Revelation

ONE 

This week has been . . . telling, eye-opening, has had an air of finality. I'm still processing the biggest news of the week and am not ready to speak on it with any sense of , clarity, I guess. But, speak of it, I will. Trust.

In the meantime, know that the new Brin has a name, her own name.  Before, getting into that, allow me to reveal that I'm betwixt and between whether I'm more turned on by piano players or guitarists. This weekend it has been an equal measure of  . . .  heat.

Back to my the new Brin's back and forth re: her name. Considered and tossed were:  >Stella as in the one who got her groove back, Millie as in the thoroughly modern,  Alicia as in Keys, Bonnie as in Raitt, Sharon as in Isbin . . .    and many others, the common thread? Music or something musical, on that are in sync.

Finally, we got down to one caveat, she didn't want a name made famous by someone else, she wanted to forge her own path, so to speak. Given the givens, we then narrowed possible names down to two:

Harmony and
Melody
A coin toss later and the winner (insert arpeggio) is:  M*E*L*O*D*Y

 . . . tune, air, or theme composed of tones arranged in a pleasing succession

*the sketch is the result of spending a good chunk of the weekend trying to tame the jungle we call a yard. The rains created a condition that was bordering . . . well, let's just say, thankfully, the temps were pleasant enough and the rain held off long enough to get some growth trimmed way the heck back.

Extra! Extra!

Kim, Kanye and their baby naming drama magnetized much media this week. I stumbled upon many of the stories strictly by accident. I am as invested in their
not following the K  trend as they are in me, my own name drama, or that which brings me here today: the new Brin.
In these past few days the new Brin's personality has begun to roll forward. She is revealing herself a smooth operator. Some tweaking to her brakes and a new saddle will serve to further enhance the overall riding experience. But so far, so pleased.

Getting to know the new Brin this past week has been enlightening. And while her new identity is not yet solidified a few factors have come to light. 1. she will not Brin, the sequel. 2. She will not be hyphenated. 3. She will not be North West (or East or South).

She is already a treasured and valued member of the team. She is family.

And her name is . . .

. . . emerge!?

The first, the last, the everything.

Six word Saturday.  

O Say Can You See

Brin had to be retired. We missed the naked event again this year, but she was beyond the point of caring.

It's just as well, as we weren't the best fit.

There is a new Brin, though I don't think she'll be called or known as Brin. Her personality has yet to be revealed and so her name awaits.

I can tell you that the entire year while contemplating a new Brin there was much back and forth (in my mind) about the kind of person powered vehicle to acquire.

Mountain, cruiser, hybrid, or . . .  trike. Yes, trike. I will be 53 years old in a few weeks and while in OK physical shape, there are days where those fifty-three years . . . well, let's just say, gliding through the streets with care and ease (never reckless, daredevil like abandon)  is quite the trial. That said, truth be known, I never really seriously considered an adult tricycle. Partly because of storage issues but mainly because, frankly, I'm just not there. Yet.

A couple of weeks ago while out on Brin in what will be known now as our last hurrah, we came across a fellow rider on a contraption  . . . that can best be described as torture on wheels. 

W. T. F. Seriously? Then, I learned that an outfit in town has units available for rent. I repeat, W.T.F.

That expressed, the rider Brin and I saw did seem to be having a wonderful experience. She exhibited a fluidity that was worthy of marvel. However, that mechanical device, not. for. me. any more than a unicycle would be on my list of possibilities.

I chose a mountain bike. Not because I anticipate going off road anytime soon but because the wheels  and frame wide and sturdy and I need wide and sturdy. Plus, some city streets are well, rough.

The new (yet to be named, we'll call her Brin for now) is tricked out with the former <Brin's accessories; basket, lights, and the like and is ready to roll. Hopefully over the next five or so days we'll both get quite the workout and her personality will become clear(er).

In the meantime, marking the calendar for next year's naked ride. Let the training begin.
 

Buzzed

 Before 

 After 

Tired 

Since puppy dawg is scheduled to go under the knife, her thick, curly coat was beyond our expertise, and summer is coming--though, heat doesn't seem to be part of the mix--at least so far, daughter decided a grooming appointment was in order. 

Cinnamon was dropped off Saturday morning at eight and picked up at three in the afternoon. She was reportedly well behaved but quite fidgety. The change is striking. Even her bark is different.

She is confused by the strange dog in the mirror.

Cinnamon's name was inspired by her coat color. But, as she was becoming more blonde than brown (even before the haircut) it is clear, now that her eyes are clearly visible, that she's named for the cinnamon-y color of her soft, "drink me in" eyes.

Lovely.

No Title On Purpose

Pete: Why are you such a suck-up? 

Buttah: Don't hate me because I'm beautiful!  

1.  In other news: my aunt is recovering, albeit slowly, from her stroke. 

2.  My brothers and I are still endeavoring to stay in touch. Granted, we don't have much to say to one another, but we do make the effort even if it is just to say, "hey". 

3.  Vet visit fail: the dog, it turns out, isn't spayed. She's in heat. She will be spayed as soon as possible after her cycle.   

4. I'm not surprised by the hatred spewed over this ad but it angers me none-the-less. Post racial, my ass. That said, the response from the company: Right. On. 

5. The week ahead is going to be a bear, quite possibly unbearable. 

Donning armor. Welcome, June. 

  

Smile

My mother worked in a fish market when I was a teenager. Actually, she worked many a "odd" jobs, trying to make ends meet. We lived in a housing project, were recipients of government assistance, and got second (or more) hand clothes long before is was cool to be retro or the even cooler, vintage.

Ends never met.

Still, she loved working in the fish market because she got to meet and talk to people. Most of the neighborhood poured through that market at one point or another and she was in her element. Smiling, talking, doing her thing. She even became quite adept at catching, conking, skinning, and gutting, the live catfish that were the market's big draw.

The job didn't last long because none of them did for a plethora of reasons. But, what I have taken away from those fish market days (besides the vivid memory of the first time seeing her kill her first catfish) is the smile she wore. While not an easy time by any stretch of the imagination, my mother took pride in doing what she could to provide for my brothers and me and she loved people. She could (and would) talk to anybody.

Tomorrow is my mother's birthday, she would have been seventy-three. I found this song among her possessions but didn't listen to it until today. I know she is smiling.

Happy Birthday Mom.

♥ ♥ ♥

Dream A Little Dream

She was in white; turban, tunic, and long-ish skirt. The sofa upon which I was laying was also white. Not leather, for which part of me was grateful . . . I think.

I don't know why the white or the turban, for that matter. I don't know why I was there laying upon the white (not leather) sofa with her hovering over me blinding me with her incredibly white teeth or why I only remember this part of the dream . . .

. . . (she) is my best friend from high school. She was also my first crush, my twice married, multiple child having, grandmother thrice over . . she was saying (over and over) that she thinks she'd like to "try" being with a woman and would I be "down" for that.

Blinding. White. Teeth (and turban, tunic, long-ish skirt--not to mention, sofa). Well, shit.

She went on to babble about taking time to work up the nerve to ask me here (after we hadn't spoken in years) to say these things to me . . . that I was attractive (enough) and "safe" since I had already come out as a lesbian. She didn't want to approach any other friend or worse, a stranger. . . she couldn't risk her husband (or kids or grandkids) finding out about . . . anything.

She was sure. She wasn't leaving her life. She didn't want to date. She just wanted . . .

a taste.

Before she was done with her spiel and before I could respond I found myself being hustled out the back door as her husband was charging into the front, through the rooms, into the kitchen. Rooted to my place on the porch I heard pieces of an argument, not related to our conversation . . . well, her monologue. The crack which sounded like a fist connecting with a jaw . . .

woke. me. up.

Alive. Awake.

Jolted. Awake. After fitfully sleeping the entire night. Six AM on a Saturday. That, in and of itself, isn't unusual. The jolting . . . not the norm.

She was there. In my dream. The part I remember, anyway. There, with me . . . alive.

We were at a gathering with family. Her sisters and brother, my cousins, and all. It was present-day, but not . . . somehow.

She was there, with me . . . alive. But, my son and daughter were not. Other family was there beating me up (verbally) for faking her death.

She was there, with me,  alive and telling them it wasn't my fault, that I was only doing what she asked.

They didn't care. The loved on her and beat up on me. How. Dare. I. . . .

The gathering turned out to be a funeral. Soon, all were shushed as the services were about to begin. Why my not dead mother, me, and most of the rest of my family seemed to be the only mourners at Malcom X's funeral  . . well, shit if I know.  

But, she was there, with me . . . alive. Jolting. Me. Awake.

That's Alright

Just some randomness because I pulling it all together to write, like for real? Not all there, yet. But, "That's Alright". 

1. The story out of Cleveland  makes me ill. And sad. And mad. And then, ill again. 

2. A cousin sends me text messages from time to time. Not, "hey, how are you? or thinking about you." But, "God" notes, blessings prayers and the like. I'm not a believer and while her sister knows, I haven't made my non-believing status common knowledge among the rest of the clan. It's okay though, I appreciate her taking the time to, in her own way, say, "hey". 

3. There was a fire in my building a few weeks ago. I wasn't home but the actor was. He called me at work to say he had to evacuate due to the FIRE What? The What?  My mind spun with questions with no immediate answers.  

4. The fire was contained to a single room in a unit two floors away. It turned out okay for us, but some pretty frantic moments for a time. The family from the burned unit (contained to a single room) moved out and hasn't returned except the check mail and the like. New questions, no answers. 

5. That event was the second time there was a fire in a building I lived in. Neither in my apartment. Both due to an upstairs neighbor's carelessness.  

6. Being burned out is second of my worst fears / nightmares. 

7. The first: Drowning.   

8. A couple weeks after my mother died, her younger sister had a stroke. She was released from the hospital after a few days, two in intensive care to continue therapy toward finding her way back to her . . . self. 

9.  The actor is a play. Two, in fact. A rep. The first opens for previews tomorrow. As usual, the stories he relates during the rehearsal process are an entertaining prelude to the productions. I'm excited. 

10. Tar Baby is today's word.  By the time I became acquainted with the word it had taken on the racial overtones noted in the article.  Tar baby was one of the many derisive nicknames I wore as a kid, contributing to me loathing my dark skinned self, feeling ugly and like sister outsider. I've long sense come to terms with my hue, but colorism remains an issue within our communities and the nation at large. For that reason and more I am loving this song. 

Until next time, Peace.

She

A friend's status update: Some weeks just kick my ass . . .

  And I agree. Some weeks kick asses...all over this land. These have been two such weeks for me. This ass-kicking week has resulted in  a two martini, skip the Condo board meeting, relax in my socks and undies (the actor is out) kind of Friday night. And while my ass is thoroughly kicked on this day, well into this night, I am bolstered by this new find:

She. Don't. Stop.  

A special shout out to friends who check in, check on me. Your words lift me up so very much. ♥ 

I Can Feel You Breathe

. . . grief pushes all emotions to the surface and leaves you helpless to their whims.*

The only good thing (if there IS such a thing) about being in the throes of grieving is that my head is too waddle bummed to be front and center with current events. While I can appreciate the import of this time in OUR (marriage equality / courting supremely) lives, I just can't participate, can't even get excited, not really.  Though trying, really. 

  

Beyond the grief, there is the realization that I have to find another job. I cannot continue to work they have I have been working for the past several years. Enough is enough. Resolved, but still . . . 

daunting 

*Wendy Hornsby 

Train Tripping

Being trapped in a confined environment can turn an ordinary experience into a powder keg. Write about a thing that happened to you while you were using transportation: from your first school bus ride, to a train or plane, to being in the backseat of a car on a family road trip

Not a commute day goes by when there isn't something to talk, write about on the trains and / or buses. Not. One. As a lifelong user of public transportation I pretty much take it in stride that I will encounter a seat hogger, gambler, solicitor (that is to say, I'm homeless and hungry or an ex-con looking for help to get a let up) a thief (smartphones favorite target these days) a nose and / or zit picker   , a sneezer and / or wheezer, a snorer, a very loud talker, and let us not forget the folks who blast their listening pleasures beyond their inadequate ear buds, plus a few working stills like myself who just want to get to work and back home again relatively unscathed by the public transportation experience. 

Given that I work in and live very near a sprawling metropolis with a sometimes celebrated public transportation system I haven't ever worried about getting from here to there, just about what I would encounter on the journey. 

That is, until that day.  

Well, actually two days.

The first: I was a teenager, a high school senior. One of my after school activities met downtown once or twice a week. On one of these days, I was wrapping up my story (I worked for a city-wide, student newspaper) putting it to bed, trying to hurry as I wanted (needed) to get by to my neighborhood before it was too late, too dark.  

I had everything done, was saying my good-byes while putting on my coat, grabbing my bag when Hattie yelled, "hey, wait a minute!" Oh shit, Hattie talks a mile a minute for 45,000 hours. But, she's my home-girl, so I had to wait. And listen. For days. 

Not long after Hattie started talking I took note of the train I would have caught, rolled past the window. (The windows of the office the newspaper used were at eye-level to the elevated tracks). And shortly after that there was a large screech, a flash of light, and noises associated with crashing. Oh. shit. 

The train derailed at the turn that is just beyond the building we were in. Just out of our line of sight. But we heard it. I heard it. And when I went outside, I saw it. One of the cars was hanging over the side. Oh. shit. 
there were injuries but no one was killed. And while the rail services weren't out of commission for very long, it took a very long time for me to get back on the elevated trains. And longer still to be somewhat comfortable. I still don't like the turns. 

I don't think I ever thanked Hattie. So, Thank YOU Hattie. 

The second: Chicago is known as, "The Windy City" which, if you believe the lore, doesn't have anything at all to do with wind velocity in our fair city. Oh sure, Chicago is nestled on the bank of Lake Michigan and that prime real estate may explain some of the windiness, but Chicago is not significantly windier than any other city. 

Still, Chicago is privy to the weather patterns just like any other place in the world. And on one particularly windy day, I found myself trapped on an elevated train, short of the station by too many feet to even consider the posted evacuation plan. At least in my view. I could have been inches from the station platform, but there was no way I was going to (willingly) exit that train care, walk along the electrified (3rd rail only, but still) tracks, and climb a ladder to safety. 

Elevated. I don't know how many feet the tracks are elevated over the street, but enough to have buses and semis ride underneath them. Oh, hell NO! It is a marvel that I can even get ON the train, but as I say, life long user. I was using the elevated train system before I knew enough to be afraid of heights. And, I'm no so much afraid of heights as I am afraid of falling down from a great height. Or even, not so great. 

Well, I was trapped on a train because the train had been stalled by debris blown by the great and powerful windy city wind onto the tracks. The conductor ran over a plastic trash can that, once blown onto the tracks, run over by the conductor, had become lodged in such a way that the train couldn't move, which meant we couldn't move. 

The train (7 cars long) was full of 5 P.M. commuters. All anxious to get home. Mom's who needed to get kids from daycare, dad's who were trying not to miss another (insert kid event of your choice) students who were eager to get home to get started on . . . whatever. Everybody who just wanted to be DONE with the day!! 

It didn't take long (2 minutes, tops) of being stalled before folks started huffing, puffing, and WHAT THE F*CKING!! Goddamn C T to the F*CKING A!!! Folks lost their shit. I had a book to read (I almost always do) so I wasn't so. . so. . quick to flip. What concerned me more than the non-movement was the possibility that we might have to evacuate. THAT, had me sweating through my cotton briefs. 

Well, we didn't have to evacuate. We were stalled and stranded on that train for about twenty minutes. It was an odd experience, seeing the meltdown of so many people. Even after it was known WHY the train wasn't moving (for that had been the biggest gripe--the why) folks still were . . losing their shit. Stupid wind. Stupid plastic trash can. Stupid conductor. . . ding. ding. ding. All manner of abuse and vitriol was heaped upon the conductor who probably couldn't avoid running over the plastic trash can. 

Probably. He was shaken enough by the events of the evening that he had to be taken away by paramedics. The last five minutes of stalled time was waiting for his replacement to take us all to our respective stops.  

I bring several things away from that day, but the one thing that sticks with me the most: the train stalled and was stranded a mere 3 stations from my destination. 

Like being delayed, by Hattie, so close, so close. 

  



   


   

Scintilla Project: Day 2 Liar Liar

Remember the Petula Clark song, "Downtown"? When you're alone and life is making you lonely, You can always go--downtown. When you've got worries all the noise and the hurry seems to help I know--downtown.  

When I was a girl, DOWNTOWN Chicago was so full of wonder and suspense. It was one of the of the many out-of-neighborhood destinations we were forbidden to go alone. Yet, we ( me, my brothers, and our friends)  planned and took field trips to the downtown movie theaters and the lakefront (beaches) every chance we got. 

One of the chances happened the summer of my twelfth birthday. 

My brothers and I hatched a plan. Our mother had to work and we decided we'd blow off some summertime steam downtown. I used the occasion to dress (like a girl) for a change. Except, I didn't, in my opinion,  have any pretty shoes.  

My mother had very pretty shoes. White sandals. With heels. 

Of course, I was forbidden to wear my mother's white sandals with heels. 

I take my time and dress very carefully. My brothers are huffing and puffing, anxious to get going, wanting me to hurry up. The finished product was well worth the effort, in my opinion. I looked pretty cute. 

DOWNTOWN.  

There weren't lights because it was daytime. But the adventure felt like bright lights, big city. This was one of the few times that my brothers and I got along. We were laughing, talking, walking, munching, and have a grand time. On our final trek along the lakefront we were walking pretty close to the lakefront when . . . 

 . . . the heel off one of the pretty white sandals popped off. Into the lake. 

Panic. Scramble. Panic. 

The heel floated farther and farther out, well out of reach. 

Back toward home, dejected, one heel less. 

Trying to come up with a plausible tale, not so much about being downtown--we'd worked that part out, but the shoes, the pretty white sandals with heels, that was on me.  And all  I could come up with was: hide the shoes.

And then, deny. deny. deny. "No, I haven't seen those shoes." 

My brothers never ratted me out. 

The mystery of the missing pretty, white sandals with heels lived on and on. 

And yes, if I could tell my mother the truth today, I would. 

Scintilla Project

Not the Same Old Song *

Mem'ries, like the corners of my mind, misty water-colored mem'ries . . .

Deep inside the recesses of my mind is what was playing on the radio during my first solo road trip. Gosh darn it if I could dredge it up now even if my life depended on it. The music I remember during that trip, beyond the rattling of my nervous energy, was the song of sweet flirtation. 

We'd met on-line just a few weeks (maybe a couple) prior to my trip. We emailed furiously every day after the initial meet. Somewhere around day 5 we exchanged phone numbers. Emails turned into text messages which turned into phone calls.

During the eight or so hour drive to Memphis we spoke twice, perhaps thrice. So charming was her accent, a mix of nearly native Tennessean, by way of the west coast, by way of Europe. What was said during these calls? Couldn't tell you. What I remember is how the timbre of her laughter and deceptive cadence soothed and thrilled me for the next leg(s) of the trip. 

Excited to meet the ladies from Texas? No doubt, but fueling that trip, beyond all the firsts...was the flirt and the sweetness of that sound. 

It changed me. She changed me. 

Mem'ries, like the corners or my mind, misty water-colored mem'ries . . . 

*Scintilla Prompt (Friday)  Thursday and Saturday. . . thinking. Loving the challenge, the sharing, the stories. 



            

A Grown Up Party

 . . . a welcome diversion *

It was February 1977, a few months from high school graduation and a month after that, my seventeenth birthday. I got off work, drove home in my new used Maverick, and jumped in the shower. I donned my best slacks, my preppiest shirt, and my best . . . okay, my only pair of dancing shoes. I was going to a party. 

A grown up party. 

You must understand, I was not the most social of creatures growing up; truth be told, am only a trace more so today, but that is another story. I was not pretty nor particularly athletic. Don't let the high school tennis team fool you. That folly was due to tennis star (Billy Jean and Chrissy) crushes. I was a  geeky, glasses wearing, middle child, dark skinned,  all kind of wrong kind of girl growing up. So no, not the most social of creatures. . 

But Velda liked me, took me under her wing, as it were. She was five years my senior. Her mom and my mom were some kind of friends. I thought of Velda as more of a big sister than friend. Well, even more than friend, in my mind, anyway. She liked me enough to invite me to her birthday party that February. 

A grown up party. 

The many hours I'd spent in Velda's apartment prior to party night hadn't prepared me for the sight of strobe and black lights, beads and baubles hanging from the rafters, all the food and drink. Lots and Lots and Lots of stuff to drink. Drinking, like the Maverick, was new to me. Yes, I know, I had no business, but there it was . . me wanting to feel like a grown up and more than that, me wanting to feel like something, someone other than me. 

So, I had rum with cola. And then another. And then . . . too many more later, it was time to go. Was I okay to drive home? "Sure!" I walked a straight line, relatively up-right and was allowed to go down the two flights of stairs, into the cold, cold, February night, nearly morning. I was somehow able to maneuver the key into the lock. I was somehow able to position myself inside my new used Maverick. I was somehow able to fit the key into the ignition. 

And then I passed out.

Some hours later (morning had broken) Velda's significant other, James tapped on the window startling me awake. I was coaxed out of the car with only slightly less precision in play while getting in the car. James invited me to lean against his massive hulk while he lead me back to the  beads and baubles, and Velda's warm embrace. (Okay, that part was a dream). There was conversation between them, hell if I can remember what was said. Long story short, I was invited to (finish) sleeping it off on the sofa. 

An offer I stayed on my feet just barely long enough to accept. 

My first grown up party. 

My first (AND LAST for many, many years) drunk out of my gourd event. 

A long nap and a late lunch of sliders and fries later, me and my new used Maverick made our way back to the place I never called home. 



*Scintilla Project 

Checking In

Dear friends,

Thank you so much for checking in with me and your continued and generous support. I am, in a word, tired. I am many other things too. But the tiredness is pervasive. The tiredness is threatening to consume me. Some days, the tiredness thwarts my progress and messes with my mind.  

Thwart progressing and mind messing are not options for there is a shit-load of stuff to get done.

The business of taking care of my mother's business is, in a word . . . 

don't even have a word. From clearing out the apartment, to purging papers, sorting memorabilia, making (and receiving) calls, writing notes, filling out forms, and . . . remembering, re-living those< moments. 

If there is a word that describes the last three weeks it is . . .   

Surreal. 

These last three weeks and all that they have entailed have felt out-of-body-ish, just not right, not me, not what I should be doing or what is supposed to be happening. 

But it is real. It is happening and it all is so very. . . 

tiring. 

Still, in the face of all that feels surreal, that is which is making me oh, so very tired,  I am putting one foot in front of the other, doing the hokey-pokey and turning myself around. 

'Cause that's what it is all about. 

Or am I mistaken? 

Every Breath Taken

It has been mentioned in this space that we had, at times, a fractured relationship. Yes, there was some discord from time to time. But she loved me (and my brothers) fiercely and depended on me mightily.

And I love her. I did (and will continue) to do what I can to honor her wishes and embody her vision with regard to commitment to community and family.

My mother took her final breath Feb. 18, 2013, 7:14 p.m. After all the laboring and uphill battles she finally, simply heaved a final sigh of release and went to sleep.

I was with her virtually every minute of her last day.  I trust that I was able to assure her that we were all okay that it was okay  for her to leave us, that we all would be fine.

I don't have the where-with-all to speak on the last several days and all that had transpired. I may not be able to expound fully, ever. But for now, please know that her being and leaving has left an imprint.

My brothers and I gathered for a meal Tuesday evening, our last before older brother returns home to Austin, TX Wednesday afternoon. After some conversation we each committed to working toward burying the dysfunction that has defined our existence for the past few decades.

I know it won't change overnight but it is comforting to have heard the notes to a song Mother had been singing for a long, long time.

Rest in Peace, mother dear. I am so honored to have been your voice when you needed it most. I am so pleased we were able to mend our fences and share some meaningful times in these last few weeks.

Thank You for your unabashed show of strength, courage, and compassion.

And thank you all for the words of support, expressions of love, encouragement, and more. My heart is very much warmed by your generous spirits.


♥ ♥ ♥

Weak(en)ed Update

February 13th 2013 was to have been the first appointment with the oncologist (since the diagnosis). The first treatment.  It was my goal to get answers to questions, an understanding of the plan for attack, and some sense of assurance . . .

But we never made it to the appointment. I arrived at mom's very early that Wednesday morning to find her weak, barely responsive,                                  
                                                   
and just . .  worn.

It didn't take long to realize another trip to the ER was in our very immediate future. The paramedics arrived within moments of the 911 call and she was in the ER within moments after that. And several moments into that visit, mom declared loud and clear, no more!

No more tests. No treatment for the infection, whatever the cause. No chemo.

Nothing.

Several (hundred) thousand anguished moments later, transportation to hospice care was arranged.

And that is where she is today. Tired, but comfortable and content.

Ready.

The mass, I am told (now) is (very) large.

Mom was (apparently) sparring with herself to find out if there was any extrafight present to  partner with the fibromyalgia, osteo-arthritis, and other battles already in the ring. On that early Wednesday morning when she was too weak to stand, unable to tend to her most basic need, and became overwhelmed by the smallest of details, the internal sparring came to an end.

 NO  MORE!

Coherent. Cogent. Convinced.

Nourishment, oxygen, and a drug to help the labored breathing (so she can rest) . . . comfort care has been the order of the last few days.

My older brother will arrive soon.

  

taking the deepest breath

Yesterday was my son's thirty-first birthday.  I was prepared to post poetic about the thirty-one-derful reasons why I not only love him, but like him So SO SO much.

But yesterday was also the day I learned that my mother has lung cancer and that she's been sitting on this news for a few weeks.

waiting to exhale