a creative writing course. Might as well ask me if I’d like to try having fun. Should the opportunity arise, I’ll very likely take it. As with the writing deals, I’ll believe it when I’m looking at the contract and until then it will remain something to consider as a possibility. I remain, in other words, a work in progress.
Forward motion is always preferred to stagnation.
It is what it is. |
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| Dinner for One, Part Thirty-Two |
[Feb. 12th, 2012|10:23 pm] |
“When love is not madness, it is not love.” –Pedro Calderon de la Baraca
“If yet I have not all thy love, love dear, I shall never have it all. —John Donne
“Love is friendship set on fire.” –Anita Hodzic
Bonnie loved coins. Actually, I think she loved the memories they held for her. She loved her father very, very much. And for a lot of her youth, her father traveled a great deal for his job, often going to other countries or other cities for extended periods of time. Normally when he came back from areas that were a bit more exotic, he would bring her back a few coins from the local currency. Now, I’m sure this was just a way of clearing the change from his pocket and I am fairly certain that she never confided how much she liked those silly coins to her father. Though there was love in that relationship, there were also levels of complexity (aren’t there always?) and while when it came to certain things the two of them could be thick as thieves, they did not always speak easily to each other, even when they lived in the same house and they were both enduring their own health issues. It is not my place to air their laundry, and if you were expecting me to, you don’t know me very well. Let’s just leave it at they loved each other, even when they weren’t quite sure how to express it.
I found out about Bonnie’s love of strange coins when we were dating. She worked at a local fast food place where, one night, one of the customers paid with a couple of rolls of pennies. When she opened one of the rolls, all of the pennies that came out were the wrong color. Back in WWII the need for copper became rather dire for the military at one point, and for a brief time the pennies in these United States were forged not from copper, but from tin. She and her brother ran across a good number of tin pennies on that day and being of like mind, they promptly bought those pennies from their change till. Cost them around 78 cents as I recall, though, to be fair, it’s been a while and the numbers could be wrong. At any rate, those stupid pennies put a smile on her face, and as I have said before, I absolutely loved Bonnie’s smile. She could light my whole world with it.
I couldn’t afford to give Bonnie everything I wanted to in this world. Had I more money than Bill Gates, I’d have never been able to give her everything I wanted to in this or any lifetime, though she’d have said she needed none of it (Paradoxically, that just made me want to give it to her more. No one ever said the human heart made any sense.). At any rate, I knew of her love of foreign coins, old coins and bicentennial quarters, etc. To that end, working in retail, I made it a point to collect any of the odd coins that came across my register over the years and if it was stamped with the 1776-1976, it was almost a guarantee that if I had the change in my pocket, I’d switch it out. On particularly rare occasions I might run across an Indian Head nickel or even a coin so old that the numbers and images had faded to nothing. As you can imagine, the chase was seriously increased around the time some smarty pants in the government decided to do all those state quarters. I added them to the quest. As soon as I saw a new state quarter, it was a guarantee that Bonnie would have it to add to her collection. State Parks? I’m on those puppies too.
I need to clarify something here: Bonnie didn’t really collect them in the purest sense. She didn’t buy coin books and carefully set each in its special place. No, she just pooled them in a plastic odds and ends box and stowed them on her nightstand. She’d eye them, do her best to make out the details with her limited vision, and them plop them in the box with a smile and a thanks. Sometimes I think she might have been tempted to tell me not to waste my time, but she never told me to stop so I kept on doing it. Really, it was hardly much effort.
About three week after Bonnie died, I ran across a bicentennial quarter at work. I didn’t even really think about it. I just dug in my pocket, pulled out 25 cents and made the exchange. The coin went into my pocket and I forgot about it until I went home and emptied my pockets in preparation for another load of laundry.
I looked at that coin for a few seconds, said a few words to Bonnie, and then set it in her little plastic box of coins. And every day since then, when I run across a special coin, I buy it if I can afford it (I only pay the face value and I only get them if I can afford them), I wait until I get home, I say a few words to Bonnie and I put that coin into her little plastic box. Today was a banner day. I found three bicentennial quarters, two five-cent pieces and a one-cent piece from the Bahamas. I told Bonnie about my day, described the coins from the Bahamas (as we had never shared those particular coins before) and plopped them in her jar.
It’s just a little way of coping and honoring her memory. They brought her joy, and at the end of the day, I sock away a little change for a rainy day. I’m not a complete moron. Sooner or later that little jar fills up and I empty out most of the quarters, leaving behind mostly her tiny collection of foreign currency.
I still talk to Bonnie every day. Still like to think she’s listening. Damn, I still miss her. Every day. Every minute and hour.
There’s a little video game called Bejeweled. It’s a simple enough game: match three like gems and they explode and you get points. The higher the level, the more gems there are on the screen and the more complicated the challenge of moving forward. Bonnie loved that stupid game. I guess you could call it her Zen moment for the day. She’d play on a sort of autopilot and the pains and grief of her existence got more manageable. For the last couple of years of her life it was not at all uncommon for me to hear her playing that game while I was writing. I’d hear the music, the sound of gems exploding, and on rare occasions, when the combination of exploding gems was simply too intense for mere noises to convey, the game would call out “Amazing!” “Extraordinary!” “Incredible!” Background noise. Listen you live in a busy house, you learn to block out most background noises with relative ease.
The other day Bejeweled was offered as a free app for the iPhone. Yep I have an iPhone. Just for grins, I downloaded the app. I wasn’t thinking about it consciously, I just thought it looked like fun and sort of remembered Bonnie playing it and having fun.
And I played it. I, who never play video games because they get in the way of my writing time, started playing the goofy game and hearing the same sounds that I’d grown to tune out as so much white noise while Bonnie was alive.
Yesterday I called in sick to my day job. Believe me when I say this: That doesn’t happen very often. The last time I called in sick was a little over four and a half years ago. Doesn’t mean I’m a workhorse or anything, it’s just the way I was raised. You don’t call out sick unless you are, by God, sick. I managed to catch a stomach bug from my in-laws and spent the vast majority of the last two days, achy, feverish and visiting the bathroom with ridiculous frequency. The worst has passed, thankfully, but I am still annoyingly achy.
The last time I got really, really sick, Bonnie was still with me. She came home from work, took one look at me in my misery, and laughed. I believe her exact term was “You big baby!” She said that, but she still spoiled me a little and brought me a cup of soup and even let me pick which shows we were going to watch (Hey, you have to celebrate these little victories. Don’t judge me.). Seriously, aside from being diabetic and chunkier than I like to think about, I’m ridiculously healthy. Even my doctor has said so a few times. I’m not gonna get cocky about it, of course. That sort of thing never lasts and I am hardly immortal (Thus the regular doctor visits). But I really don’t get sick often.
This time I was on my own for the misery of a fever and all the fun asides. Turns out Bonnie was right. I’m a big baby. There was some hardcore pouting and whimpering going on. And you know what? No one got me my soup. I had to do it myself. It’s just not the same somehow. Still, I managed to survive the storm. And because it was about all I could do, I played the hell out of that Bejeweled game. Damnedest thing. I found the sounds soothing. I imagine I will eventually grow tired of the game, but for now it’s a nice, different way to remember my beloved.
Sometimes the littlest things get us through the day.
It’s almost Valentine’s Day. If you have a sweetheart, don’t forget a card or something. Why? Because you have a sweetheart. Don’t go taking that fact for granted or you might regret it. That’s my advice at least, for what it’s worth.
And if you don’t have a sweetheart, treat yourself instead.
It is what it is. |
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| Dinner For One, Part Thirty-Two |
[Dec. 31st, 2011|06:53 pm] |
“There is no remedy for love but to love more.” –Henry David Thoreau
“Absence sharpens love, presence strengthens it.” –Thomas Fuller
In just a while I’ll be over at my in-laws’ place for the New Years’ celebration. I’ve rung in the New Year with them every year for a very long time now, since before Bonnie and I were married, actually. It’s a tradition, a little part of life that is comfortable and familiar, even without Bonnie there. I miss her, of course. Always and constantly. And especially through the holidays for all the reasons I’ve discussed here before. But my in-laws are family just the same and I love them, too. As with most of the people in my life, they might easily forget that from time to time—I’ve never been overly communicative—but I love them. And so I’ll ring in the New Year with them and say goodbye to the old year.
Thanks to Facebook and Twitter and a dozen other different sites designed to let us communicate, I have already seen a trend this time around that I normally see. The difference is, this time I think either it’s more prevalent or I’m just contemplative enough to notice: There are a lot of people who are truly pissed at the passing year. I mean the freaking HATED it. Were they all in a room together instead of crossing paths over the internet, I can’t help but envision a large gathering of scarred, bitter veterans of any war in history (Pick your personal favorite for visual assistance, kiddies) muttering their condemnations to an enemy they’ve just barely survived a long, drawn out campaign against. I’m not sure if the last year (THE ENEMY) in this case is a huge swarm of recently murdered enemy soldiers or an enormous bestial giant that’s still twitching in the final death throws. Either way, I’m getting the impression it was a bitter conflict at best.
Me? It wasn’t my best year, maybe, but it also wasn’t my worst. Like I’ve said before: Four new novels in print, a few reprints lined up and ready to go, a roof over my head and food in my—sadly still too ponderous—belly. I’ve said my final goodbyes to several friends—most of them waterfowl, granted, but the goodbyes are still legitimate for me—and I’ve watched a few others say their goodbyes to loved ones. I’ve also made a few new friends and got to meet the newborn daughter of a dear friend and watch that sweet child smile. I’ve not lost a zillion pounds, but I’m still exercising and still plugging away. I’m employed and I am still making money at my preferred career, which, again, isn’t a bad thing for me. I’ve had Hollywood nibbles that might become something (not holding my breath, but, hey, you never know, right?) and have a meeting I’ll be setting up soon to discuss a few more possibilities along those lines.
I’ve listened to people rail against the current government, listened to them rail against the previous administration and in a few cases even nodded along in agreement. I’ve discussed politics, life, death, religion, the economy, the rising cost of gasoline and the potential progress toward new energy sources. I’ve talked about books, music, movies, writing, reading, the outrageous cost of healthcare versus the preposterous cost of insurance and which route is better (I’ll stick with insurance, thanks. I’m nowhere near rich enough to go without it), I’ve paid bills, cursed at the cost of a few of them, and continued to pay them because I consider some of them necessities and others a luxury or two I would rather not do without. I’ve watched relationships rise, relationships falter, a few of them fall and a few of them shatter. I’ve discussed friends absent and present and shaken my head in confusion at the actions of a few of them. I’ve done my fair share of making snide comments about a few people and I’m working on knocking that crap off because it’s rude and I certainly don’t like when people do it to me (I’ve never once claimed to be a saint, folks, but I’m aiming at being a decent human being.). I’ve tried to be there for loved ones when they needed me, and I’ve made a point of remembering when they’ve been there for me, not just recently but in the past as well, because I think keeping perspective requires an examination of the past as well as the present and what might lie ahead.
I have, in other words, continued to exist. I have continued to breathe.
Three novels written (one co-authored with a friend of mine) three novels sold. A series proposal written and set aside. A few short stories finished and published or waiting for publication, a couple of novellas. Not my best year as a writer, not my worst. More on the horizon, of course because as I’ve said before writers have to write and professional writers have to sell the stuff they write. It’s very possible that the next year will see me writing a screenplay and actually getting paid for it. That’s being discussed. Lots of fires and lots of irons and hopefully I won’t burn myself somewhere along the way.
And contemplations. Lots and lots of contemplations. I am no philosopher, but I’m getting rather good at contemplating the universe at large.
One of my semi-regulars at work came in this last week and asked how I was doing—with that particular tilt of the head and tone of voice that politely checks how I’m doing since Bonnie passed—and I said I was as well as could be expected. And after a moment of quiet reflection the customer leaned in and said, “Are you seeing anyone seriously yet?”
I try to be truthful. I answered with a negative and the customer frowned for a moment before adding, “I figured for sure you’d have found someone by now.” I left it at that and wished the customer a Merry Christmas. I did not point out that I was unaware there was a schedule, because that wasn't what the person meant at all and I understood that. There are people out there who would have moved on by now, and I get that, but as I’ve said before and as Howling Wolf said before me, I’m built for comfort, not for speed. I can’t make myself hurry. I’d rather be alone than be with the wrong person.
In the meantime, I’m alive. I’m making the best of it that I can, and I’m moving forward even if there isn’t much momentum on the personal relationship front at the current time. And some days I even manage to go the whole day without having to remind myself to breathe. And occasionally I can go a whole day without wanting to cry or scream.
But always I miss Bonnie. Always I love her.
If the last year was not to your liking, or even if it was, I hope the New Year brings you joy, prosperity and good health. May you have endless reasons to smile and may your tears be the happy kind.
I’m off to see my in-laws.
It is what it is. |
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| Dinner For One, Part Thirty-One |
[Dec. 23rd, 2011|01:43 am] |
“Those who are faithless know the pleasures of love; it is those who are faithful who know love's tragedies.”- Oscar Wilde
“Never close your lips to those whom you have opened your heart.”- Charles Dickens
"’Ghost of the Future,’ he exclaimed, "’I fear you more than any spectre I have seen.’”- Charles Dickens
“A loving heart is the truest wisdom.”- Charles Dickens
Perhaps I’m in a Victorian mood, or maybe it’s just that I’ve recently watched “A Christmas Carol” again and it’s the holidays. At any rate, there’s my bevy of quotes this time around.
It’s the twenty-third of December, the second anniversary of Bonnie’s passing, and just a little past midnight. For the last few days I’ve had trouble sleeping, and remarkably little that I eat has any taste to it, but that’s hardly a surprise to me. Christmas is almost here and my shopping is done and the gifts are wrapped. I’ve wished a merry Christmas to a goodly number of people that I know I won’t see before the proper day passes and wished happy holidays to at least as many. I’ve even debated with a few people which is the proper terminology to use (I find both acceptable. Christmas is a day and the holidays covers Christmas and several other events as well. Really, it’s not that difficult a thing for me, but there are people out there who feel it must be one or the other and to you I say, whatever makes you happiest.)
Several people have been very kind to me and expressed their wishes for me to have both a merry Christmas and happy holidays as well. And on a few occasions, I’ve had people I know and haven’t seen in a while ask after Bonnie. Seriously. Within the last 24 hours I’ve had two people ask after my wife, and one person I haven’t seen in the last two years offer condolences. A while back that would have hurt me. Not because anyone was being unkind but because the wounds were still too fresh. The pain is still there, that’s true, but somewhere along the way the calluses start, I suppose. Just this afternoon I looked at the shocked face of a fine young man I haven’t seen in a couple of years and explained to him that Bonnie had passed, no, we no longer went to the river to feed the ducks and geese, and that I believe Bonnie is at peace and no longer suffering as she did toward the end of her life. He managed to look both grateful for this perceived kindness, relieved that he hadn’t accidentally bled me, and guilty for not knowing that my wife had passed away. That’s okay. I didn’t know that he’d moved to another state or that he’d gotten married until he introduced me to his wife in almost the same breath.
They looked lovely together. They make a good-looking couple. I wish them every happiness.
As I have said before and likely will again, life goes on. Life is for the living. A while back I mentioned a young man I worked with who had a break up with his girlfriend of three years. They’re back together now. I don’t know all the details and I certainly don’t need to know them all. What matters is that they’re back together and they are happy. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a happy ending. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for them.
In certain ways two years seems like an eternity and in others it seems like barely the blink of an eye. I consider that I have been without Bonnie for two years and it rips me apart inside. And at the same time I realize that I’m not bleeding out any more. I talked with a friend of mine the other day and realized with a shock that her little girl is now six years old. I remember when she was in diapers and not yet walking and new she’s in elementary school and part of me wants to scream that the brakes have got to be here somewhere because it seems like everything goes too fast.
And then there are the nights that never seem to end. The nights when I look at the clock and ten minutes have passed but I would have sworn that it’s been hours and hours since the last time I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep to come and sweep me away. No, I still don’t take sleeping pills. No, I still don’t believe in them. Yes, I fully acknowledge that I’m being stupid and stubborn, but that’s just the way it is. I don’t take a drink to help me sleep and I don’t take an over the counter pill to help me relax, either. When my mind is ready, it lets me rest. And really, it’s only been the last few weeks that the lack of sleep has come back around.
Because, of course, I’ve been tensing up and waiting for this moment.
I won’t be going in to work today. I’m not quite that crazy. For the foreseeable future the 23rd of December will always be a day off. Today I stay at home. Today I spend with Bonnie. And on Christmas Eve I will celebrate with my family. And Christmas morning I will celebrate with Bonnie’s family—who remain my family as well.
Last year this particular day was a raging storm for me. This year it is not a bright and cheerful day, to be sure, but it’s not as painful as it was the last time. I’ll likely never enjoy the date, but don’t imagine I’ll let it swallow me whole, despite the times when I thought it most assuredly would. My writing has slowed down again, but that’s okay. I know it will pick back up in the near future. The holidays always make it harder to focus on writing.
There are presents to buy and wrap, and Christmas cards to contemplate that I will, once again, fail to get around to. There was that tree to decorate—and to the fine folks who sent me cards and sent me ornaments and reminders that they are thinking of me and remembering Bonnie at this time, I can only say thank you and remain humbled that you’ve taken the time. You are among the reasons that I am able to look at the holidays with joy instead of with dread and I thank you gain for that simple, wondrous gift.
The New Year is next, of course, and as I have said before, I consider the end of the year and beginning of the next more a time for contemplation than for celebration. I will look back and I will reflect and I will consider what comes next.
I finally got the forms I promised myself I’d get and before the year’s end I’ll have filled out the paperwork for getting my passport. You never know, I might actually decide to see a few parts of the world beyond the US borders. It’s a mighty big world. One resolution down before the end of the year. No, let’s make that two. I’m still exercising and trying to take care of myself.
I’m a little tired and so I suspect I’ll try for sleep. In the morning it’s time for exercise and a day of contemplation. To one and all I wish you a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a joyful, prosperous New Year.
Ebenezer Scrooge, in Dickens “A Christmas Carol” dreaded the future, or at least the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. Me? I’m still looking in that direction more with curiosity than dread. I suppose that’s a good thing. I suppose that means I am still an optimist on some level.
I like to think that good things are up ahead. Who knows, maybe I’ll even find someone to hold hands with, or to give a kiss goodnight.
What can I say? I’m a sucker for a happy ending.
It is what it is. |
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| Dinner For One, Part Thirty |
[Nov. 15th, 2011|12:34 am] |
“No love, no friendship can cross the path of our destiny without leaving some mark on it forever.” –Francois Mauriac
“Listening is an attitude of the heart, a genuine desire to be with another which both attracts and heals.”—J. Isham
I keep thinking I’m about done with this. Seriously. If you had asked me two years ago if I would ever write down my contemplations regarding life, love and friendship and throw in a few memories from my past—however biased by my personal perspective—I would have scoffed at the notion. I don’t do this sort of thing. It might be therapeutic as all get out (sometimes yes, sometimes not so much) but I still would have been the first to say it would never happen.
Then again, I’m still pleasantly surprised by the idea of a camera built into my cell phone, so, you know, I’m really rather easy in the could have fooled me department.
And yet, here we are. I’ve survived another anniversary without Bonnie and I’m still breathing. And low and behold, we’re almost at the other anniversary again. The one I don’t like to think about, the one that falls two days before Christmas. Between now and then, of course, and after as well, we have the holidays.
I work retail (sort of, really, at the end of the day Starbucks is still first and foremost about coffee, but you’d be amazed at how many people like to caffeinate between bouts of holiday shopping) and this is the season when people tend to do a lot more shopping.
Thanksgiving time is here. Once again, that day when everyone eats too much, football fans scream a lot, drink even more beer and then eat more turkey (I’m making an assumption here as I am not a football fan. Sorry, but a few jocks in the past spoiled it for me. I’m all for playing an occasional game, but no need to watch others play, if you get my drift.) and, of course, a time for family.
Ah. Family.
Let’s define that shall we? Blood relatives, loved ones, the people who mean the most to you. Maybe a little of all of that and maybe a few other things, besides. Last year I had Thanksgiving with friends that were good enough to take me in. This year, it’s the blood relatives, a good number of whom are coming to my place and now must endure my dubious cooking skills. I’m okay with that, even if I’m still going over the exact math in my head and trying to figure out how my sister suddenly got crafty enough to rope me into this one.
That’s okay. Given enough time and calm reflection, I suspect I can find the right way to pay her back. Heh heh heh.
After several years of doing the cooking, I had a year off. And now, back to cooking. One sibling told me I should have been smart and gone with last year’s plans again. Alas, it was not meant to be.
That’s okay. I love my family. And, really, despite the fact that most of us live in the same town, I don’t see them enough. Two jobs does that. And when you’re your own employer, as I have been told and as I have explained to others, the boss can be a taskmaster. There are those bills, you see, and the pay of a freelance writer is often dubious.
Thanksgiving. Time to be thankful. Time to take stock again. That happens a lot, really. I’ve also said that New Year’s Day is a time to take stock and I still believe that. At Thanksgiving, you take stock and you give thanks for what you have. At the New Year, you take stock and decide what needs to be done to improve your lot. At least you do if you are me. Or something like that.
The thankfuls:
First, I am grateful for the roof over my head. That means the two jobs, which pay for the roof over my head. I know that I am lucky, because, really, I also know a good number of people who are swimming in debt and a few who have, sadly, really just given up. I mean, not even trying any more given up. It’s easy enough to do, I suppose. I am also thankful that I have not fallen into that particular trap.
The writing. Seriously. Four novels out this year and another one due out in January. That doesn’t suck. That could even be called a banner year. Hollywood is doing the nibble thing on a couple of projects, nothing solid but at least someone out in Tinsel Town knows I exist, right? That’s a good step.
I am, of course, thankful for my family. Yes, I know I don’t see them often enough. Yes, according to most of them I certainly don’t call enough, communicate enough or always answer my phone. Well, I’m busy, they’re busy and even if I don’t answer, I’ll get back to them eventually. Any way you look at it, however, I am thankful for them, I love them and appreciate them. I am delighted when they are happy and I loathe when I see them suffer, but either way, I love them.
My friends. Oh, yes, I am thankful for my friends. As I have stated here before: “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves.” Turns out that my sister was paraphrasing Edna Buchanan with that one, by the way. See? I can get all non-lazy and look up an occasional fact when I have to. Don’t go getting used to it though. I have amazing friends. They get to suffer from the same problems as my family: I don’t call, I don’t write, I don’t do a lot of things, but I love them. If they haven’t figured that out by now, they haven’t been paying attention.
There is, of course, room for improvement. Isn’t there always?
And let’s go with a memory again, shall we? A little way to put it into perspective, I suppose. Waaaaay back in the day, Patsy Cline, Frank Sinatra (And at least fifty artists since) performed a song called “You Belong To Me, (1952, written by Chilton, Price and King)” (See the pyramids along the Nile. Watch the sunrise on a tropic Isle. Just remember darlin’ all the while, you belong to me.) Now, as songs go I always thought it was an interesting way to say “I miss you and I wish you were here,” but I really didn’t give it too much consideration beyond that. Not until much later. A few years ago, I think perhaps, four, though it could be longer, Bonnie and I were sitting in bed and watching American Idol. Why? Because Bonnie wanted to, and because the show didn’t suck nearly as much as I expected it to. So, okay, Tuesday nights just got musical. Not the end of the world. At any rate, we’re watching the first few days worth of auditions where you get to see some astonishing talents and the very finest of the deeply deranged who believe (Or if you are truly a cynic are PAID to PRETEND to believe) that they might have a modicum of talent despite all evidence to the contrary. I believe they are often truly deluded, by the way, because some of their shocked expressions, should they have been faked, could have earned people a freaking Academy Award. I’m just sayin.’ Sorry. I’m back now. As I was saying, it was the early part of the season. And the rules of the show have been made very clear over the years. No one over thirty, et cetera, et cetera. So I was mildly surprised when the man who was likely in his sixties to seventies showed up on the screen. Well, of course the show milked the situation for all it was worth, but the long and short of it comes to this: The man had recently lost his wife, the woman he had been married to for the vast majority of his life. She did not go quickly, but she lingered and suffered a bit before shedding the mortal coil. And during that time, the gentleman and his wife watched American Idol. And when they watched, they joked about going on the show and performing for the judges. And the song they always talked about? If you guessed “You Belong To Me,” you are not wrong.
The man asked the judges to indulge him a final goodbye to his wife, a woman it was very obvious that he had loved deeply. He asked that he be allowed to audition for them (and for her, let’s be honest here) singing the song he had often sung to his wife while she was ailing and slipping slowly away. Not being complete bastards (contrary to whatever the tabloids might proclaim) they agreed and the man did his best to sing the song through his tears. The chorus, by the way, has a devastating line all it’s own: “I’ll be so alone without you. Maybe you’ll be lonesome too, and blue.” Cheerful stuff, to be sure.
I remember holding Bonnie’s hand through the rendition. She held mine, too, in something of a death grip. It was sappy and it was at least partially made more so by good editing on the part of the show’s producers, but I also believe it was heartfelt.
And after that I mostly forgot about it.
Music doth have its charms, eh?
I heard that old song earlier today and as I was listening, I stopped my writing, leaned back in my office chair, and remembered that elderly gentleman singing a goodbye to his wife. Lots of feelings to come crashing together on that one. Grief, of course, for me and for an elderly gentleman I have never met, who bled out one day on a stage in front of a studio audience in remembrance of his beloved wife and for the benefit of ratings mongers everywhere. A touch of rage for the ratings mongers—I know it’s their job, but still—and just the smallest flash of jealousy for that man. I understood what he felt. I am not alone in that, I know this as I have said more than once. I am hardly alone in this miserable journey and there are people all over the planet enduring worse suffering. I know that too. But the green-eyed monster has never much given a damn about anyone else. That flash of jealousy, irrational and, yes, embarrassing, was simply because he had so many more years before suffering that same loss as me. Decades longer with his wife before she was gone from his life. The jealously was, of course, immediately followed by a flash of guilt, a dash of self-loathing and a reminder that my life is not over.
Earlier in the day, I took my mother-in-law to a doctor’s appointment. She was nervous about this one, wanted a hand to hold and wanted someone to simply be there for her. She is a very good woman and very dear to me so, of course, I’m glad to. Hardly the first time I’ve taken her to that particular doctor’s office. Probably it won’t be the last time, either. I used to take her there with fair regularity when Bonnie was alive and we all lived in the same house. And as I parked the truck and got out, I had a few more flashes of the times I took her to the doctor’s offices on the same day that Bonnie had dialysis. I find that my mood tends to swing south hard and fast when I think back on her dialysis days. I remember all too clearly the times when her blood sugars crashed and I was dealing with keeping her out of a coma so that I could take her home and tuck her into bed for an exhausted sleep. I remember the days when the blood thinners left her so cold that I would crank the heat in the truck when it was already 90 degrees outside, so she could avoid her teeth chattering. I remember the times the needle in her arm caused an “infiltration” which is the polite way of saying the large bore needle punched through her artery and she had to stop dialysis early so she could recover before they tried their luck again. I remember the surgeries to expand the artery in her arm to make dialysis easier. I remember a large number of indignities and the look on her face when she was told she would have to wait a year or more before she could try again to get on the kidney donors list. I remember the pain and I remember the kindness of friends and occasionally of strangers.
I remembered all of that too. More memories to put everything in perspective.
At the end of the day, I have that one more thing to be thankful for. A reminder that as much as I miss her-and I still do, every bloody day, every hour—I still have the certainty that Bonnie is no longer suffering.
And I find that, again, I have so very much to be thankful for.
Have a happy Thanksgiving, folks. Be with your loved ones. Be thankful for them.
It is what it is. |
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| Dinner For One, Part Twenty-Nine |
[Oct. 14th, 2011|01:25 pm] |
“It’s easy to fall in love. The hard part is finding someone to catch you.” – Ashley M.
“The very essence of romance is uncertainty.” –Oscar Wilde
Before I get to my usual ramble, a brief announcement. Several people—really a great deal more than I would have expected, had I ever expected any sort of response—have made the suggestion that these articles/essays should be put together and made into a book. The odds are now strongly in favor of that happening. Should I find the right publisher, I’ll let you know. First, of course, I suppose I must look for a publisher. I have already begun the rather painful process of rereading and editing these articles. Trust me, not the best way to put my mind at ease, but a necessary evil, I suppose. Any feedback on whether or not publication is a wise idea is, of course, welcome. I certainly wouldn’t be putting these articles in a public forum if I didn’t encourage or expect comments.
And, we’re off.
Here we are again. It’s October, and closing in fast on the halfway mark for the month, and I am contemplating my wedding anniversary. You’d think I’d get tired of that particular exercise after a while, but there it is. Half of my life is marked by the milestones I shared with my wife. I suppose they’ve left a mark as permanent as the one where my wedding ring used to sit.
As I contemplate my life at this point I find I am also contemplating the nature of relationships again. I suppose the lack of one in my life has made me aware of the ones around me, or at least more aware of them than I sometimes am.
Or maybe I’m just studying grief from a different perspective. It’s hard to say.
One of my coworkers, a fairly young man, recently had a break up with his girlfriend. Actually, she broke up with him. He’s all of eighteen and he’s already on the way to recovering, or at least hiding his injuries well enough that you can’t see them as obviously as you first could. Part of me says he’s young and that he’ll recover in short order. But you know something? I saw him right after she broke up with him and he was devastated. Now and then it’s easy to look at younger folk and think that whatever they’re going through is hardly real. I’ve heard more than one person say “It’s puppy love, you have to expect it to end,” or something to that affect. And I suppose that’s often true, but that doesn’t make the pain any less real, does it?
In the case I mention above, the two of them had been together for three years. Hell, I’ve seen marriages that didn’t last that long, and I also saw the people involved in those relationships break and bleed. And in this case, three years is quite literally a full sixth of the life spans involved. That’s the full run of the formative high school years, when you get right down to it. They dated for a sixth of their lives, saw each other every day and held each other through some very turbulent times. They were there for each other through family emergencies and in one case through a death in the family. And then she decided that she needed her space. At eighteen, who can blame her?
But his grief? It was and is real. My young friend got his first real dose of heartbreak with all that the term means. Already on the thin side, he lost ten pounds he couldn’t afford to lose: he had no appetite. Sleep was an impossibility, because he couldn’t understand why his world had just been so completely shattered. And while in the long run the feelings were possibly to be considered puppy love (I tend to think not, I tend to think “first love” might be more accurate here) the grief and the pain he endured was real.
It was and is an ongoing process for him. I won’t go into details here, but there have been a few communications and I can see the pain and anger on his face when he talks about the breakup. He tries to brush it off, because that’s what guys do, right? But it’s there.
Strange isn’t it? No matter how long or short the relationship, if there are real feelings involved, there’s always that risk of pain. As I’ve likely said before and will again, I suppose there has to be the risk of pain if there’s going to be the risk of real happiness. It’s inevitable. Take the leap and risk it all or live a half life.
One of the kids I grew up with was a bit of a womanizer. Okay, let’s be honest here, he was a hound dog of epic proportions. In the time I knew him in high school he went through several relationships and he was always the one that ended them. He broke hearts without any worries and moved on to the next girl in line and because he was gorgeous—no, seriously, he was just ridiculously good looking—and because he took the time to learn all the right moves, he had no problem getting girls. By the time he went off to college, he’d moved through no less than a dozen girls. Some of them lasted a few weeks, others lasted up to a year. He moved on breezily, with a very simple philosophy he shared with me once. The entire thing was basically like shopping for him. He figured he’d try on the different relationships like hats until he found the one that fit him just the way he wanted. And me? I looked at him one day and told him words that came back to haunt him later.
We ran across each other when he came home from college one summer. I was working at a temp job and he wound up at the same place. After we’d chatted and said our helloes and caught up with each other, he looked at me and said “Damn, Jim, you were right. I should have listened to you.”
Yeah. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. So he reminded me. It seems that one day, after hearing about his latest conquest and switcheroo, I told him that karma was going to bite him in the fanny. What I said amounted to: “Sooner or later, you’re going to fall for a girl and you’re going to fall hard. And when you do, and when she walks away, you’ll remember what you did to every one of those girls and then you’ll understand why I’m annoyed with you.”
Let’s be fair here. That wasn't anything psychic. That’s just the law of averages.
Sure enough, he’s off in college, he finds the girl that fits like a perfect hat, and she in turn shakes her head and explains that for her, this is all just fun and games. He’d probably used some variation of that line on every girl he’d been with.
And he was absolutely devastated. I mean, he was destroyed.
And then he got over it. That’s part of the process, I suppose. You get over it. You move on. We haven’t spoken in a while, but the last I heard he was very happily married to a lovely lady I met on a few occasions and they had two beautiful kids.
Another guy from the same group I used to hang out with has been married and divorced three times. Has a few kids and is happily married. Three others are married, with kids. A couple more are still on their own. Another is divorced with kids. And of course I’ve made more friends since high school and I’m always delighted when I meet their families and when I see success stories. What can I say? I’m a sucker for happy endings. In any event, each story moves its own way. A slice of life, I suppose, and each and every one of them has been happy and has been hurt.
Life goes on.
That first quote, from the amazingly astute Ashley M., pretty much sums up the entire thing for me. It’s not called rising into love, it’s called falling. You fall and hope that someone catches you, because if no one does, the landing can be devastating in the extreme. I suppose that’s part of why they call it a leap of faith, too, isn’t it? You have faith that the person who means so much is there for you. And if they are, well, paradise is one step closer. And if they aren’t, I suppose that’s the equivalent of falling from grace. Falling into and out of love.
That first step can be an unholy long fall.
What brings this up? I have no idea, it’s just what’s been on my mind lately. Certainly Bonnie never let me down like that. She was there to catch me. If she had let me fall I wouldn’t have been with her for as long as I was. I’m not quite that masochistic. I’m a romantic, yes, but not always a fool. Sometimes, but not always.
I suppose that’s the best anyone can hope for.
Heartbreak is easy. Love is hard, I’ve said before that relationships require effort and they require truth. I still believe that both of those things are necessities. Effort, because relationships are organic and they are not, much as we might wish for it to be otherwise, immune to outside forces. The first couple I mentioned would likely be together even now, but there was someone who caught her eye and from there doubts began to blossom and from those doubts the start of the end of a three-year romance.
I’ve seen relationships destroyed by gossip (which to my way of thinking merely proves the relationship was not strong to begin with), by infidelity, by neglect, by any number of variables. My mother often said of my father that he “Preferred the chase to the actual kill.” For him the idea of being in love was better than the reality and the next one in line maybe looked like the hat that would fit better. I was not there and in the long run I cannot judge beyond what I was told. Like anything else in the world, relationships are subject to outside forces. Nothing survives in a vacuum for long, now does it? Maybe that means that isolation kills and maybe it means that the influences are merely stronger than the relationship. Maybe both are true or neither. I’m merely an observer here.
Bonnie and I had issues from time to time. We weathered them, except, of course, for the health issues. Some things are inescapable and inevitable, which is probably one of the reasons for that old saying about how we all die alone in the end. Is that morbid? It isn’t meant to be. It’s just another observation while I’m contemplating relationships and how they work or sometimes fail to work.
One of my coworkers recently waited for a quiet moment and asked me if I was dating anyone yet. He seemed puzzled that my answer was no. I can understand that. It’s closing in on two years since Bonnie passed. I guess for a lot of people that’s an insane amount of time to be alone.
Me? I’d rather be alone and hope I run across the right person than be with the wrong person and hope I can somehow make it work out. I have no idea if that’s the proper sort of attitude to have, but it’s the one that makes the most sense to me.
But Jim, how can you know if the right person comes along?
I have absolutely no idea.
I guess when and if the time comes, I’ll just have to take a leap of faith.
It is what it is. |
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| Dinner For One: Part Twenty-Eight |
[Sep. 17th, 2011|07:56 pm] |
“Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination.” –Mark Twain
“Only love lets us see normal things in an extraordinary way.” –Author Unknown
As I write this I’ve turned in the latest rewrites on two rather long short stories, resubmitted a series proposal to my agent and have also spent the better part of the last week working the day job without a break. This is my first day off in a while. As you might have guessed, I don’t really do days off very well. There’s not much to them for me. I do the day job and I work: I stay at home and I work. There are exceptions, of course, but not really that many. That’s okay. I’ve always been a bit of a workaholic. Okay, maybe not always, but since I met Bonnie at the very least. It’s not that I don’t like having fun. I do. I happen to find the notion of having fun high on my list of things I like, in fact, but I don’t always have the same definitions as a lot of people around me. I genuinely enjoy both the day job and the writing. They both help pay my bills, and as an added bonus, the retail gig at Starbucks lets me get out of the house and meet people. Without that one I’d very likely be a hermit.
In the morning I will be burying another pet. One of my very rare exceptions and a constant companion for several years. This time around a very special little fellow whose formal name was “Donnie Ducko.” He was named, rather tongue-in-cheek, by Bonnie after the movie we’d watched about a week before, Donnie Darko. As you might have guessed by the name, he was another duck. He was also raised by us from the time he was one day old or less, and he was a bit unique. His nickname was Little Bit, because, of course, he was just a little bit of fluff when we got him.
While we were at the park one day, handling the feeding and care of Bonnie’s adopted masses and keeping them from the road, a man came up with a small blue bucket and asked if we knew anything about baby ducks. Said bucket contained heavily chlorinated pool water and one very tiny duckling. Bonnie immediately said yes. Long story short, we adopted another duck. In this case he’d been caught on the filter door of a swimming pool that had just been bleached. He was caught on the door. His five siblings were pulled into the filtration system and drowned.
Little Bit was not waterproof. The chlorine from the pool had stripped most of his new-hatched glands and he would never be properly waterproof. He was also agoraphobic, and so was an indoor duck.
For around nine years he’s been my constant companion. For the last couple of years we mourned Bonnie together, two bachelors in a house with too many rooms and too much junk.
And he is gone. I have no doubt whatsoever that he is winging his way to Bonnie even as I write this. I will miss him very much and I already miss him enough to leave me feeling a little punch-drunk again.
I am remembering in particular a time about five months before Bonnie passed away. As I have said on more than one occasion I was often astounded by her strength: with everything she was going through she kept her good spirits by and large and she fought hard to keep herself alive. But on that particular night, just as I was putting Little Bit to bed (in his cage in the bathroom, where he could not get into any mischief) I came out and she had tears in her eyes.
Naturally I asked what was wrong. Bonnie looked at me and shook her head and said, “I just love him so much and it kills me to think that he won’t be around as long as me. I don’t think I could take it if he died.” What could I do or say? I held her and reminded her that he would not have even been alive if not for her, and that whatever time he had in the world was a blessing. She cried a bit more and said she knew she was being silly. I told her she wasn't being silly at all. The heart wants what the heart wants, and I have never run across a person who had a good heart that wished to be without their loved ones in this world.
One more reason not to be angry with Bonnie’s passing, I suppose. She did not have the heartbreak of losing her little boy, the closest she truly ever had to a child to call her own.
When I put him in his bath tonight he was quiet and barely swam around. I knew what was coming. As mentioned previously, you get to understand the signs if you look for them. Within an hour he was gone. Nine years, give or take. More than he’d have had in the outside world. Seven years of bringing Bonnie joy every day, even on the rare occasions when she dreaded life without him.
One last time then, I will cry over the loss of a duck. Foolish man that I am, I opened my heart again. It’s almost a guarantee of pain. A promise of suffering to come. I should know that I suppose. Had I a lick of common sense, I would look at the words of Mark Twain that are posted at the top of this particular essay and I would wish desperately to be sane above and beyond all else. Sanity would be wiser, I think. Sanity would mean not opening my heart, not risking my feelings any longer. Not once again testing the human soul’s capacity for grief.
A duck. A waterfowl. A feathered bird that always made Bonnie happier and yes, made the loss of my wife just a tiny bit more tolerable. If sanity and happiness are an impossible combination, than surely sanity and grief must also be impossible. So surely sanity would be the wiser choice.
But there are still people out there who have already won their way past my defenses. And even if I wanted to shut myself off completely from the world, I don’t genuinely believe that would be the wiser thing to do here.
As I write this, a friend of mine is just leaving the hospital with heart troubles. As I write this another friend is hours or days away from giving birth. As I write this there are people laughing and crying all over the world. As I write this, life is occurring all around us, and death, too. They still go hand in hand, much as I might currently wish for a different end result.
As I write this I find I am once again crying, and trying to find the damned keys on my keyboard past the tears that are blurring my vision. That’s fairly common when I write these particular articles. They deal, unfortunately, with matters of the heart.
As I write this, the logical part of my mind is telling me I’m an ass for crying over a duck and I am gleefully, insanely, telling my mind exactly where it can go and how little I care what logic has to say.
Because as I write this, I can remember the sound of Bonnie calling out “Little Bit!” In a loud, joyous voice after we got back from dialysis and I settled her on the bed to rest, and I can also hear the sound of our house duck lifting his head and calling back to her with excitement.
Bonnie was always happy to see her baby boy. And Little Bit, the silly little duck we rescued from a very certain death, the waterfowl who we took home and raised and kept and fed, who spent part of each night on the bed between us and who liked eating lettuce shreds almost as much as he liked throwing them across the room when he was eating them, he was always happy to see his momma. It may not have been a biological thing, but there was most decidedly love and joy between the two of them.
I’m a romantic. I asked him to tell his momma I said hi and that I love her and miss her.
I suspect she already knows.
It is what it is. |
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| Dinner For One: Part Twenty-Seven |
[Jul. 18th, 2011|01:19 am] |
“Love is not a matter of counting the years, but making the years count.” – Michelle Amand
“Love is like a rumor; everyone talks about it, but no one truly knows.”—Author Unknown
Well, I’ve been busy just lately. It’s a good thing, though to be fair a portion of the frantic nature of said business falls on me for not getting off my derriere and writing as much as I should have. I’ve had writer’s block. Maybe it’s not quite the same as impotence, but when you’re a writer, it’s incredibly frustrating. The good news is there’s a little less taboo involved. You tell the average guy you’ve got writer’s block and he’ll just look at you and nod sympathetically. You tell the average guy you’re not quite managing in the other department, they’ll look at you the same way, but with a combination of pity and thank-God-it’s-not-me thrown in as well. Actually, I’m guessing on the latter, but statistics say it’ll happen some day. Mind you, statistics also say I’ll date again someday, but I guess until that happens, it’s rather a moot point, isn’t it?
No, I’m not dating. It is what it is. As I’ve said before, I’m insanely picky. I could make several comments about my looks that would be meant to be both self-deprecating and humorous, but every time I do someone decides I’m being too hard on myself. We’ll just leave it at I look in the mirror everyday, shall we?
That’s okay. If it ever happens, it will happen. I’m not looking, I’m also not avoiding. I’m just moving on with my life as best I can. And honestly, it’s something that changes constantly these days.
There’s a strong chance I’m moving to the northeast. I’ll know more about that in the near future. I’ve considered it for a long time, and I decided first and foremost not to make any decisions while my heart and soul were still in a freefall state. I believe in trusting my instincts, but if you don’t think losing the person you planned on spending forever with throws your instincts for a loop, then you have not walked a mile in my shoes and good for you. Seriously. I hope you can avoid it for the rest of your life.
A couple of weeks ago I got together with a friend of mine I haven’t really seen in a while. We both work in the same industry, though in different aspects of it, granted. And we live in the same basic area, but as Bonnie’s health got worse, my world changed and being me, I opted not to clarify that too much for people. One of those things you don’t realize when it’s happening, I suppose. For some time my friend thought he’d offended me, or possibly done something wrong. No. I was merely digging in my heels and pushing ahead as hard as I could and not telling anyone when things got rough, because that’s never really been my way. While we were discussing life and playing catch up, I apologized for being an ass. Being a good friend and a good person, he accepted my apologies. I didn’t mean to offend, he didn’t mean to take offense, and neither of us realized the damned years were slipping past, because we’ve both been busy living our lives. After several misfires and attempts to get together, we finally managed to meet for lunch. I brought my friend, an avid reader, a copy of my latest book. He in turn brought me a wrapped package. I thought it likely a book myself, but I was wrong. Instead I opened the package to find a framed picture of me and Bonnie taken at my friend’s Christmas party back in 2000. Nine years before Bonnie passed, back before her health took a hard turn to the south. I have to be honest here and skip right past the macho denial. I cried a bit, because I had never seen the picture before and because I was reminded again exactly how much I miss her. I miss her smile, her sense of humor, her sharp mind, holding her hand, kissing her good night, simply being with her. The list goes on and on, and I’ve put the words down in this format before. My friend, being one of the good guys, politely ignored my lack of machismo. It’s what friends do—still, imagine how awkward it would have been if I’d been discussing impotence!
I miss her. All the damned time. I don’t think that will ever change. I don’t think it could, not in a million years.
Grief changes. Did you know that? I did, but it’s one of those things you forget, I think. Grief is organic, so I suppose change is inevitable. I find that even though the grief surprises me more often these days, it’s not as harsh to deal with. I can’t really say it was ever violent, per se, merely that it felt that way. I don’t know. Maybe the difference is that I’ve come to expect it, where before it tended to be more of a surprise. Yes, I knew I was supposed to be grieving, I knew that I was in mourning, but sometimes that didn’t stop the sheer shock value.
Maybe I’m simply, truly, coming to terms. I suppose it’s just possible that I’m starting to look at my day-to-day existence without Bonnie not as the exception, but as the rule. What a miserable notion. Because I have to tell you, I still don’t like it one damned bit. I’m just getting better at dealing with it, I suppose. There comes a point where you can’t really fight something. I don’t know if I was ever fighting, so much as sidestepping. When you fight, you have a target. You can swing at that target and hope to do some damage. I’ve done my fair share of sparring over the years, and I’ve certainly had a few fights, too, and I can say with sincerity that having a target to hit is a good bit easier than merely evading attacks you don’t always see coming. I guess that’s what this is about, really. I don’t know if I’m getting tougher, getting adjusted, or simply learning how to roll with the proverbial punches. Whatever the case, things are changing.
I don’t know if that’s bad or good. I just know it’s different.
My regular schedule doesn’t feel quite as interrupted anymore. I’ve reestablished routines, though they are far different than the ones I had before Bonnie passed. I exercise every day. I don’t even really think about it anymore. I just do it. 125-150 repetitions with light weights, stretches, and the exercise bike. I’m going out of town soon, hitting a couple of conventions over the next couple of months, because, yes, life does go on and because I need to get my career back on track properly. I’m still writing, yes, but again, that awkward and embarrassing lack of performance recently lets me know it isn’t just the body that can get out of shape if you neglect it. As I was saying before I distracted myself, I’m going out of town. I’m seriously thinking of taking the weights with me, because at this stage, I don’t know if I can go a day without the exercises. I’ll feel guilty, or just possibly incomplete, and I’m still trying to get past the feeling incomplete portion of my life changes, thanks just the same. The bike will have to stay here. I might be a little compulsive, but I’m not a lunatic. Not most of the time at any rate.
I was talking with some friends the other day and we discussed the notion that creative types tend toward being a little OCD. I suppose that might be true. In this case, I guess I’m trying to focus my obsessive-compulsive tendencies in a direction that will benefit me in the long run.
I can’t say I have my appetite back, but at least I remember to eat. And for an exciting change of pace, now and then I actually, physically, get hungry. Sadly that transformation has not brought with it the perfect waistline. I’m pleased to report that since my last visit to the doctor’s office for my regular check up I have brought my weight back down to what it was when I started exercising. I’m also amused to say that, because, again, I’m in decidedly better shape than I was. I can’t prove that. I still have a body of roughly ape like proportions, but at least it’s an apish shape that isn’t all belly and butt. Okay, mostly, but it’s a step. I’m good with that. Like I’ve said before, I’ve never been svelte and don’t anticipate it in my life. I remain a work in progress.
In any event, I’m still working out. And it’s still an every day thing. I don’t intend to let that fall to the wayside, just like I don’t intend to let myself start using food as a means of comfort. I’ll keep to my current schedule of beef once a week and avoid the use of sour cream and mayo as seasonings. A few more years of this, and I might be able to convince myself that I look as lean as I did in high school. Of course, that means I have to convince myself that I was, in fact, lean in high school somewhere along the way. What can I say? I’ll aim for one delusion at a time, and I’ll try to schedule them for the proper intervals.
On the news front, there have been a few other changes, a few minor events. Milestones in the day-to-day existence of yours truly. First, July 12th has come and gone. For those that don’t remember the significance of that date, it’s the anniversary of when Bonnie and I ran off and eloped before the big wedding. The day was remarkably uneventful. I stayed at home, watched some TV and did my exercises. I also did a line edit on a book and started the next writing project. Life goes on. Last year a good friend was with me to see me through the dinner portion. This year I did it by myself. Baby steps.
Then, four days later, I took care of another situation. With the assistance of my brother-in-law, who knew a good spot, I released Bonnie’s ducks into the wild. We found a spot well removed from the road, where most of the regular events are limited to boats being lowered into the water of a small lake. There’re are a lot of trees between the road and the lake, the speed limit in the circuitous parking area is very low and most people hauling boats tend to not want to ruin car and boat alike by going too fast. There are also a lot of other ducks.
I did my best not to blubber like a baby as I said goodbye to them, and they seemed genuinely happy as they entered into the largest body of water they’ve seen since they were newly hatched and abandoned by their mother, lo those many years ago. I can but hope that they’ll be happy and healthy and that they’ll have long lives. I will not go back to check on them. If they’re to be released into the wild in a relatively safe environment, then they need to not see me again. And to be honest, I don’t much feel like checking to see if they’re okay, because not seeing them leads to too many possibilities. I’ll keep just a little romanticism in my heart, remember how genuinely excited they seemed by their new environment, and pretend that they are living happily ever after. It’s my fairytale and I’ll end it as I like, thanks.
I’m off to a convention next, and looking forward to the change of scenery. A little business, a little pleasure, a chance to consider the relocation and to get some down time while I’m at it. Just to keep me on my toes, I’m also taking a thousand or so signature sheets for the next book along for the ride and I intend to get a few thousand words a day written while I’m out of town. Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines and I will always consider them a good thing.
I suppose that’s all there is for now. We’ll just call it an update, hold the cosmic epiphanies. Life goes on. Life is going on. Where is it going? I have absolutely no idea, but at least I feel capable of paying a little attention to the journey again.
It is what it is.
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| A video review of SMILE NO MORE |
[Jul. 3rd, 2011|07:07 pm] |
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZJhCger33c
Very possibly the coolest review I've ever received. Mind you, it's also the only video review I've ever received, and that just had me chuckling.
Some of my favorite quotes:
"Rufo the Clown makes Pennywise the Clown look like friggin My Little Pony."
"Rufo the Clown is a relentless bastard."
"The next time I see a clown, I’m gonna be thinking of Rufo the Clown. This is embedded into my brain now."
"A shocking, well-written, thunderous, violent, gritty and often times funny, book." |
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| Dinner for One: Part Twenty-Six |
[May. 1st, 2011|08:06 pm] |
“All that you are, justifies my love.” – Marquis de Lafayette
“The greatest healing therapy is friendship and love.” – Hubert Humphrey
Did I ever tell you about the time I thought I was going to be a father? No? Well, it was like this: Bonnie missed her monthly cycle by three weeks, and she felt a bit nauseous, and then her breasts started to ache.
We went over the symptoms and we considered them very carefully. We had to, because by that point we’d been married a few years, and we both knew the not insubstantial risks that would come about from Bonnie being pregnant. Diabetes and pregnancy are not friends. The risks to both the mother and the fetus are substantial. Keep in mind that at this point in our relationship most of the serious side effects from her diabetes were still years away, and we were still concerned about the situation.
And we discussed it like people do. In the long run we decided to get a pregnancy test and do the math. The test was negative. Still, there can be inaccuracies in pregnancy tests. It even said so on the box, so we got a couple more, and they were negative, too.
Just to be safe we made an appointment to see Bonnie’s Ob/Gyn and talked over the options. Abortion, of course. That was a possibility, because given a choice between Bonnie’s health and a baby that would be exceptionally high risk, I would vote for having my wife around, I’m selfish. Bonnie wasn’t overly fond of that notion, and we decided after looking at the situation from every angle we could imagine that the only time abortion would happen was if there were severe health risks for both Bonnie and the baby.
It wasn’t hard to decide. Barring the worst case scenarios, we would keep the baby and deal with the consequences health wise and financially. This despite the fact that we had previously agreed that having children wasn’t really in the books for us.
The visit to the doctor’s office included lectures from the physician’s assistant and the nurse and the doctor alike about the risks of Bonnie carrying a baby to term. A few of the aforementioned made the mistake of telling my wife that she was being foolish. In typical Bonnie fashion, she put them in their place. She had made up her mind by that point.
Not that it was an issue, not in the long run. See, Bonnie had started a regimen with a new medication about two months before. The medicine in this case was to help with her stomach paralysis. It was a minor issue and never crossed our minds at the time, but one of the side effects of that particular medication was that in a very small number of cases it mimicked the symptoms of pregnancy. As was often Bonnie’s luck, if there were side effects to be had, she was unfortunate enough to get them.
We accepted the situation. Really, what else was there to do? In hindsight, we agreed it was probably for the best. There were so many potential disasters that could occur as a result of a pregnancy, after all. Still, for just a little while, there were going to be three of us….
Not much later we got a pet cat. From there the pets remained a constant. They weren’t a perfect substitute for a child, but in a pinch one makes due. Every Mother’s Day, Bonnie got presents from her “children.” To be fair, I was the one that found the gifts, wrapped them and delivered them. I explained to her that there had been much discussion between me and the pets as to exactly what she should get. If any of the animals were upset about this little lie, they never told me face to face.
She would have made an amazing mother. I have no doubt of that in my heart or in my mind.
You ever hear that old saying “there must be something in the water?” Well, one of my friends just found out he and his lady are going to be parents. Another is almost halfway through her pregnancy, and yet another gave birth two weeks ago. There must be something in the water indeed.
I am, of course, delighted for my friends. How could I not be? In every case they are happy with the situation and in two of the cases I’ve met the children who are already parts of the families and I can say with complete sincerity that the people raising these new and not yet born children are amazing parents. Believe me, I’m the sort who notices that stuff. I work retail. I deal with little ones who could safely be called demon spawn with regularity. I always take note of the parents who seem to make raising their children look easy, especially since I know that the looks are deceptive. There’s nothing easy about it, and those who take the responsibility lightly seem far more abundant in this day and age.
Of course seeing the families that are forming is a double edged sword. I am happy for my friends. I am also left feeling a little hollow. Just a tiny bit cheated. That’s okay. It is what it is. Some things, as the old saying goes, simply aren’t meant to be.
And to be fair, I might have dodged a few bullets. It’s all relative. I mean, yeah, I’m not watching my children grow. I’m not pausing with a sense of wonder and amazement as they accomplish feats that are absolutely amazing…to parents and remarkably few others. Junior’s first poop is not in my list of memories. Neither is little Sally’s first word. I will never know those small miracles. And they are miracles. When you look at the astronomical odds and the combinations it takes to produce a healthy child and then to raise that healthy child to adulthood, it’s bloody near a miracle that any child survives. And you can double that magnitude of miraculous combinations when you look at the parents who get it right. Seriously.
I’m getting to avoid the stress of saving for Junior’s college tuition. I won’t lose five years off the end of my life because the twins are going for their learner’s permits next week and I’m supposed to show them how to drive. Junior’s girlfriend and the near pregnancy scare? Not my problem. We’ll keep to the lighter side of the terrors of raising a child. Parents might read this. They’ll have enough nightmares of their own to contend with without me adding any fuel to that fire.
I’ve said before that I never wanted kids. Actually, what I’ve said on many occasions is that I hate kids. Not true. I have a strong dislike of unruly children. I save hatred for those who actually deserve it. A lot of the reason I said that was as armor. The same was true of Bonnie. Once upon a time we were almost going to be parents and we were quickly schooled on the impossibilities.
Secret time. We didn’t use contraceptives. By unwritten agreement, we decided that what would be would be. We also knew early on that the chances of Bonnie conceiving and keeping a life within her were incredibly slim and grew slimmer with every year. Before anything ever happened there were problems with Bonnie’s internal pipe works that removed that possibility. The exact details are both not important and nobody’s business. Let’s just leave it at we shed a few tears over the false alarm and I held Bonnie through a few more tears and a great deal of false bravado over getting to the point in her life where she wouldn’t have to worry about that annoying monthly cycle anymore.
So, yes. A few little lies to make the medicine easier to take.
Have I depressed you enough? Have I showed you lemons?
Time for the lemonade, I suppose.
I have come to terms with the lack of children. It might sting now and then, but lots of old wounds do. I like to think of it as scar tissue for the mind and emotions. We all have it, most of us just have the decency not to bare it for all to see now and then.
But there are salves, aren’t there? There are odd little ointments that make it all better, or at least moderately better and tolerable.
One of my salves: I got a Christmas card from one of my coworkers when Media Play was closing. Media Play was a big store that sold everything you wanted and nothing that you needed. I worked there for over eight years and I worked with a lot of teenagers. Several of them have stayed in contact with me over the passing years and believe me, I am often pleasantly surprised by that notion as I am a peer to their parents in a lot of cases. They are not my kids, but they’re bloody near close enough in age that they could be.
At any rate, I will now quote from the letter, leaving out names, because the people who impact me might not want to be mentioned and because it just seems the right thing to do.
“Words won’t even begin to describe the kind of person you are-because there aren’t any for you. You have made such an impact on everyone’s lives, and it has been an honor, pleasure and privilege to work with you. You restore my faith in people. You have shown me so many things, probably without your knowledge.
“I learned how to be humane, kind to most and not to place judgments without knowing what you’re talking about. Your compassion goes without being recognized every day. Now, you may think I take you for granted, but I SO don’t! You are kind to me and I started looking to you as a father or older brother.
“You tolerate me and my crap every day—which is not an easy task. I know I joke with you every day but it’s all out of love and gratuity. You probably know, but everyone who you come in contact with has nothing but wonderful things to say about you. I aspire to be a person like that one day. You are so strong, smart and kind.”
Those words were placed in a card that my coworker gave me right before leaving the store for the last time. We haven’t crossed paths since. I’ve had a couple of variations of that card offered to me over the years. Some were in letters, others were offered with a thank you and a handshake.
Sometimes I am amazed by how much of an impact we have on the people around us. Doubly so because I certainly have never gone out of my way to alter the people around me. I am hardly a shaper of people.
It’s humbling and it makes me truly appreciate the efforts that parents go through on a day-to-day basis.
Just a note of appreciation to the people who are doing it right. I may never join your ranks, but I have a few people who think maybe I wouldn’t have sucked at it. See? Lemonade.
It is what it is. |
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