A few more days left, then, another change.
I'm not sure Sophie is up to it...she's settled in nicely here at Cassidy's place. After a month here, she may not want to leave her new best friend, Daisy, even if Cassidy did re-name her 'Peaches'. Sophie, not Daisy. In retaliation, I've taken to calling Daisy 'Marmalade'....and, like Peac--I mean, Sophie...she ignores both names if it suits her.
I'm mostly packed...a few more things to sort into boxes and bins and to decide what to keep out for my last months here. My new place is in an amazing part of town--I can't wait to explore it to the fullest. The summer looms ahead, another choice to be made...and a new chapter, once again.
I want to see as many shows as I can afford while I'm still here. I am going to the MCC Theater next week to catch one, a play with a great plot and good actors. There are a few more that call me, including 'Wicked', which I've yearned to see for years and have never managed to catch--even with 'Defying Gravity' as my ringtone on my phone.
I need to make it to see SortaMom before I go, to catch lunch with Mark, to make sure Peggy has another weekend here in NYC...one where we can feel free to laugh and joke and not worry about another person's glowering to put a cap on our fun.
I'll have Nathan back in town for a few days next week, a small film role I've been cast in and the joy of Spring in New York. Flip-flops, tshirts and, for me, a baseball cap to shield my bald head. I look forward to those days.
I can do this. I'm nothing if not resilient (my landlady pointed out she admired my resiliency, and thanked me for being so flexible and kind in the current situation, considering I was forced into a place I didn't want to be by an immovable will...we are parting on good terms), and, after I take a deep breath and absorb it all, I'll be fine.
I will miss the '2' train for one reason--the perpetual begger. She's been on that line for years, I first saw/heard her three years ago, and she still had the same spiel when I saw her recently going downtown... the italics are my inner monologue;
"Hello everyone. I hate to disturb you no, you don't, but the word but negates all that is said before it I am a poor widow with two children who need food and clothing. Won't you help?"
Two men opened their wallets, as a young black man raised his voice to announce she was a scam, he'd seen her before. The men ignored his words, and, as the begger walked past him, she smirked and said, "God bless you!"
On the way back uptown, there she was again! Same words, same sad look...and again, men opened their wallets. So, I stood up in the aisle of the half full car.
"Um, you were just doing this same stuff a few hours ago, AND, I've heard you doing this for years, you just changed your train line."
She stopped, stared....and tried to get her audience back, "....my children need medicine, food, and we have to rely on oth..."
"Hold on. You have small children?"
"Yes."
"So, who is watching them while you are out here?"
"Um, a friend."
"Do you pay her?"
"She is kind enough to do it for fre..."
"Why haven't you gone to a food bank? There is a great one on (and I listed a few addresses), plus, they'll help you with child care, clothing and a place to live."
"Well, I can't leave my kids alon..."
"Bring them with you! And, Macy's is hiring--with benefits!" (cheery smile)
"SO, LADIES AND GENTL..."
"If I may interject, don't give her a dime. She's a pro." Men put their wallets away, she was glaring by that time.
"Look, sweetie, if you want to beg instead of work...beg. But, don't use kids to get more money. That's just beyond wrong. I'll bet you make far more than the bulk of us on this train by peddling your lies. If you really want to work the trains, entertain me. Sing, play a comb and tissue paper, do SOMEthing....I'll hand over a hard earned dollar then. Otherwise, you need to STFU."
She left among a spattering of applause. I'm not sure if I was listened to because I was a middle aged white woman instead of a young black man, but, I was listened to...and that is what counts.
Yep, I'll miss the begger on the 2 train...
....I don't think she'll miss me.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
SS Quin
I am having a difficult time resigning myself to my life right now.
Yes, I am still in New York, a city I love and love being part of...yes, I found a place to live for the next couple of months--more than I expected to spend, but, with a budget, I can afford to live there....yes, I still have Sophie, and she is answering to her name again.
I feel adrift.
There is nothing to really hold me down in one place or another--don't get me wrong, I miss my children and the little ones very much, and I look forward to seeing them again. It is a sense of not belonging anywhere, a sense of not feeling connected to any person, a sense of longing for something--and I don't know what that something is or could be or if it will show up.
I do not feel a failure--I do feel I've failed in some things in life. I could have been a better wife, a better mother, a better friend, a better child...I wasn't. There are times I feel I'm dancing as fast as I can, and there is no one to watch no one to care.
I yearn for the knowledge someone holds me as beloved. A knowledge that person doesn't exist, and I can do nothing to change that fact.
There are times I feel I could close my eyes and not wake up and be okay with that event. No, I've no desire to make that happen--it is simply the understanding I feel adrift.
And there isn't a dock in sight.
Yes, I am still in New York, a city I love and love being part of...yes, I found a place to live for the next couple of months--more than I expected to spend, but, with a budget, I can afford to live there....yes, I still have Sophie, and she is answering to her name again.
I feel adrift.
There is nothing to really hold me down in one place or another--don't get me wrong, I miss my children and the little ones very much, and I look forward to seeing them again. It is a sense of not belonging anywhere, a sense of not feeling connected to any person, a sense of longing for something--and I don't know what that something is or could be or if it will show up.
I do not feel a failure--I do feel I've failed in some things in life. I could have been a better wife, a better mother, a better friend, a better child...I wasn't. There are times I feel I'm dancing as fast as I can, and there is no one to watch no one to care.
I yearn for the knowledge someone holds me as beloved. A knowledge that person doesn't exist, and I can do nothing to change that fact.
There are times I feel I could close my eyes and not wake up and be okay with that event. No, I've no desire to make that happen--it is simply the understanding I feel adrift.
And there isn't a dock in sight.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
New York State of Mind
I totally believe you are either a New Yorker or you aren't.
It doesn't matter if you were born here...what matters is (to quote Billy Joel) The New York State of Mind. It's something that occurs the moment you set foot here, whether visiting or starting university or driving through--you have it or you don't.
The first time I came here long ago, I knew. Sure, I was on a holiday of sorts--the ex and I were to be guests on Phil Donahue--and we'd been flown out. I knew. I knew I'd end up here, I just wasn't sure how or when. My ex worried his pocket would be picked when we rode the train the first time...I worried I'd not see enough people to marvel at when we did. I still recall the woman who chatted away with me until her stop...as she left, she turned and said, "Twenty years on this train and you are the first time I've spoken to anyone." I hope she continued chatting from then on when she traveled back and forth.
Forward to a few years ago, and the move was made. I've never regretted a moment of any of my time in New York, in spite of low times and odd people and worries about everything from money to health. It makes me feel whole. I feed on the energy and occasionally still cry when I see the skyline at dusk, brilliant against a darkening sky.
Being a New Yorker isn't just knowing the train lines--hearing a tourist say they need to go somewhere, and automatically knowing where they have to transfer, which train goes where. It's not even working here or having an apartment. It's this thing inside, it's a pulse...a knowledge you are part of a place that is unique in it's sameness of every big city. It's knowing how to live on a shoestring budget--of living in a walk up or a sublet or a studio apartment...and, if you are a well versed New Yorker, you've done all three--often at the same time. It is working hard at one or two jobs at once....it's living off cheap food, not dining out every night. It's the appreciation of the streets and the dialects and the rivers and the bums and the people who merge with you on the train and the sidewalks. It is the cacophony of cars and music and sirens that lull you to sleep at night. It is the almost overwhelming brilliance of neon in Times Square when you walk out of the train station. It is knowing that two sugars in a coffee will be heaping spoonfuls. That the best coffee is found in a cart early in the morning, when you dash balancing the cup, your bag and an umbrella into the station, your metrocard held in your teeth. It is telling a tourist the best way to see Lady Liberty is by riding the Staten Island Ferry. It is knowing each neighborhood by it's scent--Chinatown with the sharp smell of spices, SoHo and 5th Ave by the smell of money. Being a New Yorker is one of two groups, really--those who live plush and those who scurry and dash and live in a whirl of life.
I'd love to have some great job where I have benefits and not have to worry about rent or if I'll eat by the end of the month. I'd love to have a doorman apartment with an elevator and be terribly smug. I'd love to eat what I want, not what I can afford. With that said, I'm happier with my jobs that allow me to meet people I'd never meet otherwise. I don't pretend I'm setting trends or that my coolness factor must be announced to all. I'm content with my small apartments and my subletting and my occasional walk-up. Sure, I'll miss an elevator, but, not enough to sell out for another one.
I like stopping by food carts and chatting and having the vendor put extra salad on my plate because he likes my smile. I enjoy every train trip, every walk on the street, every person I see or talk to on those trains or those sidewalks. I wear my rain boots bought in a shop where I bargained the price down. I enjoy my pieces of furniture snagged from the curb or in a moving sale. I participate in events in my city, visit museums, welcome friends and family with open arms to enjoy all of this with me. I take pride in the fact very few people I interact with here don't believe it when I say I wasn't born here, because my vibe is New York.
I am, indeed, a New Yorker. My body wasn't born here, my spirit was. I suspect I'll be back and forth here for the rest of my life, relishing every second I am in the city limits. Be it Brooklyn or Harlem or the Bronx or Manhattan or even Staten Island--I dwell in a New York State of Mind.
Come see me here--you'll love it.
It doesn't matter if you were born here...what matters is (to quote Billy Joel) The New York State of Mind. It's something that occurs the moment you set foot here, whether visiting or starting university or driving through--you have it or you don't.
The first time I came here long ago, I knew. Sure, I was on a holiday of sorts--the ex and I were to be guests on Phil Donahue--and we'd been flown out. I knew. I knew I'd end up here, I just wasn't sure how or when. My ex worried his pocket would be picked when we rode the train the first time...I worried I'd not see enough people to marvel at when we did. I still recall the woman who chatted away with me until her stop...as she left, she turned and said, "Twenty years on this train and you are the first time I've spoken to anyone." I hope she continued chatting from then on when she traveled back and forth.
Forward to a few years ago, and the move was made. I've never regretted a moment of any of my time in New York, in spite of low times and odd people and worries about everything from money to health. It makes me feel whole. I feed on the energy and occasionally still cry when I see the skyline at dusk, brilliant against a darkening sky.
Being a New Yorker isn't just knowing the train lines--hearing a tourist say they need to go somewhere, and automatically knowing where they have to transfer, which train goes where. It's not even working here or having an apartment. It's this thing inside, it's a pulse...a knowledge you are part of a place that is unique in it's sameness of every big city. It's knowing how to live on a shoestring budget--of living in a walk up or a sublet or a studio apartment...and, if you are a well versed New Yorker, you've done all three--often at the same time. It is working hard at one or two jobs at once....it's living off cheap food, not dining out every night. It's the appreciation of the streets and the dialects and the rivers and the bums and the people who merge with you on the train and the sidewalks. It is the cacophony of cars and music and sirens that lull you to sleep at night. It is the almost overwhelming brilliance of neon in Times Square when you walk out of the train station. It is knowing that two sugars in a coffee will be heaping spoonfuls. That the best coffee is found in a cart early in the morning, when you dash balancing the cup, your bag and an umbrella into the station, your metrocard held in your teeth. It is telling a tourist the best way to see Lady Liberty is by riding the Staten Island Ferry. It is knowing each neighborhood by it's scent--Chinatown with the sharp smell of spices, SoHo and 5th Ave by the smell of money. Being a New Yorker is one of two groups, really--those who live plush and those who scurry and dash and live in a whirl of life.
I'd love to have some great job where I have benefits and not have to worry about rent or if I'll eat by the end of the month. I'd love to have a doorman apartment with an elevator and be terribly smug. I'd love to eat what I want, not what I can afford. With that said, I'm happier with my jobs that allow me to meet people I'd never meet otherwise. I don't pretend I'm setting trends or that my coolness factor must be announced to all. I'm content with my small apartments and my subletting and my occasional walk-up. Sure, I'll miss an elevator, but, not enough to sell out for another one.
I like stopping by food carts and chatting and having the vendor put extra salad on my plate because he likes my smile. I enjoy every train trip, every walk on the street, every person I see or talk to on those trains or those sidewalks. I wear my rain boots bought in a shop where I bargained the price down. I enjoy my pieces of furniture snagged from the curb or in a moving sale. I participate in events in my city, visit museums, welcome friends and family with open arms to enjoy all of this with me. I take pride in the fact very few people I interact with here don't believe it when I say I wasn't born here, because my vibe is New York.
I am, indeed, a New Yorker. My body wasn't born here, my spirit was. I suspect I'll be back and forth here for the rest of my life, relishing every second I am in the city limits. Be it Brooklyn or Harlem or the Bronx or Manhattan or even Staten Island--I dwell in a New York State of Mind.
Come see me here--you'll love it.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Sometimes, the Universe Reminds You
The last six weeks have been pretty horrific.
Suddenly, I found myself in a war of which I wanted no part. I am the first to say I am difficult at times, my various quirks and such can make me edgy or emotional. I do my best to control it all, take my meds, and believe I will work my way through those rough spots.
After almost three months of two jobs, a cold that developed into bronchitis and laryngitis and then full fledged pneumonia (no insurance. yay!), leaving me sick and weak and in tears at times, I finally, finally started feeling myself for the first time since I'd moved back to NYC. I had my friends, people I enjoyed, the upcoming visit to my family in Silverstone--all of that kept my days light, in spite of a fairly rough job. I wasn't always cheery after 16 hours of work and long commutes and being kept awake by my constant coughing, the pain in my chest.
Suddenly, there came accusations and unkind words and complete defamation of character--I was told I was untrustworthy, stupid, unemployable, a "...sitcom with no laugh track", an emotional fuckup. And, those where the nicer things said. This was presented to me by someone who revels in the fact they create their own chaos--I guess creating your own chaos negates you from having to accept responsibility for the lives you fuck up in that creation.
I've dealt with someone who isn't a nice person--not an asshole as they claim to be proud of being--an asshole is interesting, this person? Not so much. The vast daily consumption of hard alcohol contributes to the version of the world they live in, where they are never wrong, never have to make amends, never have to say "Sorry" when an accusation is proved unfounded and incorrect. It's not something I can continue with in my life, the narcissism, the conversations held that were monologues of their life--laughing admittance of how a certain 'friend' had been written about in a 'fictional piece''--in spite of direct quotes from that friend's blog--because they were a tease and a cunt. When confronted by the written about friend, the entire story bragged about as being based on the 'friend' was put down to 'coincidence', and the 'friend' was just paranoid. There were the many times of insisted upon sharing of details on visits to masseuse who offered more than a back-rub... and how they allowed a grope and squeeze for a bigger tip. Wait. What? How is this something you brag about? That you take advantage of women who, more than likely, are in debt to the person who brought them to this country. Whom, I am sure, don't exactly find their work a place that they are proud of in any way, shape or form. I cringed when details on a 'sexting' session were given out...even though this woman, too, was given the cunt label. Misogynist comments to say the least. I was told my 'energy' was stopping their 'mojo'--mojo? Huh??? I'm stopping you from dating? Good grief. I was suddenly in my own personal 'Gaslight' film. My wrong in all of this was not saying, "You need to be quiet, and not tell me any of that." I didn't. Decision made, consequence given. I accept my part in this.
I've had things said about me in print and in person that are so very, very incorrect....that are pure lies. I guess it comes to the throw enough mud, and with luck, some will stick. I don't understand this mindset, this behaviour.
Being in Silverstone with Loo and MB and EH and the delightful group of family ad friends there helped me a great deal in recovering my sense of self. Being surrounded by love and friendship and truthfulness gave me strength. Friends contacting me offering things that I worried about being able to provide--all of this has shored my self esteem. It allows me to regret how I dealt with some of my decisions, it allows me to know I'm not the low lying fucktard I was being told I was... I gained my perspective back. Conversations with a dear friend who is also a specialist in rehabs allowed me to face the sad fact I was, indeed, dealing with an alcoholic (self admitted one) and their not so clear version of the world. People who are abusive, find glee in creating problems, avoid every shitpile they create, and who are generally unhappy individuals with emotional gaps in their lives.
The last piece of my wall of love came from Amanda Barnes. She was interviewed and featured in Women Today. I read her interview with great pleasure--she is one of the most interesting people I know, and, like Loo--a sister of my heart.
When asked who she was inspired by in life, she said it was....
....me.
She said I was her personal cheer-leader and her description of me as loyal and honest and that everyone needs a me in their life... that I was someone who would push you to be all you could be, and have your back every step of the way.
Added to the comment by HRH that people like me put the 'humane' into 'humanity' and that she is proud of me... me! These women make me who I am... they are the reason I can shut the door on a friendship that bore not a single resemblance to the definition of friend, to accept my part in this and realise regardless of what I did, the outcome would not have changed because of the immovable object I am dealing with currently.
I always say that friends are family of your heart, and both heart and blood family keep you honest, keep you sane, keep you remembering you are worth love and friendship and that you can carry on.
I love you all forever.
Suddenly, I found myself in a war of which I wanted no part. I am the first to say I am difficult at times, my various quirks and such can make me edgy or emotional. I do my best to control it all, take my meds, and believe I will work my way through those rough spots.
After almost three months of two jobs, a cold that developed into bronchitis and laryngitis and then full fledged pneumonia (no insurance. yay!), leaving me sick and weak and in tears at times, I finally, finally started feeling myself for the first time since I'd moved back to NYC. I had my friends, people I enjoyed, the upcoming visit to my family in Silverstone--all of that kept my days light, in spite of a fairly rough job. I wasn't always cheery after 16 hours of work and long commutes and being kept awake by my constant coughing, the pain in my chest.
Suddenly, there came accusations and unkind words and complete defamation of character--I was told I was untrustworthy, stupid, unemployable, a "...sitcom with no laugh track", an emotional fuckup. And, those where the nicer things said. This was presented to me by someone who revels in the fact they create their own chaos--I guess creating your own chaos negates you from having to accept responsibility for the lives you fuck up in that creation.
I've dealt with someone who isn't a nice person--not an asshole as they claim to be proud of being--an asshole is interesting, this person? Not so much. The vast daily consumption of hard alcohol contributes to the version of the world they live in, where they are never wrong, never have to make amends, never have to say "Sorry" when an accusation is proved unfounded and incorrect. It's not something I can continue with in my life, the narcissism, the conversations held that were monologues of their life--laughing admittance of how a certain 'friend' had been written about in a 'fictional piece''--in spite of direct quotes from that friend's blog--because they were a tease and a cunt. When confronted by the written about friend, the entire story bragged about as being based on the 'friend' was put down to 'coincidence', and the 'friend' was just paranoid. There were the many times of insisted upon sharing of details on visits to masseuse who offered more than a back-rub... and how they allowed a grope and squeeze for a bigger tip. Wait. What? How is this something you brag about? That you take advantage of women who, more than likely, are in debt to the person who brought them to this country. Whom, I am sure, don't exactly find their work a place that they are proud of in any way, shape or form. I cringed when details on a 'sexting' session were given out...even though this woman, too, was given the cunt label. Misogynist comments to say the least. I was told my 'energy' was stopping their 'mojo'--mojo? Huh??? I'm stopping you from dating? Good grief. I was suddenly in my own personal 'Gaslight' film. My wrong in all of this was not saying, "You need to be quiet, and not tell me any of that." I didn't. Decision made, consequence given. I accept my part in this.
I've had things said about me in print and in person that are so very, very incorrect....that are pure lies. I guess it comes to the throw enough mud, and with luck, some will stick. I don't understand this mindset, this behaviour.
Being in Silverstone with Loo and MB and EH and the delightful group of family ad friends there helped me a great deal in recovering my sense of self. Being surrounded by love and friendship and truthfulness gave me strength. Friends contacting me offering things that I worried about being able to provide--all of this has shored my self esteem. It allows me to regret how I dealt with some of my decisions, it allows me to know I'm not the low lying fucktard I was being told I was... I gained my perspective back. Conversations with a dear friend who is also a specialist in rehabs allowed me to face the sad fact I was, indeed, dealing with an alcoholic (self admitted one) and their not so clear version of the world. People who are abusive, find glee in creating problems, avoid every shitpile they create, and who are generally unhappy individuals with emotional gaps in their lives.
The last piece of my wall of love came from Amanda Barnes. She was interviewed and featured in Women Today. I read her interview with great pleasure--she is one of the most interesting people I know, and, like Loo--a sister of my heart.
When asked who she was inspired by in life, she said it was....
....me.
She said I was her personal cheer-leader and her description of me as loyal and honest and that everyone needs a me in their life... that I was someone who would push you to be all you could be, and have your back every step of the way.
Added to the comment by HRH that people like me put the 'humane' into 'humanity' and that she is proud of me... me! These women make me who I am... they are the reason I can shut the door on a friendship that bore not a single resemblance to the definition of friend, to accept my part in this and realise regardless of what I did, the outcome would not have changed because of the immovable object I am dealing with currently.
I always say that friends are family of your heart, and both heart and blood family keep you honest, keep you sane, keep you remembering you are worth love and friendship and that you can carry on.
I love you all forever.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Three More Weeks
I've got three weeks left here, then, I'm gone again--12th move in four years.
But
This move makes me very happy... this move was planned... this move takes me back to NYC. I will miss my weekly visits with my two daughters and my grandchildren. I will miss our chats and having my mother here, and all of us bonding. I will miss that far more than I thought I would.... in exchange, I'll have some friends in NYC, my niece in Brooklyn, a good friend sharing my space and Sophie.
It's a year in the city, after that, I suspect I'll come back to Colorado and settle down... but, in that last year?
I plan on exploring and listening and watching and living as much as I can.
And writing it all here.
But
This move makes me very happy... this move was planned... this move takes me back to NYC. I will miss my weekly visits with my two daughters and my grandchildren. I will miss our chats and having my mother here, and all of us bonding. I will miss that far more than I thought I would.... in exchange, I'll have some friends in NYC, my niece in Brooklyn, a good friend sharing my space and Sophie.
It's a year in the city, after that, I suspect I'll come back to Colorado and settle down... but, in that last year?
I plan on exploring and listening and watching and living as much as I can.
And writing it all here.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Dad
Dear Dad,
You'd have been 83 today. Imagine that, 83!! I still miss you every day--I don't have the guilt I bore for so long, wondering if I'd done enough, if I'd been a good daughter....since living with Miss Ruby, I felt I had done all I could do at the time for you...I regret we didn't have the chance to live together again as we planned, when the kids had moved out. Only a few more months, and we'd have had that happen. You've missed a lot... graduations and HRH's wedding (she wanted you to walk her down the aisle)... Miss H and her kind ways, Zori's birth (you'd be amused by her)
and Jarhead leaving the service with his stripes and now working hard, making a name for himself in the film industry, his work ethical and honest. TheInvestment growing up, becoming a man, still as witty as his Papaw...and, I believe one day he will be as noble. Zenmaster getting engaged, his wedding on the way. Adds and 'Kenna remain in California... we are again in touch with each other. You wanted to know them better--I wish you had. Mother and I are finally friends...and that gives me great joy.
We all miss you, more than I can say.
I envy HRH....she dreams of you, finding peace there. I seldom have you visit me, and I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I feel you at peace, though. Your personal things are divided... I did keep the bulk of them, however, I feel no wrong in that. Your ring is on my chain around my neck, it keeps you close.
I gave your theater books to Oddship. He also has your St. Joseph's bean... and he treasures those things. You'd like him, I think.
Then, there is this little one. Like you, he enjoys eating. For now, unlike you, he's not too discriminating on what he eats.
He'd have stolen your heart--and you'd have loved him.
Odd for me to say that--I feel you love him from where you are now. You still watch over us, love us, guide us.
Happy Birthday, Dad. Wish you were here.
You'd have been 83 today. Imagine that, 83!! I still miss you every day--I don't have the guilt I bore for so long, wondering if I'd done enough, if I'd been a good daughter....since living with Miss Ruby, I felt I had done all I could do at the time for you...I regret we didn't have the chance to live together again as we planned, when the kids had moved out. Only a few more months, and we'd have had that happen. You've missed a lot... graduations and HRH's wedding (she wanted you to walk her down the aisle)... Miss H and her kind ways, Zori's birth (you'd be amused by her)
We all miss you, more than I can say.
I envy HRH....she dreams of you, finding peace there. I seldom have you visit me, and I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I feel you at peace, though. Your personal things are divided... I did keep the bulk of them, however, I feel no wrong in that. Your ring is on my chain around my neck, it keeps you close.
I gave your theater books to Oddship. He also has your St. Joseph's bean... and he treasures those things. You'd like him, I think.
Then, there is this little one. Like you, he enjoys eating. For now, unlike you, he's not too discriminating on what he eats.
Odd for me to say that--I feel you love him from where you are now. You still watch over us, love us, guide us.
Happy Birthday, Dad. Wish you were here.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Miss Ruby: 1924-2010
It has taken me some time to absorb all that occurred over the month of April.
Time went on in it's usual way, with Miss Ruby and I settled in over the winter. I'd taken a trip in February, one much needed, to see my dear Laura and her children in the UK. I called daily to talk to Miss Ruby, to see how she was... and always, her Southern voice would as, "When are you coming home??" I brought her chocolate and treats and hugs and from there, we went back to our little routine.. one that slowly changed as her strength failed.
She savored the bi-weekly visits of Zee and HRH. She oohed! and ahhed! over the daily photos sent to my phone of his progress. She read and drank her coffee and listened to CNN, while her body continued to fail.
By the mid-March, she'd lost all strength in her legs, and we moved on to using the wheelchair full time to transport her about. No more showers--it became a daily bath while she sat on the toilet, dignified even then. We'd laugh and talk and I'd bathe her, put lotion on her, brush her hair. By the end of March, I had to tell her no more pants of any kind... I simply couldn't pull them up while holding her with one arm. She took it graciously, and I bought her pretty housecoats (as my Mamaw called them)... little lady numbers that buttoned up the front, in a variety of pastels--the bulk of them in pink.
I had to bring in the aide full time... it was too difficult for just me to move her anymore; she'd gone to complete dead weight. We had an aide that was a horror... good to Miss Ruby, deliberate in her attacks on me. She left.... keying my car as a final good-bye.
April came, I bought her pansies, potted them and brought them inside. I could see her lack of interest in life, her desire to sleep more and more, the reduced output from her bladder. Kidney failure loomed.
April 13th, she declined to get out of her bed.....I changed her and bathed her and dressed her and cranked the bed up so she could read and have her coffee. She didn't turn on the TV, refused food, slept. By Thursday, I knew she'd not ever rise again. Hospice came out, assessed her, told me what to do. She was in renal failure, and it was simply a matter of time. Very little time.
Saturday, we went through our new routine.... waking up, bathing, changing, dressing.... she asked for my Mother and two of her friends to come visit the next day. I'd already called them, told them it was the end.. plans had been made for company. She asked me, "When is our baby coming to visit?" I replied, "Wednesday." She thought... "Hmmm, I think maybe they had better come up tomorrow."
She knew.
Her wit remained sharp. On that Saturday, I announced after rubbing my legs, "You can tell how active a woman's sex life is by the length of her leg hair." She laughed and tutted me. The next day, when I came down after my shower, she asked where had I been. "Showering, remember?" "Well, yes, but, you took so long!" I proceeded to say I had shaved my legs--and before I could finish the sentence with "....because I finally bought a razor", she grinned at me, and said, "Ohhh!! Hoping to get lucky?"
Sunday was a day of homemade coconut cake, putting her pearls on so she could receive company, chairs in her room. I'd already dug out a number of her plants from the garden, repotting them and placing them so she could see them no matter where she looked. Her nephew by marriage, who made sure she was well cared for and protected, called me. "She's waiting for someone so she can go.", he said. I agreed, but, between us, we couldn't sort who it could be..who was she waiting for?
HRH walked in with Zee around 1PM. Miss Ruby's face lit up. Her arms reached, slowly, shaking... "How is our little man?? Did he come to see his ladies??" Zee settled in next to her on the bed, where she tickled him, cooed to him, laughed when he'd break into his delight of a laugh.
He was who she was waiting to see.
Her breathing started to stutter that night. Hospice had me start giving her valium and morphine to settle her down. I was up most of the night, giving her the dose, sitting in the chair next to her bed. Finally, I slept from 4-6 AM. I went into her room, to give her the next dose of medicine. Her eyes were shut, and I slipped the dropper into her mouth. When the morphine hit her tongue, those baby blues flew open, startled. She frowned... I said, "Pretty nasty, eh?" She nodded, then, did what she'd do when I would tease her--bring her hand up as if she was going to strike me, then patting my cheek.
I laughed with her, and then bent over to pull her into my arms. I put my face in her neck, in that place between neck and shoulder that holds a person's scent. "I love you so much." She kissed my cheek.... "Oh, you will never know how much I love you."
She didn't want to be raised up that morning, no coffee, nothing. She didn't talk much after that either, telling me she preferred to sleep, "....I'm with Art then." I told her, holding her hand, whispering.... "Go with him. He loves you." She'd smile and go back under. She spoke one other time, when she opened her eyes, looked around her room and said to Mother, "This looks just like a room I use to have!".
By Tuesday morning, it was a death watch. She was in an coma-- her brain stopped around 3PM, her body struggled on. She had seizures, when her eyes would open, blank and dark and empty. I'd hold her and soothe her, even though I knew there was no comprehension left. I think I did it for me. I was told to up her meds, to keep her calm. She had no pain, I knew what to look for--face scrunching, moans.
Her blood family called, yelling at me, wanting to know if they could come to the house after she died, wanting to know if she'd changed her Will. I had to stop answering the phone... I was trying to help her die, and they were stopping me in my job.
She died at 11.06PM, in my arms. I felt her heart take it's last beat, I saw her sink into that void of death, sensed the huge "WOOSH" of her leaving with Mr. Art. We bathed her, dressed her in a beautiful pink suit, and put her favourite hot pink fuzzy socks on her feet. Brushed her hair, put on her make-up, and I waited for the funeral home people. Hospice had come out--our nurse, Ali, was a rock for me. She took care of all the calls to coroners, the funeral home, other people.
By 4AM, I was in bed, well medicated and falling asleep. By 6AM, I was awake again, fielding calls from the vultures, finally putting Caller ID on the phone so I could avoid their meanness.
I went to NYC five days later... I needed the break. I saw a couple of people, sadly didn't see others, rushed everywhere, remember very little.
I am in the house for six months... to help sort it out, prepare garages sales, etc. Her service is in July, when her garden will be in full bloom. We've had them set out a handful of ashes for me to put with her roses. The rest will go into the same grave as Mr. Art. Her headstone will read, 'Beloved', because she was just that. How many people can go through life knowing they were and felt that way towards another?
The estate remains in limbo... the family fighting over things that meant little to her. She left me Pumpkin, the 16 year old spoiled rotten cat--oddly, no one is asking for her. Makes me smile.
The photo below is her and Zee that Sunday... she does not look like a woman who died 48 hours later. Even with her loved ones about, she had a wall between us and herself... watching us. It was only with Zee that she fully engaged.
I miss her. I have a hole in my life, and work now to fill it up. I'll move in October, more than likely to NYC. I have a trip to Qatar planned later in the same month, where I'll see one of my 'sisters'. I feed the cats and they all sleep with me, and the garden continues to blossom and grow.
Thank you, Miss Ruby, for making me a better person, for giving me your trust and love and laughter. I will try to be like you... kind, generous, and wicked bad.
Love you forever.
Time went on in it's usual way, with Miss Ruby and I settled in over the winter. I'd taken a trip in February, one much needed, to see my dear Laura and her children in the UK. I called daily to talk to Miss Ruby, to see how she was... and always, her Southern voice would as, "When are you coming home??" I brought her chocolate and treats and hugs and from there, we went back to our little routine.. one that slowly changed as her strength failed.
She savored the bi-weekly visits of Zee and HRH. She oohed! and ahhed! over the daily photos sent to my phone of his progress. She read and drank her coffee and listened to CNN, while her body continued to fail.
By the mid-March, she'd lost all strength in her legs, and we moved on to using the wheelchair full time to transport her about. No more showers--it became a daily bath while she sat on the toilet, dignified even then. We'd laugh and talk and I'd bathe her, put lotion on her, brush her hair. By the end of March, I had to tell her no more pants of any kind... I simply couldn't pull them up while holding her with one arm. She took it graciously, and I bought her pretty housecoats (as my Mamaw called them)... little lady numbers that buttoned up the front, in a variety of pastels--the bulk of them in pink.
I had to bring in the aide full time... it was too difficult for just me to move her anymore; she'd gone to complete dead weight. We had an aide that was a horror... good to Miss Ruby, deliberate in her attacks on me. She left.... keying my car as a final good-bye.
April came, I bought her pansies, potted them and brought them inside. I could see her lack of interest in life, her desire to sleep more and more, the reduced output from her bladder. Kidney failure loomed.
April 13th, she declined to get out of her bed.....I changed her and bathed her and dressed her and cranked the bed up so she could read and have her coffee. She didn't turn on the TV, refused food, slept. By Thursday, I knew she'd not ever rise again. Hospice came out, assessed her, told me what to do. She was in renal failure, and it was simply a matter of time. Very little time.
Saturday, we went through our new routine.... waking up, bathing, changing, dressing.... she asked for my Mother and two of her friends to come visit the next day. I'd already called them, told them it was the end.. plans had been made for company. She asked me, "When is our baby coming to visit?" I replied, "Wednesday." She thought... "Hmmm, I think maybe they had better come up tomorrow."
She knew.
Her wit remained sharp. On that Saturday, I announced after rubbing my legs, "You can tell how active a woman's sex life is by the length of her leg hair." She laughed and tutted me. The next day, when I came down after my shower, she asked where had I been. "Showering, remember?" "Well, yes, but, you took so long!" I proceeded to say I had shaved my legs--and before I could finish the sentence with "....because I finally bought a razor", she grinned at me, and said, "Ohhh!! Hoping to get lucky?"
Sunday was a day of homemade coconut cake, putting her pearls on so she could receive company, chairs in her room. I'd already dug out a number of her plants from the garden, repotting them and placing them so she could see them no matter where she looked. Her nephew by marriage, who made sure she was well cared for and protected, called me. "She's waiting for someone so she can go.", he said. I agreed, but, between us, we couldn't sort who it could be..who was she waiting for?
HRH walked in with Zee around 1PM. Miss Ruby's face lit up. Her arms reached, slowly, shaking... "How is our little man?? Did he come to see his ladies??" Zee settled in next to her on the bed, where she tickled him, cooed to him, laughed when he'd break into his delight of a laugh.
He was who she was waiting to see.
Her breathing started to stutter that night. Hospice had me start giving her valium and morphine to settle her down. I was up most of the night, giving her the dose, sitting in the chair next to her bed. Finally, I slept from 4-6 AM. I went into her room, to give her the next dose of medicine. Her eyes were shut, and I slipped the dropper into her mouth. When the morphine hit her tongue, those baby blues flew open, startled. She frowned... I said, "Pretty nasty, eh?" She nodded, then, did what she'd do when I would tease her--bring her hand up as if she was going to strike me, then patting my cheek.
I laughed with her, and then bent over to pull her into my arms. I put my face in her neck, in that place between neck and shoulder that holds a person's scent. "I love you so much." She kissed my cheek.... "Oh, you will never know how much I love you."
She didn't want to be raised up that morning, no coffee, nothing. She didn't talk much after that either, telling me she preferred to sleep, "....I'm with Art then." I told her, holding her hand, whispering.... "Go with him. He loves you." She'd smile and go back under. She spoke one other time, when she opened her eyes, looked around her room and said to Mother, "This looks just like a room I use to have!".
By Tuesday morning, it was a death watch. She was in an coma-- her brain stopped around 3PM, her body struggled on. She had seizures, when her eyes would open, blank and dark and empty. I'd hold her and soothe her, even though I knew there was no comprehension left. I think I did it for me. I was told to up her meds, to keep her calm. She had no pain, I knew what to look for--face scrunching, moans.
Her blood family called, yelling at me, wanting to know if they could come to the house after she died, wanting to know if she'd changed her Will. I had to stop answering the phone... I was trying to help her die, and they were stopping me in my job.
She died at 11.06PM, in my arms. I felt her heart take it's last beat, I saw her sink into that void of death, sensed the huge "WOOSH" of her leaving with Mr. Art. We bathed her, dressed her in a beautiful pink suit, and put her favourite hot pink fuzzy socks on her feet. Brushed her hair, put on her make-up, and I waited for the funeral home people. Hospice had come out--our nurse, Ali, was a rock for me. She took care of all the calls to coroners, the funeral home, other people.
By 4AM, I was in bed, well medicated and falling asleep. By 6AM, I was awake again, fielding calls from the vultures, finally putting Caller ID on the phone so I could avoid their meanness.
I went to NYC five days later... I needed the break. I saw a couple of people, sadly didn't see others, rushed everywhere, remember very little.
I am in the house for six months... to help sort it out, prepare garages sales, etc. Her service is in July, when her garden will be in full bloom. We've had them set out a handful of ashes for me to put with her roses. The rest will go into the same grave as Mr. Art. Her headstone will read, 'Beloved', because she was just that. How many people can go through life knowing they were and felt that way towards another?
The estate remains in limbo... the family fighting over things that meant little to her. She left me Pumpkin, the 16 year old spoiled rotten cat--oddly, no one is asking for her. Makes me smile.
The photo below is her and Zee that Sunday... she does not look like a woman who died 48 hours later. Even with her loved ones about, she had a wall between us and herself... watching us. It was only with Zee that she fully engaged.
I miss her. I have a hole in my life, and work now to fill it up. I'll move in October, more than likely to NYC. I have a trip to Qatar planned later in the same month, where I'll see one of my 'sisters'. I feed the cats and they all sleep with me, and the garden continues to blossom and grow.
Thank you, Miss Ruby, for making me a better person, for giving me your trust and love and laughter. I will try to be like you... kind, generous, and wicked bad.
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