When I tell myself that I need to write in my Journal more often or blog more often, I retort back to myself "oh yeah, you have too much to write. When will you ever have the time to finish it all?"
I am a "finisher", it's one of my favorite personality traits. But (yes, I am beginning a sentence with 'but') since I never like to start something that I can't finish, I often don't start. Now I am turning over a new leaf and starting something that I will intentionally leave incomplete.
This is a direct contrast to how my Mother was. She would start lots of things, too many things, and she would never get around to completing all of the projects that she started. they just piled up in her living room and the three bedrooms that she used to save the remains of unfinished projects. It was nerve-racking. I would need to leave her house before I developed a nervous tick from all of my unexpressed frustration. Now that she's gone, I look back with regret. Partly because of how I cursed the mess that she left for us, and partly because I let her packratitis (that is a word) drive a wedge between us. She was a great lady, giving to a fault. I really miss her fun, spontaneous approach to life. I owe it to her to write more about her. Nevertheless, it is difficult to write something that it so personal for all the world to see it in my blog. Then again, no one ever reads my blog, so it might as well be kept in a diary in my sock drawer. Blogs are slightly more fun though, and my kids won't color all over this either. So, in honor of my dear old mum, I'm going to make a list of blog entries that may never see the light of day. Here goes:
1. Camping and nearly drowning with Richard.
2. Shadow, my cat.
3. How I met Debera, my Wife.
4. Elizabeth and the clown parade that never happened.
5. Breakfast in India.
6. "You drink COLD milk without SUGAR? That's GROSS!"
7. The bat trick (another story about Richard).
8. The death of my Mother (this one will be hard to write).
9. How I know for sure that there is a God (no fooling).
10. You are Hindu already!
11. What is so great about the Grateful Dead?
12. The time I tried to be like Gandhi.
13. Why Halloween is my favorite Holiday.
and many more. Hey, I didn't even finish the list!
Monday, May 13, 2013
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Letting Mom Go.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
It was a year ago today that my mother died. I can’t help but remember and feel the loss all over again. A friend at work who also lost his mother told me that the pain doesn’t go away, it just spreads thinner as time goes by. I miss her and I regret that I didn’t take more time with her before she went. I was busy with school, family, and work (lot’s of it). I also didn’t realize how soon she would be gone. She went quickly after several years of suffering. Long story short, it was cancer. Breast cancer that she first found in 1992, then bone cancer, colon cancer, failing kidneys, stomach problems, she had it all. I could write pages and pages of gory details of how and why she died. This does little but make me upset about the medical care that she received (or didn't receive). She had had all the Chemo-therapy that he body could take, and there was nothing more possible to cure her.
I accept the fact that she was going to die and that we were lucky to have her as long as we did. She worked hard, nearly 60 hours per week until 4 months before her death. During her sharp four month decline, my prayers went from praying that she would get well, to praying that she would not suffer more.
That night, I sat in front of the hospital, waiting. I was afraid to go in. It was as if I thought that it would only be real if I went inside. Until then, I didn’t know. When I arrived at the floor where she was, three doctors and two of my mom’s friends met me in the waiting room. They described the situation and told me that I needed to decide whether they should operate or let her go. Operating would have been heroic, invasive, risky, and would probably cause more suffering in the long run if she lived through it. I called my wife to discuss the options with her. When I told her that I thought we should let my mom go, the tears flooded my eyes. I cried, as I never had before and never have since. It was so painful. I missed her and felt as if my heart had been torn out. I went back to tell the doctors to keep her comfortable (i.e. lots of morphine) and that we decided to let her go. They all heaved a visible sigh of relief, and told me that I had done a brave and merciful thing. I did not feel brave or merciful. I just remembered what my mother had asked me to do if I ever had to make such a decision. She had suffered enough.
I went to the room where she laid. She did not look like herself. A machine was breathing for her and all I could hear was her short gasps as her body reflexively let the air out like hiccups. I called for another elder of our Church. We laid hands on her head to give her a blessing, like I had done many times before, but I could not say the words that I would normally say. I told her that while most blessings are to heal the sick, this one was to say goodbye. I told her that I could not have asked for a better mom. I told her that she was free to go, that there would be people on the other side to guide her. I told her that she was surrounded by people who love her, more on the other side than on this side, not that there aren't many here. I told her not to worry about me and Debera or the kids and that that her family here would be fine. She has the two grandkids and maybe more. (My third son was born last Friday 5/8). This may not have been a typical blessing, telling someone that it’s okay to die, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
I still feel a great loss in my life. I never have regretted letting her go, but I do regret the time that I was not able to visit with her. I feel grateful for the mother that she was to me. I think that she approached the daunting task of raising a headstrong son like myself in a wise and balanced way. She was always willing to talk and to listen to me. I regret that I didn’t involve myself more in her care, that I was too busy with things that don't matter in the long run, and that I didn’t help her more. I don’t think that it would have changed the outcome, but I would have a clear conscience. I miss talking with her most of all.
It was a year ago today that my mother died. I can’t help but remember and feel the loss all over again. A friend at work who also lost his mother told me that the pain doesn’t go away, it just spreads thinner as time goes by. I miss her and I regret that I didn’t take more time with her before she went. I was busy with school, family, and work (lot’s of it). I also didn’t realize how soon she would be gone. She went quickly after several years of suffering. Long story short, it was cancer. Breast cancer that she first found in 1992, then bone cancer, colon cancer, failing kidneys, stomach problems, she had it all. I could write pages and pages of gory details of how and why she died. This does little but make me upset about the medical care that she received (or didn't receive). She had had all the Chemo-therapy that he body could take, and there was nothing more possible to cure her.
I accept the fact that she was going to die and that we were lucky to have her as long as we did. She worked hard, nearly 60 hours per week until 4 months before her death. During her sharp four month decline, my prayers went from praying that she would get well, to praying that she would not suffer more.
That night, I sat in front of the hospital, waiting. I was afraid to go in. It was as if I thought that it would only be real if I went inside. Until then, I didn’t know. When I arrived at the floor where she was, three doctors and two of my mom’s friends met me in the waiting room. They described the situation and told me that I needed to decide whether they should operate or let her go. Operating would have been heroic, invasive, risky, and would probably cause more suffering in the long run if she lived through it. I called my wife to discuss the options with her. When I told her that I thought we should let my mom go, the tears flooded my eyes. I cried, as I never had before and never have since. It was so painful. I missed her and felt as if my heart had been torn out. I went back to tell the doctors to keep her comfortable (i.e. lots of morphine) and that we decided to let her go. They all heaved a visible sigh of relief, and told me that I had done a brave and merciful thing. I did not feel brave or merciful. I just remembered what my mother had asked me to do if I ever had to make such a decision. She had suffered enough.
I went to the room where she laid. She did not look like herself. A machine was breathing for her and all I could hear was her short gasps as her body reflexively let the air out like hiccups. I called for another elder of our Church. We laid hands on her head to give her a blessing, like I had done many times before, but I could not say the words that I would normally say. I told her that while most blessings are to heal the sick, this one was to say goodbye. I told her that I could not have asked for a better mom. I told her that she was free to go, that there would be people on the other side to guide her. I told her that she was surrounded by people who love her, more on the other side than on this side, not that there aren't many here. I told her not to worry about me and Debera or the kids and that that her family here would be fine. She has the two grandkids and maybe more. (My third son was born last Friday 5/8). This may not have been a typical blessing, telling someone that it’s okay to die, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
I still feel a great loss in my life. I never have regretted letting her go, but I do regret the time that I was not able to visit with her. I feel grateful for the mother that she was to me. I think that she approached the daunting task of raising a headstrong son like myself in a wise and balanced way. She was always willing to talk and to listen to me. I regret that I didn’t involve myself more in her care, that I was too busy with things that don't matter in the long run, and that I didn’t help her more. I don’t think that it would have changed the outcome, but I would have a clear conscience. I miss talking with her most of all.
An Old Classic
I remember when Hardware Wars was done and how funny it was then. I recently found it online.
Hardware Wars
I showed this to my wife and kids today and we practically fell out of our seats laughing.
Hardware Wars
I showed this to my wife and kids today and we practically fell out of our seats laughing.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
My Surrogate Dad and the Book He Wrote.
When I was a kid I did some shopping around for a father-figure. My real Dad was not around. He and Mom had a big ugly falling out, furthermore he was not a good rolemodel (more on that later). So, what is a kid to do but find a surrogate Dad. I picked Richard Menzies, our neighbor.
Richard spent much of his life on the road in this 1973 (bright orange) VW bus, while working as a freelance journalist and photographer. After years of prodding, Richard has put much of his writing into a great book, “Passing Through”.
Here's the link: http://www.passingthroughnv.com/index.html
His book is about some of the colorful people he has met while on the road. I put on some Neil Young, and started reading. The book contains the details of many of the stories that Richard has told me only briefly though the years about semi-homeless artisans living their experimental lives, the denizens of the great basin, the people who inspired him, the misunderstood, etc.
Richard is good a friend, but he’s been more of a father figure to me than just a friend. He and I have camped in the desert in that classic VW (which might explain my irrational loyalty to the VW brand), developed photographs in his lab, and I even dragged him along to church father and son’s outings since my father was not around. That was a stretch for Richard, but he was a good sport. I’ve gone to him for help many times, taken his advice about girls, and played the role of the son he never had (at least until he and his wife had a son). So maybe it was more of a sentimental journey. The book is great, and I value it more than any book in my collection.
I think I was four years old when I met him. He caught me running with a pair of garden scissors behind the apartments where we lived. He scolded me and told me to point those scissors down. Being a kid who didn't like being told what to do, I didn’t like him. The next time I met Richard was when he lubricated my squeaky tricycle. He was typing in his office and probably suffered from writers block due to the infernal noise of my trike squeaking as I rode on the pavement below. I'm sure that I was driving him crazy. He came down the stairs with a can of WD-40, and took away the cool squeaky sound that I liked so much. I liked him even less after that!
During the summer when I was five years old, we shared a garden spot behind the apartment complex. One evening when my Mom was working in her part of the garden, Richard came down the stairs with the coolest thing I had ever seen, a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee! It was getting dark, but Mom let me stay out and play. Frisbee became a nightly activity that summer.
The rest is history. For the past 30 years, I have kept in contact with Richard whether he liked it or not. We go skiing now and then. Sometimes I stop by his house and we talk about a lot of nothing. All I can say is that I’m blessed to have a friend like him. Not only did he give me someone to look up to, he gave me a counter balance to the strict Mormon culture in which I was raised.
I still dream of buying an old VW bus so I can take my kids camping in the desert and maybe some of Richard will rub off on them too.
Here are a few links to other things he wrote:
http://www.spyrock.com/nadafarm/html/thunder-menzies/NEVADA4.html
http://www.spyrock.com/nadafarm/html/thnder.html
And finally, his blog:
http://www.rdmenzies.com/blog
Enjoy!
3 Bears in Search of an Author (part two)
Here would be Hemingway's version:
A Farewell to Porridge
Sometimes people would come to the door and ask if we would like to subscribe to the Saturday Evening Post or buy Fuller brushes, but when we would answer the bell, they would see we were only bears and go away.
Sometimes we would go for long walks along the river and you could almost forget for a little while that you were a bear and not people.
Once when we were out strolling for a very long time, we came home and you could see that someone had broken in and the door was open.
"La port est ouverte," said Mama Bear. "The door should not be open." Mama Bear had French blood on her father's side.
"It is all right," I said. "We will close it. Then it will be good like in the old days."
"Bien," she said. "It is well."
We walked in and closed the door. There were dishes and bowls and all manner of eating utensils on the table and you could tell that someone had been eating porridge. We did not say anything for a long while.
"It is lovely here, " I said finally. "But someone has been eating my porridge."
"Mine as well," said Mama Bear.
"Darling," said Mama Bear, "do you love me?"
"Yes, I love you."
"You really love me?"
"I really love you. I'm crazy in love with you."
"And the porridge? How about the porridge?"
"That too. I really love the porridge too."
"It was supposed to be a surprise. I made it as a surprise for you, but someone has eaten it all up."
"You sweet. You made it as a surprise. Oh, you're lovely," I said.
"But it is gone."
"It is all right," I said. "It will be all right."
"I ate your porridge and sat in your chairs and I broke one of them," she said.
"It is all right," I said. "It will be all right."
"And now I am lying in Baby Bear's bed."
"Baby Bear can take care of himself."
"I mean that I am sorry. I have behaved badly and I am sorry for all of this."
"Ça ne fait rien," said Mama Bear. "It is nothing." Outside it had started to rain again.
"I will go now," she said. "I am sorry." She walked slowly down the stairs.
I tried to think of something to tell her but it wasn't any good.
"Good-by, " she said. Then she opened the door and went outside and walked all the way back to her hotel in the rain.
Dan Greenberg, "Three Bears in Search of an Author," Esquire Feb 1958, pp46-47.
A Farewell to Porridge
In the late autumn of that year we lived in a house in the forest that looked across the river to the mountains, but we always thought we lived on the plain because we couldn't see the forest for the trees.
Sometimes people would come to the door and ask if we would like to subscribe to the Saturday Evening Post or buy Fuller brushes, but when we would answer the bell, they would see we were only bears and go away.
Sometimes we would go for long walks along the river and you could almost forget for a little while that you were a bear and not people.
Once when we were out strolling for a very long time, we came home and you could see that someone had broken in and the door was open.
"La port est ouverte," said Mama Bear. "The door should not be open." Mama Bear had French blood on her father's side.
"It is all right," I said. "We will close it. Then it will be good like in the old days."
"Bien," she said. "It is well."
We walked in and closed the door. There were dishes and bowls and all manner of eating utensils on the table and you could tell that someone had been eating porridge. We did not say anything for a long while.
"It is lovely here, " I said finally. "But someone has been eating my porridge."
"Mine as well," said Mama Bear.
"Darling," said Mama Bear, "do you love me?"
"Yes, I love you."
"You really love me?"
"I really love you. I'm crazy in love with you."
"And the porridge? How about the porridge?"
"That too. I really love the porridge too."
"It was supposed to be a surprise. I made it as a surprise for you, but someone has eaten it all up."
"You sweet. You made it as a surprise. Oh, you're lovely," I said.
"But it is gone."
"It is all right," I said. "It will be all right."
Then I looked at my chair and you could see someone had been sitting in it and Mama bear looked at her chair and someone had been sitting in that too and Baby Bear's chair was broken. "We will go upstairs," I said and we went upstairs to the bedroom but you could see that someone had been sleeping in my bed and in Mama Bear's too although that was the same bed but you have to mention it that way because that is the story. Truly. And then we looked in Baby Bear's bed and there she was.
"I ate your porridge and sat in your chairs and I broke one of them," she said.
"It is all right," I said. "It will be all right."
"And now I am lying in Baby Bear's bed."
"Baby Bear can take care of himself."
"I mean that I am sorry. I have behaved badly and I am sorry for all of this."
"Ça ne fait rien," said Mama Bear. "It is nothing." Outside it had started to rain again.
"I will go now," she said. "I am sorry." She walked slowly down the stairs.
I tried to think of something to tell her but it wasn't any good.
"Good-by, " she said. Then she opened the door and went outside and walked all the way back to her hotel in the rain.
Dan Greenberg, "Three Bears in Search of an Author," Esquire Feb 1958, pp46-47.
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