A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan FEBRUARY 8, 2014 - FEBRUARY 21, 2014

Life and Umbrellas * Stalling * Love This Place * A Very Good Day * Happy Valentine's Day * Getting Organized * Stuff * Conflict * Interview * Missing

To read A Mother's Diary from the beginning, click on the June 2017 archives in the right hand column and read "Before: Scenes from the Trenches."

 

Photo credit: Barb Watson/flickr

Photo credit: Barb Watson/flickr

FEBRUARY 8, 2014: LIFE AND UMBRELLAS

I'm headed to Nevada City to attend David's grandmother's funeral. I didn't know Grandma Joyce, but I want to be present at her service for my son-in-law and for his mother, Michele, who is Joyce's daughter.

It's raining cats and dogs — the heaviest rain we've had in a year. I throw on my raincoat and grab my perky black umbrella. It's perky because it has little red, yellow, green, and blue polka dots on it. It looks cheery. And it's easy to spot in a stand full of black umbrellas.

I risk life and limb driving Highway 93 to get to the funeral home. I hang up my raincoat and drop my umbrella onto a pile of black umbrellas. I sign the guest book and give Michele and David a hug.

A family friend conducts the memorial service. He tells the story of a little girl, young woman, mother, and grandmother unfamiliar to me. Kerry presents a video of family photographs displayed in a sequence timed to music. Joyce loved Frank Sinatra. The music swells to Frank's "My Way." I was fine until now. Other people were fine until now. Everyone is pulling out tissues and wiping their eyes.

We have to walk from the funeral chapel to another building behind it for the reception. I slip on my raincoat and pick up my umbrella. That's strange. The button on the handle that opens and closes it is missing. It's difficult to open my umbrella with its button missing. I have to push from the bottom and pull from the top. I don't remember my umbrella being this small in circumference.

I walk to the reception area and try to set my dripping umbrella on the floor. It's a fight to get it to close. The room's packed and warm. Kerry and I wait for the food line to thin. I'm standing with my back to the dessert table. Kerry waves at me from across the room.

"Look behind you," she mouths.

I look. There's a tall man. What's Kerry telling me? Am I blocking someone? She keeps pointing. I turn around, again, in time to see a sweet-looking old lady leaving the reception. She's tucking a  black umbrella to her side. Her umbrella has polka dots on it. Her umbrella has an open/close button on its handle. My umbrella. The sweet-looking old lady has my umbrella.

Too late. She's gone. I can't get to her without stomping across a table covered with cookies and cupcakes. Kerry's laughing. I'm laughing. Seems like the thing to do. After pasta salad and sliced ham, I hug David and Michele goodbye. I don't want to be on the road in the dark and with glare on the pavement from the rain. For crying out loud. I have to wrestle this impostor umbrella into my car because it's impossible to close. If someone's watching, they'll call 911. They'll think I'm struggling with an attacker in my front seat.

I'll get a new umbrella. I'll donate this annoying one to the thrift shop. On second thought, it's not good enough for the thrift shop. When I get home, I'll stash the darn thing in the garbage can. A fitting end. In my opinion.

Kerry sends me a text. David's father's umbrella is missing. He's not laughing. Whoever took his umbrella didn't leave a replacement like the sweet-looking old lady who took mine. I hope she enjoys her new, bigger, automatic open and close, perky polka dot umbrella. I hope it helped David and Michele a little that I attended Joyce's service. Life is too short.

 

FEBRUARY 10, 2014: STALLING

I'm taking The Jazz for a walk in the cat stroller. It's a warm 62 degrees. No rain. Of course, I run into my next door neighbor as soon as I push the stroller out the side gate. I was hoping I wouldn't see anyone or they see me.

"I'm taking my cat for a walk."

"That's okay," he says.

"Doesn't it seem a bit eccentric?"

"Look, living here, anything can seem eccentric."

"So you won't say anything?"

He laughs.

I can't tell if The Jazz likes the ride. She's not meowing. She's looking out the back, front and sides. I unzip the stroller's mesh cover on our return. She doesn't leap out right away. May mean she likes this contraption?

I'm in the den organizing the paperwork for Mom's rental house. She's got all her tax stuff together. She's raring to go. She wants me to set up an appointment with the tax preparer. Now. Walking the cat will not get me off the hook.

 

FEBRUARY 11, 2014: LOVE THIS PLACE

Here I am again — at Snap it Up. I love this place. People are grateful and unpretentious. They like to talk.

"I used to have a lot of money. I don't anymore and I'm managing fine."
"I bought a Ralph Lauren blouse here last week for one dollar."
"I make little cat beds. Would you be able to use them if I bring them in?"
"That cat in the adoption room is sweet. I hope someone adopts her soon."
"Do you have yarn? I want to get some for my friend who knits sweaters for the homeless."
"How much is this belt? If it's a dollar, I'll take it."
"I'm going to Weight Watchers. This is the perfect place to buy clothes as I'm changing sizes."
"Keep the change. FieldHaven does good work."
"I love that chicken but it's fifteen dollars. Guess I better wait."
"I found this poster of San Francisco. It's perfect for my mobile home."
"I better stop shopping. My husband's waiting in the car. I'll take these tops because they're a dollar."

I find three tops myself — one from Coldwater Creek, one from J. Jill, and one from Talbots. All are like new. All are one dollar. Like I said, I love this place.

 

FEBRUARY 13, 2014: A VERY GOOD DAY

The heating and air conditioning man arrives for the annual heater check-up. Everything looks good, but... Here comes the but: "The capacitor that helps the fan is testing below the recommended range of 7.1 to 7.5. It's testing 6.6. As part of our recommended preventative maintenance, you probably should replace it before it dies and causes damage."

"How much?"

"It's one hundred thirty-one dollars, I think. We had a price change yesterday. Also, your drip pan doesn't have a switch to turn the unit off if it's collecting too much water."

"How much?"

"One hundred thirty-eight dollars. It's not code or anything, but when our company installs a new unit, we make sure the pan is equipped with a switch."

Hmm. Everything's been working fine. "You know, I don't go up in the attic. I have to take your word for it."

"You trust me don't you? I can bring the capacitor down and show you."

"Okay."

The technician, a very personable, pleasant young man, attaches his gismo to the capacitor. It reads 7.0. It reads 7.0 three times. Hmm again. "Thanks, but I think I'll wait on this and see how it is in a couple of months when you come back to service the air conditioning unit."

I may have to rethink this bi-annual heating and air check. I'll clean the filter myself. Thank  you very much. If it's not broke, don't fix it.

Pat arrives to do his laundry. Lexi bounds in. She still doesn't know how to walk. I give her a dog biscuit and she runs around the coffee table 15 times. Pat fills out an insurance form to give me power of attorney on his car insurance account. I pay this bill monthly and it's always getting mucked up because he hasn't completed the power of attorney form. Pat folds his last load of laundry.

"C'mon, Lexi." Lexi accepts the leash and pulls Pat out the door. She's happy to come. She's happy to go.

I'm at Mom's delivering her very specific staple requests. I give her a new bottle of homemade Irish cream like the one I gave her at Christmas. As I suspected, she has the empty bottle, from Christmas, ready to return to me.

"Have you made an appointment with a tax person, yet?"

"Well, no."

"I really want to get my taxes done and get my money back."

"Okay. I'm on it."

I stop at Kerry's to drop off Ayla's belated birthday gifts — a book about bugs and a birdhouse you attach to a window so you can watch the birds nesting inside. We skim through the bug book. A picture of an ugly scorpion reminds Ayla of something.

" I ate one of these."

"You ate a scorpion?"

"Yes, and it licked me on my cheek."

"Did you swallow the scorpion?"

"No, because it was licking me on my cheek."

Kerry joins  us. "Did you know Ayla ate a scorpion?"

"No."

"I didn't eat it, Mim. I was tricking you."

Ayla's a storyteller. "I want to be a bug catcher when I grow up."

"What will you do with the bugs?"

"I'll give them to the birds."

Home again. The heater's humming softly. This morning I saved myself $269 that I didn't spend on my AC unit. This afternoon I caught up with my son, mother, daughter, and granddaughter. All in all, it's been a very good day.

 

FEBRUARY 14, 2014: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

In the gym with Deanne, she's setting me up in a seated leg curl machine. She's adjusting the weights and the position of the leg rest. The bar that holds my upper legs in place isn't very tight. Should it be?

"It's fine. It's not tight because you have thin thighs."

I catch my breath. Oh my!  Stop the presses. Deanne says I have thin thighs. No one's told me I have thin thighs in 40 years. I ask Deanne to say it again.

"You have thin thighs. You're thin."

I knew I loved this woman. She may be my new best friend.


At the Family Mental Illness Support Group meeting, we have a new person in attendance. Each month we have at least one new person. I let the group know that I've been asked to meet with Lincoln Hills Foundation grants committee. "Do you have suggestions for what I should present to the committee?"

The group suggests mentioning in-kind donations such as my time and the use of Raley's conference room. We agree that we don't want to spend money simply to be spending money. We want whatever money we receive to be put to work.

There are eight people at the meeting today, each of us making a difference for each other. A small group impacting a small group. What's that Margaret Mead saying? "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."

Happy Valentine's Day.

PATRICKS FACEBOOK POST: Happy S.A.D. (Singles Awareness Day). I celebrated by taking myself out to lunch and enjoyed a mushroom burger among all the paired up sweethearts.

 

The Jazz

The Jazz

FEBRUARY 15, 2014: GETTING ORGANIZED

The Jazz is ensconced in a basket on top of a trunk in my closet. Her from paws stick out over the basket's edge. She raises her head so she can see over the side. Nothing moves but her eyes. I'm being watched.

I'm sorting through my clothes and have  filled up three large bags with pants and tops that no longer fit. There are a half dozen mistakes in the give-away stuff — what-was-I thinking garments that I've never worn. This sorting process will help me be more focused when I'm clothes shopping. As I decide what to keep and what to get rid of, I remember five getting-dressed rules I picked up from Andy Paige in her book, Style on a Shoestring:

1. Use lipstick.

2. Wear outfits that give me shape — clothes that define a middle in my torso.

3. Carry a statement-making handbag. I'm weak here. I generally use one handbag at a time — an all purpose bag so I don't have to switch contents.

4. Select fun shoes and funky socks. I try but I no longer wear heels because my ankle has a steel plate and six screws in it. My favorite shoes are my sea-blue tennis shoes with white polka dots on them. (What's with me and polka dots?) And I practice sock awareness. I try to match socks to my outfit with color, design, and wit. I like to wear witty socks.

5. Add something unexpected. This is my favorite rule. This can be a pin, a scarf, a pair of earrings. Something that says, "This lady was thinking when she put herself together."

My closet's shaping up. There's still one thing I haven't attended to. Maybe that's why The Jazz is staring at me. "While you're in this mode, ahem, there's a litter box in the laundry room that needs your attention."

Getting organized can be fun. Mostly.

 

FEBRUARY 16, 2014: STUFF

Continuing my spring organizing, I'm at Target picking up a few things — hangers, storage containers, makeup, hand towels, pillows for the guest room, and a wallet. Somehow this adds up to $121.82. How do a few minor items cost this much?

Mom calls. "Have you set me up with tax person yet?"

"No, I didn't call anyone today because it's Sunday."

"What about the bank? Did you look into CD rates?"

"No, not yet."

Mom's getting antsy. "What if the tax person has steps into her office? I won't be able to go up the steps. What if she charges too much to come to my place? Or to your place?"

I better get on this.

Well, the good new is the wallet doesn't work. Once you put coins, cash, and credit cards in it, it won't close. I'll take it back and knock $14 off the $121.82 bill. My old wallet is good enough. I'll go back to getting rid of things instead of acquiring things. 

Who needs all this stuff anyway?

 

FEBRUARY 18, 2014: CONFLICT

I'm at the movies to see The Monuments Men. It's the story of US and British soldiers charged with retrieving European art stolen by the Nazis during World War II. Critics aren't giving this movie top reviews. The theater, however, is packed.

When the credits roll at the end, the audience has reflected on artwork and culture as evidence of humanity's collective soul, and a time when humanity seemed hell-bent on self-destruction.

World War II combat in Europe ended in May 1945. Since then, the US has engaged in wars in Korea, Vietnam, the Persian Gulf, Iran, and Afghanistan. Today, as we withdraw from Afghanistan, we're witnessing uprisings around the globe — in Egypt, Syria, Ukraine, Thailand, Venezuela, Libya, Sudan, Somalia, and Congo.

Conflict is the ongoing human drama. Each of us has our own hot buttons. Familial dysfunction is the stuff of storytelling. Countries are macrocosms of individuals and families. Why does equilibrium — personal, tribal, global — forever elude us?

 

FEBRUARY 20, 2014: INTERVIEW

The Lincoln Hills Foundation grants committee is asking about my application for $1,000 for the Family Mental Illness Support Group. They're exercising due diligence.

"What's your background and professional experience?"

"I'm a family member and retired policy director for NAMI California."

"What is the groups' geographical outreach?"

"Lincoln Hills."

"What are the groups expenses?"

"We have none. We'd like to buy some books for the group and pay for a few speakers."

"What is your main purpose?"

"To provide support for family members who have someone coping with serious mental illness."

I have a few questions also. "People from outside Lincoln Hills have asked if they can join the group. Do you have any objection?"

"No."

"What kind of expense reporting do you need?"

These retired volunteers explain their process and give me an hour of their time. They're trying to make a difference in our community. Whether or not they decide to give us a grant, I respect the work they're doing and the responsible way they're making funding decisions.

 

FEBRUARY 21, 2014: MISSING

A photo's missing. I found it a few weeks ago as I was rifling through some files. It's a candid snapshot of me when I was about 36. I don't know who took the photo. I think I was at a writer's conference. I'm wearing a name tag, a dark silk blouse, and a white blazer.

I like the way I look, at this moment in time, captured on black and white film. The skin on my face appears soft and moist. My features aren't as angular as they are now. My lips are full. My eyes have an intelligent, I'm-listening-to-you gaze. They're big and brown. I have thick, dark-brown hair in a stylish short cut. I look like someone I'd like to know.

I'd planned to make copies of this two-by-three inch photo and give one to each of my children. They have no pictures of me as a young woman. I tucked the photo into the corner of a framed photo on my bookshelf. Now, it's not there. 

This is troubling me more than I want to admit. An irreplaceable little keepsake of what I looked like once has vanished. I think I'm mourning my own disappearance. A time when not only my photo but I will be missing.

 

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2018
February 22, 2014 - March 7, 2014: Congratulations, Aidan * Water * News * Over Doing It * Home * Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss * Air Raids * Mom's To-Do List * Windows

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

Dede, every one of your blogs has a portion that I Love so much that I take a screen shot and read it over and over. Your last blog had the reference to the grocery cart, and I used it in my company newsletter (gave you credit). This week my screen shot was your poem, which I will share with my grandkids!

I am also following your book recommendations — ”No One Cares About Crazy People” arrived yesterday, and I ordered the David Mas Matsumoto book this afternoon! Thanks!
Stacey Shurson, Vice President at M. J.  Hall & Company, Inc.

 

 

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2018
February 8, 2014 - February 21, 2014: Life and Umbrellas * Stalling * Love This Place * A Very Good Day * Happy Valentine's Day * Getting Organized * Stuff * Conflict * Interview * Missing

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

Pat and Me 1969

Pat and Me 1969

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan JANUARY 26, 2014 - FEBRUARY 7, 2014

On To Off * Another Tragedy * A New Wrinkle * Tradition and Heritage * Requests and Success * Damn Freud * Same Old Same Old * "Thanks for Coming In" * When I Was a Child * Staying Grounded * The Young Crowd

To read A Mother's Diary from the beginning, click on the June 2017 archives in the right hand column and read "Before: Scenes from the Trenches."

 

JANUARY 26, 2014: ON TO OFF

What a mix of a day. It began pulsating with possibilities.

I've located a writer's group in the Sacramento area. The group is sponsoring a six-week writing course for $60. This is doable. The hitch is the class is in the evening and about 45 minutes away. I no longer like to drive in the dark. I'm hoping Pat might want to join me. He could drive my car and tap into his inner poet. I've invited him for dinner. I'll ask him.

Pat arrives at 10 minutes to six with Lexi in tow. I'm slicing a small loaf of sourdough to make garlic bread. I leave the kitchen briefly and, when I return, several slices are missing. Where's Lexi? She's cowering on the sofa. Pat drags her into the kitchen and shows her the bread.

"Bad dog, Lexi. Bad dog."

"Did you feed Lexi her dinner, yet?"

"I don't remember. I'll check her dish when I get home."

I'm preparing chicken cacciatore. The kitchen throbs with the aroma of chicken simmering in tomato sauce, onion, garlic, mushrooms, and red wine. We sit down to eat.

"So Pat, how was your day?"

"Fine."

"How was the gospel singer at the church service this morning?"

"Good."

"Were many people there?"

"Yes."

"How many?" This takes a few moments. "Fifty? One hundred?"

"About fifty."

The conversation is one way. No questions or comments are coming back at me. Pat's affect is flat. He's not interested in the writing workshop. "I've done enough of those."

"Recently?"

"When I was in college."

"Okay. Well, think about it. I'd pay for it and I'd enjoy your company." I don't ask, "What are you up to tomorrow?" I know the answer. "Not much."

"Would you like some ice cream?"

"No."

"I have chocolate sauce."

"No, thanks."

"Do you want to take the leftovers home?"

"Okay. Thanks."

I pack up an unopened box of spaghetti, the remaining garlic bread, and the chicken and sauce. "Don't let Lexi get it," I warn.

"I won't. Come on Lexi, let's go home. Thanks for dinner, Mom."

"Thanks for coming, Pat."

Pat hugs me and I hug him back. My son and his dog disappear down the sidewalk into the dark night. I close the front door. I stare at the dirty dishes on the kitchen counter. The pot that was filled with lusty sauce is empty. I feel like an electric candle that someone's switched from on to off.

 

JANUARY 28, 2014: ANOTHER TRAGEDY

A woman from the support group calls to tell me about her friend's son. On January 19, this 20-year-old man jumped to his death from the Golden Gate Bridge. His mother had tried everything to get help for her son's mental illness.

On a balmy San Francisco day, another unserved youth decided he couldn't go on and tossed himself into the bay. How does a mother bear it?

 

JANUARY 29, 2014: A NEW WRINKLE

Pat has a job. He's delivering automotive parts for a business in Auburn. They'll pay him eight dollars per hour plus four dollars per hour reimbursement for gas. He stops by to tell me about his first day. There's a catch. He doesn't get paid for two weeks. This means  he's covering gas costs for this business in advance. He's putting wear and tear on his car.

"Can you front me five hundred dollars until my first paycheck?"

"Why do you need five hundred dollars?"

"To cover gas and pay for lunches."

"Pat, I can't do this. Take your lunch. Most working people don't buy lunch every day. Five dollars per day amounts to one hundred dollars per month. That's money to buy Lexi's dog food and pay for other expenses. This employer shouldn't ask you to cover gas costs the first two weeks. They know you've been out of work."

"Mom, I haven't had work in seven years. I don't want to rock the boat and jeopardize this job."

"Pat, what if they renege? What if they're not reliable? I can't afford to lose five hundred dollars."

I give Pat a check for $40 for gas. "What would you do if I weren't around to help you?"

"I wouldn't be able to take this job."

Pat leaves. He has to get home and check on Lexi who's been in her crate all day. That's another issue. This poor dog cannot be locked up for eight hours every day. I sit down and take a deep breath. With Pat, there's always a new wrinkle.

 

JANUARY 30, 2014: TRADITION AND HERITAGE

I'm immersing myself in an author I've recently discovered. David Mas Masumoto is an organic peach and grape farmer in Del Rey, California - the Central Valley. In the introduction to his book, Heirlooms: Letters from a Peach Farmer, he says, "I try to choose my words carefully, and write stories with conviction. I journey with words and hope my stories travel beyond our valley. Yet in the end, I believe life is simply about loving. And loving words."

In a later chapter he writes, "Here's my two-generation theory about family. How many remember our father's and mother's first names? Probably most of us. How about our grandfather and grandmother? Still, most likely, many of us. But how about our great-grandparents? Most have two generation knowledge of our heritage and, within a short time, you and I will probably be forgotten. It's pretty easy to die with insignificance, and that sounds tragic to me."

Mas says the things he values include tradition, slow trucks, the culture of fog, home, delayed gratification, memories, thinking, reflection and stories. "I mean what I write. I live with the haunting thought that my words can stay with the reader for a while and may remain with me forever."

Thank you, Mas. I'll try to follow your example. I'll think about tradition and heritage. I'll mean what I write. I'll choose my words carefully.

 

JANUARY 31, 2014: REQUESTS AND SUCCESS

Grants Committee
Lincoln Hills Foundation
P.O. Box 220
Lincoln, CA 95648

Jan 31, 2014

Dear Grants Committee:

Thank you for the invitation to submit a grant request.

I organized this new group - Lincoln Hills Family Mental Illness Support Group - in February 2013. We've had monthly meetings since then.

This is a support group for SCLH family members who have loved ones coping with serious mental illnesses such as bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, personality disorder, clinical depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and others.

In many cases, the public mental health system has failed to serve our ill family members, providing inadequate care and poor outcomes. Many in the group, like myself, are the only reason a son, daughter, mother, father, sibling or adult grandchild is not homeless and on the street. Some of us have ill loved ones in prison, unemployed, and in other challenging circumstances. Our family situations can be unpredictable, chaotic, and heavy financial burdens. Stress levels are high.

Stigma surrounding mental illness is prevalent. Therefore, we meet in the conference room at Raley's. This gives a modicum of privacy removed from SCLH and a safe haven. Our monthly meeting gives us a chance to vent and know that others in the group will understand without judging. We offer support, an exchange of information about resources, and the important knowledge that we are not alone.

To date, we have about 35 members on the group email list. On average, eight to ten attend each meeting. I've promised the group that there will always be a meeting on the second Friday of the month no matter  how many are in attendance. They need to be able to count on the meeting routinely taking place.

With a grant, we could purchase books for the group and bring in speakers. Honorariums and speaking fees would determine the number of speakers we could engage in a year's time. With no previous history as a guideline, I'm requesting $1,000 in funding for this coming year. We'll keep you apprised as to the use of this funding and will adjust funding requests, as appropriate, going forward.

Please call me if you need further information. Thank you again for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Dede Ranahan
Support Group Moderator.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: After over seven years of unemployment and walking a very precarious financial tightrope which I fell from several times, I started a full-time job on Tuesday as a delivery driver for Millennium Transportation delivering auto parts to mechanics and repair shops. For the first time in a long time I won't be spending my days scouring the classified ads for work. It may be premature to announce this position as I'm finding it hard to believe I actually have a job and hope it lasts but, as of now, I am officially employed full time.

Stephanie: Congratulations!
Keir: Congrats!
Donna: I am so happy for you Patrick!
Meridith: Yeah Patrick!! Congratulations!!!
Amy R.: Good for you! New year, new adventures.
Lara: Way to go!
Cara: Pat, as someone who has also suffered during this crappy economic time, I am so happy to hear this. No one can truly understand the difficulty of submitting thousands of resumes, and going to countless interviews. I am so happy for you and so proud of you for keeping your focus. Congratulations!!!
Amy P.: Congrats Patrick Ranahan. This is wonderful for you!!!
Shannon: Happy for you Pat. I knew you were going to get something soon!
Brandi: That's wonderful!! Congrats!
Pam: Happy driving Patrick!!
Ed: Go Pat Go!!!!

 

FEBRUARY 1, 2014: DAMN FREUD

While I'm walking home from duplicate bridge this afternoon, a neighbor pulls up and idles her car to say hello. She says, "Weren't those hands difficult today?"

I agree. They were a challenge.

"Something's happened with my fifty-four-year-old son."

Ah. The real reason for her stopping in the street.

"He's in the hospital."

"Is this good news or bad news?"

"Well, he's beginning to recognize when he needs help. His new psychiatrist took him off his medication for schizophrenia and his symptoms came back."

This sounds familiar.

"The hospital's got him stabilized. How can a doctor undo forty-five years of medical history? Where are my son's records?"

Good questions. Serious mental illness is the most challenging illness of this century. Mental illness is the least understood and most devastating illness of this century. Mothers know this. Those same mothers that Freud blames for everything. "Something wrong with your kid? It's your fault."

When will we outgrow Freud and see mothers (and fathers) as mental health allies instead of enemies? When will we move into a compassionate future? A future that will care enough to do research to find answers about our brains and how they can go awry?

That's why my friend and I play bridge. It takes focus. And focus takes our minds off problems that, so far, seem to have no resolution.

 

FEBRUARY 2, 2014: SAME OLD SAME OLD

Article in today's paper:

"Mental health hospitalizations of California's youngest residents, 21 and under, increased 39 percent between 2007 and 2012, jumping from 33,000 to 46,000.

"The number of emergency room visits involving suicide attempts among children and teenagers increased more than 20 percent between 2007-2012.

"Some mental health professionals believe that once their young patients commit a crime, they'll enter the juvenile justice system and have much better access to mental health treatments."

Stories and statistics about the failure of our mental health system make the news regularly. That's about it. Nothing changes or gets better. I hope that in 2114 this is no longer true. But, if history is predictive, 100 years may not be enough time to make a difference. Mental health care's been in the Dark Ages forever.

 

FEBRUARY 4, 2014: "THANKS FOR COMING IN"

I'm working at Snap it Up thrift shop and, as usual, a parade is coming through the door. All clothes are $1 today. The first customer is buying twelve pair of men's jeans. I ask who they're for.

"I'm buying them for prisoners at the jail who are being released. Often, they have only the clothes they wore in. I help stock a closet where they can get a warm jacket or an extra pair of pants to wear out on the street."

Another woman asks me, "Are you having a good day?"

"Yes, are you having a good day?"

"I'm having a very happy day."

Do I leave this statement alone or do I go further? "Why are you having a very happy day?"

"Because my ten-year-old son got placed in a group home and I know he's safe for the moment." This turns into a long story. "My adopted son's real mother was a meth addict when she was pregnant with him. Meth's in his cellular structure and he's always hyperactive. He's on meds for ADHD and oppositional defiant disorder but they don't have his meds right. He gets violent. He busted through steel doors at the hospital when he saw me on the other side.

"The doctors say his frontal cortex, which is the brain's center for impulse control, isn't developing as it should. If the cortex doesn't begin to catch up in the next two years, he'll probably have to be conserved to a group home permanently."

She continues. "I had serious surgery recently and I'm still recovering. I'm trying to get well and take care of my son. I feel like i'm not setting goals but my counselor reassures me that I do have goals  — to survive and to help my son survive."

This woman has a lot on her plate. I tell her about NAMI. I tell her about the support group.

"Can I join your support group?"

She doesn't live in Sun City. I always try to think about why someone has crossed my path. I'll run this by the group. I get the woman's name and phone number. I'll get back to her.

More clothes are moving out the door. Some with a caucasian woman for her disabled roommate. Some with a black woman who takes the bus to get to the shop. Some with a hispanic woman who comes in every week.

I'm working in a thrift shop that could be in Anytown, USA. I like being here when customers find something they need at a great price. I smile, look them in the eyes, and give them an opening. More often than not, they start to tell a story. They're eager to have someone listen. That's all I can do. Listen and be humbled.

I say, "Enjoy that blouse. It looks beautiful on you."

 

FEBRUARY 5, 2014: WHEN I WAS A CHILD

In preparation for Grandparents' Day, I write a letter for Regan's second grade social studies class.

Dear Regan,

Thank you for asking me to write about my life when I was a child. Time goes by so fast. It seems like yesterday when I was seven — like you.

In second grade, my teacher was Mrs. Quimet. I remember her as I'm about to turn 70 years old. Our teachers are important to us. Somewhere around this time, my father, Pop, surprised us with a black and white television. We were the first family on our block to get one. It was like magic. I raced home from school every day to watch The Mickey Mouse Club. My favorite Mouseketeer was Darlene. I liked that she had long pigtails and often played the part of a tomboy. I also watched Sky King and Howdy Doody.

Our family lived in a very small house in San Jose, California. I had to share a bedroom with my little brother, James. I hated the arrangement. I liked dolls and he liked trains. I pushed a dresser into the middle of the room to divide it in two, but this only helped a little. I knew that James was still on the other side of the furniture.

When I was eight, Pop built a hamburger restaurant adjacent to his real estate office. He called it Burgertown. McDonald's didn't exist yet. Most days, after school, I went to Burgertown while Pop and GG cooked hamburgers and waited on tables. Sometimes I peeled potatoes or stocked the candy cabinet with Milky Ways, Snickers, M & M's, and Mounds Bars. I had hamburgers, fries, chocolate milk shakes, and hot fudge sundaes for dinner.  It was heaven.

Photo credit:heather brennan/flickr

Photo credit:
heather brennan/flickr

As I got a little older, I discovered that I liked to write poems. I wrote this poem one night while I was in bed.

The Moon Fairy

As I lay awake one night beside the window sill,
I raised the shade and took a peek while everything was still.
The moon shone on the house next door, made sparkles in the creek,
And where the purple violets grew, it left a silver streak.

There below my window sill upon a feathery fern,
I saw a wee wee fairy dance about and turn.
He frolicked there the whole night long and when the moon began to fade,
He looked up and saw me there below the window shade.

He spun around and disappeared into the frosty air,
And many times have I looked in hopes to find him there.

Sometimes when the moon is high and sparkles in the creek,
I raise the shade a tiny bit just to take a peek.
I never see the fairy there who played upon a tune,
But I can hear him playing, still, under the silvery moon.

I'd love to tell you more about when I was child if you want to know more. I wish for you a happy childhood. Don't grow up too fast. Otherwise, you'll soon be 70 years old like me. I love you Regan. I love you lots.

Mim

 

FEBRUARY 6, 2014: STAYING GROUNDED

Finally, It's raining.

I'm at a mentoring session for duplicate bridge. Volunteer mentors coach us on various bridge conventions. Today, we're learning about New Minor Forcing. I read that, except for one or two, no top player has learned to play bridge after the age of 20. There go my chances for the big time.

Meanwhile, two friends died, unexpectedly, this week. One died from the flu. One day my friend was fine and three days later she was deceased. There's been a higher numbers of deaths in our area this flu season. The victims include healthy people who didn't get flu shots. This flu strain trips the body's immune response to the point that it overreacts and the sick person drowns in excess lung fluids.

My second friend died from cancer diagnosed a short time ago. Another healthy person felled.

I'm leaving bridge class, walking outside, and letting the rain splash on my face. I'm placing one foot in front of the other, mindful of firm ground. I'm giving thanks for another day. Especially for another wet, rainy day.

Photo credit: mrwtfd/flickrWinter Landscape Wassily Kandinsky

Photo credit: mrwtfd/flickr
Winter Landscape Wassily Kandinsky

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I'm posting abstract art by Wassily Kandinsky. Nice! Leave a comment and I will give you an artist to post. The idea is to occupy Facebook with art, breaking the monotony of photos of lunch, selfies and sport. I will assign the name of an artist to whomever likes this post, and you have to publish a piece by that artist with text like this: I was given Rembrandt. Here is his painting - Christ in the Storm on the Sea of Galilee.

Shawn: Great choice Patrick Ranahan
Patrick: Lisa, you get Wassily Kandinsky.
Patrick: Nick, you get Willem de Kooning.

 

FEBRUARY 7, 2014: THE YOUNG CROWD

Priceless notes from Utah in the mail today.

Dear Mim,
Thank you so much for the birthday and Christmas money! I spent some money on a video game and I'm saving some. I hope you come visit us this year!
Love, Ashton

Dear Mim,
Thank  you so much for the Christmas money! I decided to spend the money on books for my Kindle! I bought and read a lot of books with the money! Thank you so much. I can't wait to see you this summer!
Love, Aidan

I'm working out with Deanne. She says, "I can tell you're getting stronger. You're doing this at the right time. Some people say, 'I'm old' and think it's too late. But really, you're getting your body in shape for the next 20 years."

Deanne is gracious.

She hands me ten-pound weights. "I want you to sit, extend your arms down with the palms of your hands facing upward holding the weights. Keep your elbows in. Raise the weights to shoulder height."

She's got to be kidding. My right arm goes up — kind of. But my left arm's a total loser. It can't get the weight past my waist.

"You can do this," she says. "Try for four."

I try. I fail. Deanne switches me to three-pound weights. I can lift three pounds, but I have a ten-pound goal. Now, I know what's expected.

 

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2018
February 8, 2014 - February 21, 2014: Life and Umbrellas * Stalling * Love This Place * A Very Good Day * Happy Valentine's Day * Getting Organized * Stuff * Conflict * Interview * Missing

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

Dede, don’t ever stop writing. You have a gift. Loved reading about the Clooney dream. Which of us doesn’t need a thoroughly entertaining dream to lift us out of the daily funk known as the utter failure of the U.S. Mental Health Care system? I must tell you that as I read each new installment of your diary, I become slightly anxious because I know what the future holds for Pat, and for you. Sending a hug.  Anne Schmidt Francisco

I agree with Anne about your writing Dede! It is a delightful glimpse into your real world, coupled with your dream world (George Clooney is in my dreams often, too) coupled with your beautiful son's beautiful mind. I confess that I haven't read every entry and will have to go back and catch up. How ironic that I took the time to read today's post and seeing our friend Rose mentioned. Thank you for always holding me in your heart and thoughts, too. Even though we lost direct contact for awhile, Rose was always there to connect our broken hearts. Much love and gratitude to you for sharing this brilliant, painful memoir and showing the world how families like ours live, breath, laugh, cry, and dream. Teresa Pasquini

 

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, JANUARY 25, 2018
January 26, 2014 - February 7, 2014: On To Off * Another Tragedy * A New Wrinkle * Tradition and Heritage * Requests and Success * Damn Freud * Same Old Same Old * "Thanks for Coming In" * When I Was a Child * Staying Grounded * The Young Crowd

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

Pat and me 1969

Pat and me 1969

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan JANUARY 11, 2014 - JANUARY 24, 2014

That's All Folks * Old Friends * Working Out * Rose * American Hustle * Sorry State of Mental Health Care * Learn and Live * Football * SNAFU * The Paperwork Monster * I'm Engaged

To read A Mother's Diary from the beginning, click on the June 2017 archives in the right hand column and read "Before: Scenes from the Trenches."

 

JANUARY 11, 2014: THAT'S ALL FOLKS

Yahoo. I played duplicate bridge this morning and my partner and I came in second. It's a puzzle. When we think we've played well, we come in last. When we think we've played like shit, we come in first. It keeps one humble. But oh, on days like today, coming in second felt marvelous.

Now I'm cleaning floors like Miss Happy Homemaker in a TV commercial — sans the ruffled apron and dark red lipstick. I have a smile on my face and a trill in my voice. Jazzy's running for cover. I don't know if she's afraid of the vacuum cleaner or the spirited woman pushing it.

Tomorrow, friends I met on Guam 41  years ago are coming for the night. All in all, a good weekend. That's all folks. Yabba daba-doo.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I guess I should take my Christmas tree down but thinking about leaving it up for the rest of the year.

 

JANUARY 12, 2014: OLD FRIENDS

I'm waiting for my friends, Bill and Bette, to arrive. I've popped a cranberry pie-cake in the oven. I've licked the batter in the bowl. Eggs, flour, sugar, butter, and almond flavoring. Yummy.

Megan calls. She and Britt are still fighting the battle over the drainage pipe on the hill behind their house. They're not getting satisfaction from the homeowner's association or the developer. Meanwhile, it could rain and flood their property again at any time. They'll probably need to hire an attorney.

Bill and Bette ring the doorbell. They walk in and we start chatting where we left off two years ago. Bette and I share Instagram photos on our smart phones. Bill dithers with his smart tablet. We're three old farts, sitting in my living room, trying to use technology. Glad no one's watching.

I make tuna sandwiches for lunch. We watch the 49ers win their football game. We drive to dinner at a southern ribs place. Bill orders deep fried okra as an appetizer. I wrinkle my nose but then eat my fair share. We watch Downton Abbey and cut into the cranberry pie and wash it down with homemade Irish cream.

All of us turn in at the bewitching hour of 10 p.m. Bill plugs in his breathing machine for his sleep apnea and wraps it in a towel to muffle the noise. "It bothers Betty," he says. These folks generally get up early — like 5:15 a.m. For my sake, Bill sleeps in until 6 a.m. and Bette starts getting dressed at 7 a.m.  I join them to make breakfast. 

Bill and Bette have attended exercise classes at 5:45 a.m., three times a week, for 20 or 30 or some ungodly number of years. I'm in awe. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is important to me at 5:45 in the morning except to stay warm under the covers. Guess you could say I'm not a morning person.

Bill ambles out to get the newspaper. His back is hurting — he has arthritis in his spine. Several neighbors are out walking dogs. "They saw me," he says. "Maybe they'll start a rumor about a man spending the night at your house." Bill's sprouting horns. "Let's sneak Bette out the back door so no one sees her. They'll only see me."

It's 9 a.m. Bill's pulling out his maps. Who uses maps anymore? Bill uses maps. He loves maps and he spreads them out on the kitchen table. He's marked two routes home — a direct route and a long, more scenic one. He's trying to decide which to take. He'll decide on the road.

"Let us know if you want to travel someplace with us. Come visit us in Medford."

I wave as Bill and Bette back their grey SUV out of the driveway. It's good to keep in touch with old friends.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: A poster: "Relax. Nothing is under control." And all this time I thought the opposite.

 

JANUARY 14, 2014: WORKING OUT

I'm at the gym with Deanne. She's my new personal trainer. She's young and pretty with a long, brown pony tail, dark brown eyes, and a toned, healthy-looking figure. If I pursue this fitness program will I look like Deanne?

Deanne asks about my health and has me check off boxes on a form. "Looks like you're pretty healthy," she says.

Pretty healthy and out of shape. We get right to it. I'm lifting weights over my head and to the sides. I'm pushing handles on weight machines. I'm leaning on chairs, crossing my legs and stretching my hamstrings. Hamstrings, biceps, triceps, quadriceps - I hear Deanne using these words.

I do two sets of 12 of each exercise. I try to remember to breathe. Is it exhale on exertion or inhale? "Don't worry," Deanne says. "It's most important to keep breathing. If you mix up inhaling and exhaling sometimes, it's okay." 

The half hour flies by. "You'll be sore tomorrow," Deanne says as a matter of fact.

I leave the gym and go to Snap it Up. The manager asks if I can hold down the fort for a few minutes on my own. I assure her I'll be fine. It's busy. People are aware of our "all shoes and clothing for $1 sale." Two hours into this shift and, oh my, I'm feeling a tad sore. Three hours in and I'm feeling more sore. I sit down at the cash register when there's a lull.

Now I'm at Lori's salon getting a haircut and highlight. In addition to being sore, I'm getting stiff. I fall into Lori's chair. I moan and groan when I have to move to the shampoo bowl.

I'm wondering what it will be like getting out of bed tomorrow morning. Maybe I should sleep in a chair. It might be easier to lift my body out of a chair than out of my bed. And Sonia will be here at 8 a.m. sharp to clean. I better set my alarm for 6 a.m. It might take me a while to get up, showered, and dressed. I may get slower before I get faster.

 

JANUARY 16, 2014: ROSE

My friend, Rose, and I are meeting for lunch. She's 75 and such a trooper. She's still fighting the exhaustive fight for a competent mental health system. She's one of three co-authors of California's Prop 63, the Mental Health Services Act.

Disappointed in its implementation, Rose lobbied for an audit by the California State Auditor. The auditor reported that it wasn't possible to determine whether Prop 63 programs had been of benefit to those served, had improved community mental health delivery, or whether programs had complied with the requirements of the law.

In addition to the appalling number of untreated mentally ill, Rose, based on her continuing research, believes eighty percent of those in the system are not receiving adequate care. "Parity," she says, "we still don't have parity for physical and mental health."

"Would you be willing to come speak to my support group? I'm applying for some funding so we can reimburse speakers for their gas and give them a small honorarium for their time."

"Yes, I'll speak to your group."

Rose's husband and son always come up in our conversations. They both ended their struggle with mental illness by suicide. Two grandsons — one is living with her — also deal with the illness. We agree. If all the parents and grandparents housing their mentally ill children and grandchildren were to dump them on the street, there'd be major socio-economic fallout. Our health and welfare programs would be more overwhelmed than they already are. These family members, who've given up on the mental health system, are a hidden, unappreciated population.

I ask about a mutual friend's thirty-something son. County mental health hasn't helped him. He has schizo-affective disorder and is in Napa State Hospital for the seriously mentally ill. Rose says, "He was charged with a crime after he got into a fight with another patient. He spent weeks in the county jail and then was transferred to the 'other side of the wall.' He's in the forensic unit of the hospital under horrible conditions with chains on his legs and wrists. He has a good attorney but the whole process is really outrageous."

I can't imagine what this is like for my friend. My mother-heart shudders for her. We change the subject. We talk about Rose's 75th birthday party. We talk about my mother, my children, and grandchildren. We try to talk about everyday things like average folks. We hug goodbye and remind each other, "Take care of yourself."

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: It's been said that you always get screwed at the drive-through but lately I've been getting screwed every time I buy cottage cheese. Something about it doesn't taste right.
Mark: Sounds like it tastes like cottage cheese.

 

JANUARY 17, 2014: AMERICAN HUSTLE

My friend, Grace, and I are at the movies to see American Hustle. The theater's sold out. We end up sitting in different rows. It's a good movie with good actors - Bradley Cooper, Amy Adams, and Jennifer Lawrence. I'm enthralled watching Jennifer Lawrence. She's 22 or 23 and she's amazing. It will be interesting to see how her acting career progresses.

After the movie, Grace and I buy salads from the deli at Nugget Market. We catch up. Among other things, we talk about Governor Brown's announcement today. "It's official. California's experiencing a severe drought, the worse in 100 years."  

The governor's requesting a 20 percent reduction in water usage. Folsom Reservoir is so short of water that a ghost town, submerged by the lake, has become visible. The American River is at a two-decades low. The water shortage threatens, among other things, California's Central Valley agriculture and the supply of water sent to Southern California.

Water is always political. Ongoing fights continue between Northern and Southern California about water rights. With this drought, water will become even more political. In the hours after Governor Brown's announcement, opponents of fracking repeated their call for a moratorium on the process of extracting oil by using large amounts of water. They called for more water storage and more dam construction.

In the movie this morning, some 1978 congressmen were caught accepting bribes in exchange for supporting private interests. They were sent to prison. My guess is that today, behind the scenes, there's an "American hustle" going on among California's special water interests.

What's that saying? "The more things change, the more they stay the same."

 

JANUARY 18, 2014: SORRY STATE OF MENTAL HEALTH CARE

An email message today from NAMI California is quoting an article in the Wall Street Journal.

"According to the US Department of Health and Human Services, almost 91 million adults live in areas where shortages of mental health professionals make obtaining treatment difficult.

"A departmental report to Congress earlier this year said 55% of the nation's 3,100 counties have no practicing psychiatrists, psychologists or social workers, a combination of budget cuts and doctors leaving the profession.

"Such shortages are expected to grow now, as the federal healthcare law goes into effect and allows more people to seek help. Indeed, according to the National Association of State Mental Health Program Director, some 6.8 million uninsured people with a mental illness will gain coverage after federal and state health insurance exchanges implement the new law.

"More people will be chasing after scarce resources, an influx that will 'overwhelm if not inundate the field,' said Dr. Jeffrey Lieberman, president of the American Psychiatric Association."

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: The cough syrup with codeine the Doc gave me triggers hyper-REM sleep. Very intense dreams.

 

JANUARY 19, 2014: LEARN AND LIVE

This quote appears in an advice column in today's newspaper. "We have two lives. The life we learn with and the life we live with after that."  Bernard Malamud

The writer to the advice columnist signs her letter "Just Sick." She says she lied to her date about using birth control and now she's pregnant. She's in her 40s with no husband and no support. She's realizing she doesn't know how to undo the mess she's made.

The adviser, Carolyn Hax, admonishes "Just Sick." "You've become rudely acquainted with what a bad person you're capable of being. Arguably everyone will, or should, have that awakening over the course of a lifetime — but it's still tough to live with."

Hax advises J. S.  to get therapy to help her use this lesson to become a better person than she was pre-deceit.

When does the life we learn with end, and the life we live with begin after that? My life is like a grocery cart still filling up with assorted mistakes and lessons learned. All the more reason to throw in hefty boxes of humility, cases of compassion, sacks of self-awareness, and cartons of respect for consequences — intended and unintended.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Well, it's officially the marijuana super bowl. Two cities who have legalized marijuana battling it out. The Super Bowl indeed.

 

JANUARY 20, 2014: FOOTBALL

Deanne's giving me my Monday morning workout. She's recapping yesterday's football game between Seattle and San Francisco. She's describing incorrect calls by the referees. Deanne's fit, pretty, and nice. And on top of that, she understands football. How long can I keep liking this woman?

Often, I feel like I'm the only person in the hemisphere who doesn't get football. And what's more, I don't care. Football's messy. Football's mean. People get hurt. President Obama said this week, "If I had a son I wouldn't let him play college football. There's too much risk of serious injury — especially life-changing brain injury."

I'll try to remember that it's the Denver Broncos and the Seattle Seahawks who are headed to the Super Bowl. I'll say, "Isn't it sad about the 49ers losing?"

My phone rings, It's Kerry. I can't resist. I don't say, "Hello." I say, "Isn't it sad about the 49ers losing?"

Kerry's laughing. She knows I don't give a fig about the 49ers. You can fool some of the people some of the time, though. To others I'll say what I read on the internet: "The Seahawks started as the favorite in Vegas, but there was early action and the Broncos, within 30 minutes, became the favorite all over town."

I wonder if Deanne knows this?

 

JANUARY 21, 2014: SNAFU

Megan's entry today on her blog.

SNAFU...Situation Normal All F*ed Up

"When Aidan fell and lost his baby tooth at two, we were told he would have to wait five or six years for the adult tooth to show up. It broke my heart. He was cheated out of his top tooth for the first eight years of his life, and when the tooth finally showed up, it was sideways. SNAFU!

"Curious people always asked what happened to his tooth and it got to be a really old story. I wanted to snap my fingers and give him the straight tooth he deserved as soon as possible. Fortunately, after waiting six years, an orthodontist aligned the sideways tooth in no time and Aidan's missing, then crooked tooth, is a fading memory.

"Unfortunately, it's Ashton's turn to wait. It's been two years since his osteotomy. The surgery was a hopeful attempt to realign his right hip so that the degenerated femoral head could regenerate and put the Legg-Calve-Perthes diagnosis behind him. We were told that the regeneration phase could take two years.

"Ashton's been patient and here we are, two years later. Unfortunately, we now know that the prognosis isn't in his favor. His femoral head didn't regenerate and it's not aligned for proper growth. Ashton will need a hip replacement, but he has to wait. Hip replacements aren't done on a growing child. "Early twenties," they say, "perhaps late teens."

"Ashton is barely 10.

"This sounds like an eternity to me. I imagine ten more years of stiffness, lethargy, limping, and pain for my son. Again, I want to snap my fingers. I want to see a different x-ray. I want to see the one that shows healthy bones on both sides of his pelvis. I want to see him daily tie his shoes, ride his bike, walk the dog, play any sport he desires, and become a young man with a confident gait. But I can't because the SNAFU is right in front of me, in black and white.

"Listening to the orthopedic specialist, I'm heartbroken, but I don't show it because I'm being watched. My 10-year-old son is watching me to determine what this adult conversation means for him. If I cry, his heart will break, too. So I don't. I play the part of the confident mother. The mother who knows that everyone has a SNAFU in their cards. This is Ashton's. This is ours.

"Like it or not. We got this."

I want to hold my daughter. She will hold her son.

 

JANUARY 23, 2014: THE PAPERWORK MONSTER

There's nothing on my calendar today except paperwork. I'm paying my bills and Pat's bills. I'm organizing a 2013 tax file and collecting information to take to an attorney to update my living trust and Mom's living trust. I'm completing the application for funding for the mental illness support group. I'm scheduling my annual physical, Jazzy's annual physical, the heater's annual physical, and an eye exam.

The Jazz is as bored as I am. She's pacing back and forth in front of the computer screen. "Do something," she says. "Get out of that chair."

If I get out of this chair, none of the above will happen. It will get postponed until tomorrow or the next day. It won't go away. I see a scary mass of papers spreading out across my desk. It's the Paperwork Monster. It's big and white with blotches of color, irregular edges, and humps and bumps. I can't spray it, shoot it, drown it, or set it on fire — unless I want to burn the house down at the same time.

If the Paperwork Monster could talk it would say, "I've got you. You might ignore me today, but I'll be back tomorrow. I'll be back tomorrow and tomorrow until you have no tomorrow."

Well, that's a sobering thought. Guess I don't want the Paperwork Monster to disappear completely. Unfortunately, we're symbiotic organisms. This fact, frustrating as it is, gives me a modicum of comfort.

Remember this, Paperwork Monster. When I go, you go.

 

George ClooneyPhoto credit: Timur Gromov/Flickr

George Clooney
Photo credit: Timur Gromov/Flickr

JANUARY 24, 2014: I'M ENGAGED

I'm dreaming and, in my dream, George Clooney's proposing to me. He says, "I know this is the real thing because you have the same placemats as my sister."

I don't remember showing George my placemats. Tis of no consequence. I know this is the real thing, too, because we're on a movie set with lots of actors and crew wandering around. George is proposing in front of all of them. He gives me three engagement gifts.

The first gift is a candy rosebush covered with dark chocolate roses and edible blinking lights.

The second gift is three pair of long, dangly earrings. The first pair has big silver hoops with blue, world globes hanging from them. The second pair has long, wispy, red and green parrots made from real feathers. The third pair resembles snow shoes. Miniature snow shoes. I don't wear long, dangly earrings. But hey, if George were to give me earrings carved from watermelon rind, I'd wear them.

The third gift is enclosed in an expensive gold box. It's a do-it-yourself necklace —  a gold chain with 56 gilded Brazil nuts to string on at my leisure.

We're taking a break on the set. We've about finished filming, but George, as producer, has decided to scrap this screenplay and start over. I give him a copy of my "Manifesto for Mental Health Care Reform." He loves my script. He's making it the centerpiece of the new screenplay. In this story, a determined lady like my friend, Rose, fights for mental illness parity. It's a musical. I'm in the lead role.

In a few minutes, George is taking me to meet his sister. He wants to show me her placemats. Then darn. I wake up.

 

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, JANUARY 25, 2018
January 26, 2014 - February 7, 2014: On To Off * Another Tragedy * A New Wrinkle * Tradition and Heritage * Requests and Success * Damn Freud * Same Old Same Old * "Thanks for Coming In" * When I Was a Child * Staying Grounded * The Young Crowd

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com