Letters to Donna/from 2-28-06

Good Morning My Love –

Almost blew today off too. One rough bout and I went back to bed, but roused myself at last, and though I was a half-hour late, at least I’m here at ECS. Yesterday’s absence was at least semi-legit; today just would’ve been a cop-out.

Called Home Instead. Pamela, newly in charge of staff, says they’ve got some people lined up, one in particular, who could take over. Anticipating that, I agreed to a four hour gig (11-3) on Saturdays, a lady in her 60s north of here, who likes the Sox, likes crosswords, likes brunch and is “quirky” — no explanation given. I should start March 12. Hope very much it works out better than Mr. P.

3-1-06

Good Morning My Love –

Dead tired today, not much sleep; things are pending (my release from Mr. P, my new client, snow coming tomorrow, PT waiting in the wings plus, maybe, the writing course) which, as you know better than anyone, makes me edgy. Battling depression. Not even playing poker well the last couple of days.

The light caught the skin on my forearm just right (or just wrong) and I saw the tell-tale fine webbing of old person’s skin. Finally my arms match yours, though the skin on your face never was anything less than young, smooth and soft. I’m old, baby. We had wanted to be old together; like the couple in thbe Hawthorne story, “The Miraculous Pitcher,” that I read you long ago, we wanted to die entwined. Because of the MS, your body went through stages at 45 that should’ve waited till your 70s, like decline in mobility, so I can fairly say I was with you as your body prematurely aged; but I also wanted to be with you as mine aged too;. Not to be, not to be. Will I be old alone?

The Mr. P Shuffle wasn’t too bad. The damned place gets me down, that’s all. From the smells, to the residents and their desperation that either silences them or makes them rant, to the “fire drill” which consists of corridor and residents’ doors being closed for five minutes, to the 90-minute-plus “breaks” by the aides. And Jane told Mr. P that the place had been sold. Can it get worse? Sure. And probably will. There are many beds unoccupied, especially on the first floor. Fill ‘em up, don’t hire in proportion, and you have more income without corresponding expense increase. Let ‘em sit in their waste for an hour or two more. Who cares?

You were right, baby: suicide is better than having to be in a nursing home.

Mr. P, as a private payer, is not as vulnerable as most of his fellow inmates. He can leave if he wants to, which I reminded him of last night. Or, for him, it might actually get better. The daughter, who’s way too passive, has been trying to get Mr. P’s dialysis done at the Don Orione, saving him $3K a week on ambulance fees (yes, $1k per round trip from nursing home to dialysis center. God!); the Home was willing, but somehow the necessary paperwork is still being processed. Delayed by the sale? Perhaps. And perhaps the  new owner (if any — this sale is still in my mind a rumor) will see a chance to charge a fee for designating an unused area as a “treatment zone” (or some such) and push the process.

As for me and Mr. P, he keeps wanting me to add hours and days. I tell him he has to go through Home Instead, but that I can’t add on. Why? he asks. I have my own life outside of here, I say. I don’t, he replies. I have much sympathy for him, but Mr. P doesn’t have any for me, or his daughter, or Jane. He feels that since Fate did all this to him, he’s owed. Our lives, needs don’t matter. And now that he’s had a taste of having someone there to wait on him hand and foot, he wants more. Again, I don’t blame him; I just can’t be that someone any more, whether he likes it or not.

Somehow it’s appropriate that, at the bottom of the hill Don Orione tops, is a casket company.

3-2-06

Good Morning Beloved –

Yesterday mailed in my tax returns. I think it’s the earliest I’ve ever done it. Incentive great when you’re due a four-figure refund.

Good night at poker last night. In three hours of playing I won 60K in chips. Very little skill on my part, just kept getting great hands. I did know what to do with ‘em when I got ‘em, though….

Didn’t really get caught up on sleep, but rested well. Still tired but not blotto; sad but not miserable. I miss your smile. I miss the short little shuffling steps you’d take as you padded through the apartment; I’d be lying in bed and hear you coming, wait to see your face peek around the door jamb, sometimes with your wonderful little girl’s look of curiosity, anticipation and, perhaps, a bit of mischief, to see how I was doing. Of course, if I was dozing you’d most likely say, “Are you asleep?” in your stage whisper, wake me up and piss me off. But I’d give a great deal to see you peek at me once again.

Kept hearing that little shuffle in my mind last night.

We understood how much pain was involved in living with your illnesses; I chose to endure it. Why? Because of the joy that you brought along with it. Great joy, my love. Your capacity to love overcame all pain.

Finished the Lincoln biography. Complex, fascinating man. Strongest impression I got was that he had a towering sense of duty; once he understood and accepted a duty he would fulfill it no matter what. Consequently he spent much of his political life not seeking positions he felt he could not fill well, or that another could fill better; but, having decided he could do a better job, he was a determined campaigner.

 It’s very interesting to see him balance the demands of principle and the need for expediency in performing his presidential duties. He always worked upwards from principle, trying to use that as a basis for a decision. But he became politically very astute, particularly about judging the public mood and timing his moves accordingly. Always there’s a mix of political practicality and personal ethics in how he goes about his business; he understood that a good idea that no one will accept is a bad idea.

His handling of the slave issue shows this mix. He found slavery personally offensive, and opposed it on principle. But he also knew that to impose emancipation on the antebellum South was almost impossible to do without damaging both the economy of the South and the union itself. So he favored gradual, compensated emancipation — until the South seceded. Then the preservation of the union became his prime duty.

Even so, he was reluctant to emancipate, partly because, early on, the war might’ve ended in negotiation rather than conquest, and a proclamation like the one he eventually made would’ve made negotiating impossible. Then, when the war deepened and conquest would be the only way to win, he held off while the North was suffering defeat, fearing a gloomy, jittery, pessimistic public might not accept the proclamation; thus, though the proclamation had been written months before, he waited until the North had won a victory to announce it. But, then, why not wait –if the North was now winning battles — to the war’s victorious end, and then impose emancipation? Because the victory was by no means guaranteed, and the North needed more troops to guarantee it — black troops, comprised of freed slaves. By the war’s end, blacks amounted to about half of the union’s troops; as Lincoln said, he didn’t free the blacks; they freed themselves when they took up arms for the union.

Thus Lincoln followed his principles (but much later than radical abolitionists would’ve liked) but did so in a way at a time best suited to help preserve the union — Lincoln’s prime duty.

I find that all great presidents have this mix of principle tempered by preacticality tempered by principle. FDA a good example. Real conviction steered in part by a calculating sense of image, of political dynamics. Thus, for instance, Lincoln’s homespun, simple man of the earth personna was part genuine, part cultivated. He knew how to create effect; he also, when he felt the need was great, was willing to do himself political damage to say what needed to be said. Even then, you can sense him thinking in terms of short-term and long-term results; one of his strengths was his ability to anticipate how things might evolve in several years and shape his policies accordingly. A very patient man.

And he was willing to accept a man’s shortcomings if his strengths served Lincoln’s purposes. Often he gave men too much leeway, especially early on, but more often he kept good but flawed men loyal and productive, and didn’t let his own ego exacerbate such flaws, which usually involved ambition and jealousy. He recognized and respected talent, and tried to reward it.

Another interesting aspect of Lincoln was his “religiousness.” Early on it’s hard to call him a Christian, since he was skeptical about Jesus’ divinity, but might be termed a deist, though he didn’t talk about it much and didn’t refer to God profusely in his speeches, as most did. But as the war deepened and the slaughter worsened, he read the Bible more. To preside over an enterprise so bloody, where the dead were often more fortunate than the wounded (amputation was the most common operation), weighed on him greatly, and the Bible apparently told him that he was doing God’s purpose, and such thoughts colored his speeches in the last year of his life.

I’d like to read a book that shows Lincoln day to day, especially in conversation. He had a knack for the apt phrase, though he tended to be self-deprecating and ironic. After the Gettysburg Address he was heard to say, “well, that fell on them like a wet blanket!” And, late in his life when he had some kind of flu but felt he still had to attend to his duties, even to onorous ones like receiving th daily flood of people who wanted something from him, “At least now I can give something to everyone.” Yet there are no reports of his being unkind, rude or imperious to anyone who came before him.

Am also nearing the end of Marco Polo. It’s not a great read, but if you’re interested in a picture of the temporate (as in zone) world in the 1300s, it holds you. What fascinates me is how extensively all these lands knew of and traded with each other. While northern Europe was still afraid to step outside its castle walls, and learned almost nothing beyond church dogma, the rest of the world had extensive interactions, and an intellectual life that was far-reaching, tolerant and sophisticated. Again underscores the parochial quality of the European world view.

Strangely enough, the person from our past I’m most comfortable with is B. She calls maybe twice a week, chats briefly, gets off. Easy. J. never calls because of her el cheapo calling plan, and besides, she lives a busy self-contained life that I’m outside of (I’m not complaining), so my existence in her mind is a bit fuzzy. So every so often I check in. I believe her when she says she misses you terribly; it’s OK that she doesn’t miss me. I don’t particularly miss her either, no negativity implied. And I’ll always be grateful for the grand she laid on me.

Linda and I talked a few days ago. Same old, same old, which is as good as can be hoped. Her ex died, don’t know if I told you. Heart. She didn’t seem too broken up. Tiff and granddaughter OK.

Still haven’t heard from Debbie and Stevie. And there’s been no follow-up re: meeting with June. I think D.’s son’s problems have driven that project from D.’s mind. Haven’t heard from the M.s since Christmas. I don’t mind, but somehow I think you’d want me to stay in some kind of contact, so I guess I will come Spring. N. emails every so often. Judy sent those pics. John and Freddie you know about. Anyone else?

As I’ve told you before, you were the one who held this group together; love and regard for you was its common denominator. Wit you gone, the group’s center is gone and I can’t be a new center. Hell, I’m just one of the group. So we all float slowly apart, some more than others, because you are here no more. Again I realize that, though the scale was small, your power, the force and quality of your personality, was very great. Baby, we all love you. And we will never forget you or your courage, none of us. In ten, twenty years, one of us will think of you, hear your name, and a psychic sound like the ringing of a fine bell will fill our minds, and we’ll remember again how very special you were.

                                                      L.

3-3-06

Good Morning My Best Baby –

Wish you were here.

My deliverance from Mr. P took a step back yesterday. The “replacement” proved to have a track record of late and missed appointments and dificient verbal skills (he’a a mute?) so he wasn’t hired. Two other newbies have been interviewed; hope to hell one of ‘em works out. 

In the meanwhile the Home Instead coordinator who set me up with my next client, the Sunday lady, screwed up; it’s a Saturday gig and I can’t do it if I’m still stuck with Mr. P. I’m definitely bummed. Going into the Don Orione feels like some sort of sentence — and I can leave the place! Of course, I see it at its worst, nights and weekends. Don’t get to see the bright young 9 to 5ers who act like new paint on rotted wood, a cosmetic cover-up until you look closely. By the time I show up, the place is in the hands of the keepers.

Mr. P not too bad, and bit brusquer than usual. Had some kind of fight with his daughter, who was storming out as I was walking in. Actually glad she lets him know that he can go too far. He needs reminding, so self-involved is he.

The snow missed us, went south. Tsk.

After work I see F.E. for an ounce. I’m smoking a quarter ounce a week, like clockwork. Can’t say the Mr. P Shuffle is reducing my consumption by more than a pittance. At least the Shuffle is subsidizing the habit, so I don’t eat into my savings.

Will have to pay the car’s excise tax this year. Am not going to try to fake it. If they found out I’d have to somehow gain title – not easy without processing your will – and then reinsure and reregister. I’d also probably lose your handicapped plaque. So coughing up $46 a year is the lesser of evils. When I finally have to get rid of the car, don’t know what I’ll do then. Hope that’s years away.

I’m getting a bit edgy about writing you. First, I feel like I had a creative spurt which produced some decent writing, and that the spurt is spent and my writing’s more pedestrian, duller.

Much more importantly, I’m worried I’ll run out of things, other than my day-to-day, which would make this a mere journal rather than a protracted love letter. The day-to-day has its place and I know you’re at least slightly interested….

…But in how many ways can I describe our love? I don’t want to repeat myself, and fear I have, many times. There are still memories to explore and analyze, but they’re two-edged swords, to say the least, A bad memory — and that’s the kind which keep showing up, such as your last day, a scene I can’t get out of my head just now — hurts like hell. Right now I’m crying as I’m writing; that’s the way it is almost every time.

Even a good memory is bittersweet. I saw in the paper that the Butterfly Place had moved from Tyngsboro to Westford, and I was glad we went, glad you saw it. Remembered your absolute delight as the butterflies fluttered around you, landed on you. And I wished, wished so hard, that I could take you there again, right now, to witness and share your joy.

It was your joy which brought me joy.

But how many times can I say this? How many times, how many ways can I say I miss you, can I try to describe the feeling of having lost a limb, an organ, a vital part, something irreplaceable? How long before the grief stops being understandable and becomes pathetic and self-indulgent? Perhaps it already is.

Tony’s right — I’m going to need something positive. Can’t just exist. Something that makes me want to engage the future, not just reach for the kleenex.

If I find it, can I please, please talk to you about it?

I’d sure love to sing to you again. Some old sweet rock-n-roll, a cheesy sweet ballad. “I Love You For Sentimental Reasons,” Sam Cooke version, repeating “I love you,” as I did, and you back at me, the day before you died.

3-4-06

Good Afternoon Beloved –

Have a touch of IBS, which has kept me in the house all morning. Need to do the Mr. P Shuffle in an hour or so.

Couldn’t shake the sadness yesterday. So I’m trying not to think sad thoughts or conjure up sad memories. Give myself a break. Need to limit my negative emotions until my shuffling can be shuffled off onto someone else.

Tom wrote. It’s occured to him after 20 years that his money-making schemes haven’t rewarded the effort he put into them. And of course money’s tight. Told him the only way I ever got money was to hire myself out; suggested he consider a part-time job. Doubt if he’ll do it, but based on his projects’ track records, he should. Otherwise he seems OK.

Back from the Mr. P Shuffle. Going there is like visiting you in the hospital (with the crucial difference that when I get there it’s grumpy Mr. P, not my wonderful Beloved). It takes a conscious effort to walk in the building. I know I’m entering a world of sickness, disability, despair. A world where, upon admission, you forfeit your independence, you sacrifice your viability as an individual. Remember? “We are in the hands of our enemies.” We’d say that whenever you had to go in the hospital. That was harsh; they aren’t enemies; some became friends, but the point was still valid: pre-admission you are in charge of your own life. After admission you are not. You surrender control. They don’t even see you in the hospital bed as they do when you’re out of it. In it, you’re a patient, not a person, and you have to do things their way, by their schedule, at their convenience. That’s why you needed me there to remind them, forcefully if necessary, that you were still a person.

Mr. P has the same issues as you: control, repect. And my mission with him is much the same. Main difference is that he undermines himself by his behaviors. You weren’t above doing that too on occasion, but you could be reasoned with, and Mr. P cannot. Plus you were much more attractive.

Once in the room — yours, his — my stance is much the same. I’m there to do what I can, for you, for him. My personal preferences are irrelevant. Whatever you need, wherever you’d like to go, to complain about or deal with, that’s my job. It was easier with you because a)you were more cooperative; b) you made much better conversation, so six hours with you were easier than three hours waiting for Mr. P to say something; c)I love you. I can barely manage to like Mr. P.

So it is like visiting you — with all the worst parts intact (except that when you suffered, I suffered, which ain’t the case with Mr. P), and almost none of the best.

3-5-06

Good Afternoon My Love –

Have tried to reach Freddie, but I can’t. No answer, no return call either from his home or cell phones. So of course I’m thinking he’s in the hospital. Was possibly going to see him and Linda, but am staying put.

Also can’t reach Sindy. Her cell phone, which last week had a typically diabetes-inducing treacly message from Sunshine Sindy, now has a “enter the ten digit mailbox number.” Left a message on her home phone. Worried about her too; we know from the floods that ruined our place in H.P. how bad mold can be.

Walked. It’s a cool but pleasant day with the promise of Spring temps a few days away. I felt well enough to extend the walk by a mile or so, without (thus far) ill effects. Don’t worry; there’s still enough wrong with the legs to warrant PT. I just don’t want to schedule till I’m done with Mr. P.

3-6-06

Good Morning Beloved –

As you know, a sign I’m depressed is, I don’t shower. I wash from crotch to face almost daily, but below the crotch I get dirty, and my hair gets worse. Finally, this morning, I showered and washed my hair.

A bit of a struggle to get going today. By now, any crampy BM makes me think about blowing off work, but I’m trying to be good.

I also did a little web-site checking on writing courses. The only two I could find conflict with the Mr. P shuffle. Of course.

I may have been able to walk more yestrerday, but I’m a damn sight stiffer today. Much muscular complaining. One thing I don’t do on my walks any more (sadly) is pick up trinkets and jewelry for you. Don’t know if I ever found anything you could actually wear, but you kept everything I brought you, feeling I imagine a bit like the person whose cat keeps bringing home dead mice as a present.

I see the stuff on the ground still. Look at it. Leave it there. No one who’d want it, no one to bring it home to.

There is something out there I’m sure you’d want, if I happened across it by a dumpster or something: from deBeers, the world’s snazziest egg timer, in a large stylized clear hourglass-shaped container holding thick clear liquid, and a multitude of rhomboidal diamonds. Turn upside down and watch the diamonds sink slowly through the bottleneck to the bottom — want one? Our 28th anniversary is in less than a month….

Actually, I think this year will be the last year I refer — externally — to our anniversary. Can’t keep on saying “It would’ve been our ____…” I’ll say it in my own head, “celebrate” it in my own way. No, the active anniversary now is Sept. 20. In two weeks that will mark six months — half a year — since you died. Inconceivable. Chokes me up just to write it. Gone that long. Still infused with you in my heart and memory. You permeate me, like a delicious flavor — but one I can’t get any more. But I’ll savor that flavor forever.

 

Letters to Donna/from 2-21-06

2-21-06

Good Morning My Love –

Hard to get going today, but I did. The visits to Mr. P are weighing a bit heavily on me today for some reason (five-month deathaverary?) and I’d welcome a replacement just now.

Talked to John for a while last night. He’s nearing completion of his flippable house, but has also gone in with a “partner” on a new one, which means he’s really rolling the dice with his finances and is thinking of pulling $50K from his IRA for sixty days (penalty/interest-free) as a bridge loan. Thinks he’ll get $100K from this house he’s working on now; wants the next to be a $35K 2-3 month quickie. I really think he gets off on the gamble of it all. Wonder what he’ll do if something unexpected occurs and all his markers are called in.

2-22-06

Good Morning My Darling –

Not a real good visit with Mr. P last night.

First, half the residents had diarrhea and the place reeked when I got there. Men in wheelchairs with crap all over them. Mr. P was already in bed when I arrived and, of course, wanted to get up and go to the smoking room. Nurse led me to believe that, between having only four aides and all that crap to clean, he was probably going to be stuck in bed for the night.

So Mr. P and I got him out of bed and into the chair. It wasn’t too difficult, since you and I had gone through the same bed-to-chair dance many times; it was essentially the same. Only problem: I forgot about getting him back into bed, much tougher to do, requiring the Hoyer lift — and I forgot to put the Hoyer webbing on the wheelchair seat. Much unhappiness among the staff when that was discovered; I ended up helping undo my mistake.

Mr. P. was not in top form. Left hand not working right. Speech more mumbly than usual. In pain — asked for a methadone dose, unusual for him. Paranoid — or justifiably worried — about an unaccounted-for $40, which he believed had been swiped. He believes he’s stolen from steadily, and he may be right. I searched his room, top to bottom, no luck.

So I was glad to get home, even if you weren’t there. This week Mr. P is weighing on me, and I’ll be glad when my replacement is chosen.

Not surprisingly, Mr. P is interested in on-line cigarette-ordering, so I checked out your old friend Native Pride — and its on-line store is shut down! Plenty of others working, though. He can get a carton of Marlboros for under fifteen bucks. But I’m not going to handle ordering if I can help it. Job for his daughter, though she may not be willing.

Just felt oppressed by the whole thing last night.

C.S. finally had a CAT scan, which showed a “nodule” on her lung. Assume it will be removed and biopsied.

Lisa, after her turmoil-filled week, is in a flat period now. Hardly surprising. She must be emotionally exhausted. And that is, for her, a state of low to medium depression. The excitement of moving in and setting up her place has passed; now she’s got to get through a whole bunch of days not dissimilar to those which precede or follow. Know the feeling. Thank God for poker. But she doesn’t have an addictive amusement like that. This is absolutely the time she shoud be getting counselling, which again I’m urging.

Have decided that one of mankind’s great afflictions is the emergence of monotheistic religions. Judaism, Christianity and Islam, stemming from extreme paternalistic tribal cultures, have each developed a kind of madness which makes them treat those who disagree as evil, to be dealt with harshly, and differing societies as infidels and heathens, to be — at best — destroyed. If you believe there is only one God — your god — and if someone believes in another god, how can he be anything but a heretic? And — that area’s culture being prone to fanaticism — after a while any disagreement at all is heresy, warranting the severest of remedies.

Were there any such things as crusades or jihads before the flourishing of monotheistic religions? Plenty of wars were fought before them, but over territory, fortune or (if you believe the Iliad) a woman. But Romans, Greeks, Celts, Vikings et al were not trying to impose their religions on others. Their polytheism implied tolerance of other gods, and the Greeks and Romans (ditto the Indians and Chinese) were tolerant of other religions; they just wanted you to toe the line politically. The Jews and early Christians didn’t, and were oppressed, but I don’t believe the Romans had anything against Judaism/Chrstianity per se. In fact they founds aspects of those creeds appealing, since they promised life after death.

In India, Hinduism, Jainism and Buddhism have existed, relatively peacefully, side by side for millennia. Th major conflict isn’t with indigenous faiths, but with Islam. And Marco Polo recounts Kublai Khan’s tolerance of all well-behaving faiths. I mean, if you acknowledge the existence of a zillion gods, what’s one god more? No big thing — unless He insists your gods suck!

So I think we should go back to polytheism, and tolerance. And to hell with these religious/ideoogical wars; let’s fight one for good old-fashioned greed, for a change!

The word on C.S. is: nodule likely to be “Valley Fever,” a spore-borne infection she probably got in Arizona, from gardening. I guess if you disturb what passes for soil out there, you’d best wear a mask. The nodule’s benign.  Not to be removed or biopsied; a piece of it is taken through some sort of flushing/brushing technique I’m unfamiliar with. Then, if the diagnosis is confirmed, treated with antibiotics.

This is about the best we could hope for: benign, treatable, with explainable symptoms. Yay!!

2-23-06

Good Morning My Love –

Best thing about the day so far: I’m at 3 million chips on the poker site.

Otherwise, yucch. Bad night, little sleep, stewing about Ponzo and the Don Orione. Tuesday’s shit storm and everything else oppresses me. We had some very bad days when you were forced to be an in-patient, but our goal was always to get you out, to get you home, and it was always so good when we caught sight of the apartment building and knew you’d be in your own space soon! (OK, I often worried that you weren’t ready — weren’t well enough — for discharge, or that I wouldn’t be able to handle whatever was next.) But to see you, often exhausted as you were, light up when I wheeled you through the front door — ah, that was fine! Whether you first wanted a cigarette, or to get in your own bed, or look out your windows and see your beloved view, you were better for being home, and we could be together without the intercom, the smells, the restrictions, intrusions and screw-ups. Home. We were always better for being home.

Mr. P can’t come home. Ever.  It’s a kind of benign imprisonment. And as I wheel him I know he’s trapped there, or somewhere like it, for the rest of his life. Days range from OK to nightmarish. I don’t want to be part of all that, and it’s getting me down. Would’ve blown today off if there weren’t tasks I had to do at work.

Just have to hang on and wait it out.

So I’m tired, physically a bit out of sorts, and depressed. See Tony the T today before heading to the Don Orione, then get through those three hours, then get to bed as soon as I can. Tomorrow’s Friday, thank God.

It must be noted that Mr. P abetted his own situation. His daughter told me that she tried to keep him home even after his condition had declined. But he (she said) became increasingly uncooperative — wouldn’t take meds, wore the same underpants for a week, was obstreperous — until his condition worsened yet again and he had to go into the nursing home again.

You never would’ve let that happen. You knew what your most therapeutic environment was – home! — and worked to get there and stay there. Because of that, we could be a team, a damn good one. Mr. P lost that option a while ago, although you could say that Jane, his daughter, and I are his team. Problem is, often he himself is not a teammate. Always harder when you work at cross-purposes with the one you’re supposed to be helping. Right now I’m just trying to keep him more active, less discontented, even if some aspects (smoking) aren’t good for him per se. Best I can do, as I see things now.

Miss you, baby. It’s funny: I’ve gotten used to your not being here with me — as long as I don’t think about it. If I do think about it, the tears come and the hurt shoots through me. And I’m not even sure I want that to stop; it reassures me that you remain front and center in my heart. I’m so afraid time will abrade memory and you’ll slip away from my mind bit by bit. Having lost you I’m afraid to lose you. Dumb, huh?

2-24-06

Good Morning Beloved –

Still tired but not feeling oppressed. My not having to see Mr. P tonight have anything to do with it?

Mr. P. slept through most of our last session. He woke up when his daughter arrived, wanted to get up and go smoking, but by the time they got around to him my visit was over and I boogied toot sweet.

Didn’t quite escape unscathed. One of the men on the floor is a guy who in the evening wears a light blue jacket that he zips up with his head inside. Mr. P calls him, logically, “the guy with no head.” But this week he was also wearing huge bandages on his legs, and one glance told me why: his legs were huge, obviously because of clots just like yours, and the bandages were soaked with superation.

Those legs of yours were the cruellest thing about your endgame. You could’ve functioned so much better, maybe lived longer. They tripled in weight, and you’d long since lost the musculature needed to deal with them. We tried so hard to do something, anything about them — you know I’m now wondering if we should’ve had blood thinners much earlier — and you suffered so much with them. And finally they defeated us.

Seeing this man brought it all back powerfully, and I’ve been crying with each recollection.

2 p.m. and I’m still having problems over your legs. Can’t shake how awful they were: the blisters, the draining, the bandages and wraps, the infections that wouldn’t heal and how raw and evil they looked; how those damned legs robbed you of any chance to walk, even with the walker, how helpless you became — it’s all surging around inside, I can’t make it stop and I can’t stop crying about it. Of all the horrors of the last year of your life, those legs may have been the worse. They marked the last vestiges of your physical independence and, to me it seems, they were the harbingers of your death.

Another cheery thought: this is the longest I’ve gone without (mutual) sex in almost 4o years.

2-25-06

Better, so far, my love.

Stayed miserable through the evening, slept as best I could, got up at 9:30 and am not miserable yet. Have to get through today’s visit with Mr. P (and I know I’ll see the Man with No Head), then get home through the snow, likely to be four inches of fluffy stuff. Will clean it all tomorrow.

And Monday will let Home Instead know that I need to be replace ASAP.

Tony the T made Lisa happy by  giving me some of the same advice I’ve been giving her: get out of the old routine, take a class, give serendipity a chance.

Of course I have to admit it’s excellent advice. Not that I can take it yet. At least two steps come first: getting free of Mr. P and the Don Orione and getting my PT going. Once that’s done, I’ll know my schedule and can check out classes.

What should I take? Writing workshops of one sort or another. Story-writing, novels, memoirs, plays. Something that forces me to produce, to find out if a)I can complete a sustained piece of writing, and b)if it’s worth it in terms of quality. It’s my last major issue, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t deal with it. I’ve already annointed myself a failure as a writer, so I can’t fail this time, having already done so. And you will play a major role in whetever I write, whether it’s the Book of Donna or a play I mapped out about you (in thin disguise) some time ago. I’m hoping that the deadline pressure a class provides will push me toward completion. Just to complete something would, for me, be a major accomplishment.

But if I commit to this kind of writing, I fear I won’t be able to write you as often. If that’s the case, I hope you understand.

2-26-0

Good Afternoon My Darling –

Not too bad at Don Orione, if one could just suppress sight, sound and smell….Mr. P not too bad to me, pretty nasty to his daughter. Will be very glad never again to see my buddies Ponzo or Don Orione.

The snow came in two small increments, totalling 1 1/2 to 2 inches, well below prediction. Cold now and for the next several days. March soon. Spring not far. I seem to have survived.

Called Sindy and Freddie to check on them. Not home, no call-back.

Watched pieces of an old Sophia Loren/Cary Grant movie yesterday at Mr. P’s. Yes, I saw traces of you in Sophia: the figure, the intensity, the cheekbones. I’m stretching it a bit, but only a bit.

J. emailed me some pictures of you playing with some kids, and you and me clowning. Not good pictures, really. The best are you and the kids, but you’re not really facing the camera, so you’re only partly shown. Those of us are awful. You’re hardly show at all; it’s mostly me and I look ghastly, all unkempt hair and over-the-top hammy expressions. Wouldn’t want to sent them to anyone.

Freddie called back. Stomach still very bad, pain is worse, his weight’s down below 160 and he’s slightly anemic. He thinks endgame has begun, and I fear he’s right. No longer in denial. He got them to give him antacids which helped a bit, then didn’t. Now he wonders if he can go out on the road this year; says it’s 50-50. Is also stewing about how he’ll manage if he has to remain here and can’t earn. Talking about getting his financial affairs in order. He’s certainly thinking like a guy who’s dying. I’ll call him next Sunday and try to meet up with him.

2-27-06

Good Evening Beloved –

Got up with every intention of going in; then my IBS said, “Uh, wait a minute!” and I spent the next two hours in the bathroom. Somewhat better now.

Not a day filled with joy, obviously, but not one of continuous misery, like last Friday. Had a bad spell when I misunderstood a line in a book I’m reading: “Sometimes it seemed like everything in the world conspired to make you lose the love for what you once loved most.” The line refers to a character whose marriage was beginning to collapse, and suggests we stop loving what we thought was the foundation of our emotional lives. I cursed the line actively until I realized it wasn’t speaking to me. I never lost my love for you; instead it grew and strengthened. As did yours. So although you were taken from me, our love remained intact.

Even  so, I had some rough times in the car, feeling like some essential part of me was gone and I’d never be right again.

Letters to Donna/from 2-14-06

2-14-06

Happy Valentine’s Day My Love!!

This is where I was when you found me, the low point of my life:             

I had lost the only job I cared about;                                                           

I had betrayed my wife;

I had abandoned my daughter;

I’d had a serious brush with suicide and a recent stay at an in-patient psychiatric facility;

I was still partly insanely infatuated with L.;

I was profoundly ashamed. Frankly, I was a piece of crap.

This is where I was when you died:

I have a job I like and where I’m respected;

I supported my lover through incredible trials;

I have a very strong relationship with my daughter;

I am sounder emotionally than I’ve ever been;

I have experienced a love that comforts and supports my most basic fears and needs;

I am proud of how I’ve lived my life, stronger in my belief in myself than I’ve ever been;

I’m better able, through knowledge, experience and temperament, to handle what is thrown at me. I am fundamentally stronger and healthier than at any time in my life.

This is where you were when you found me, one of the low points of your life:

You were in a loveless, abusive marriage that was collapsing;

You were estranged from your son, as you were soon to discover;

You were estranged from your foster mother and foster family, and had no connection to your biological family;

You believed no one would ever love you for yourself, and you weren’t sure you could love anyone properly;

You thought you were frigid;

You had no self-confidence, and very little hope.

This is where you were when you died:

You had loved and been loved, long and well, for 27 years;

You had managed, with great difficulty, to sustain a relationship with your son — and your grandson;

You had gone through three successful careers;

You had reestablished contact with both your foster and biological families, and it was good contact for the most part;

You knew you were much loved, not just by me, but by many, and you knew you could and did love powerfully and well;

You knew you were a sexy thing;

You were strong and confident. People were much improved and impressed by your experience, insight, advice and deep caring; you achieved enormous stature in the minds and lives of many;

And your class and courage were beyond measure.

Surely a love that takes two people from such depths and a quarter century later finds them so much stronger, sounder, better, is an extraordinary love. This was the love that we shared, the love we gave, every day, for our time together. I celebrate, honor and cherish this extraordinary love. I always will.

Thank you Donna, thank you my love.

And Happy Valentines Day.

                                              L.

2-15-06

Good Morning Beloved –

Mr. P doesn’t like to take his evening meds. Have only seen him do it once or twice; otherwise he flat-out refuses them, digging his heels in and being more intractible the more you try to persuade him. Daughter got so mad over it last night, she left fifteen minutes after she arrived. Presumably, one of those meds augments his dialysis.,

I’m in an awkward position here, being essentially Mr. P’s employee. So I’ve been passive, not wanting to risk antagonism at this stage, especially since argument just makes him worse. Wish I had your talent for geriatrics, especially crotchety male geriatrics; I figure you’d have had him taking all his meds and begging for more by now.

I do have a plan though, finally. I’m going to try to get him to take one pill, whatever the most important one is, so everybody will stop hassling him. That’s basically the deal I’ll offer. Think maybe I can talk him into it. He’s Italian, so he likes deals. And if I can get him to take one pill, maybe that can be built on….Want to talk to staff and daughter first. Keep you posted.

When I told Lisa about it she sent back a nice reply, saying she knew I’d “give it my all” despite leaving. Well, that resonated, and I realize that before you — with the sole exception of my teaching — I never gave anything “my all” in my life. Too wary, fearful of disappointment and hurt. Then I hooked up with someone who gave her “all” to me in love, and though it took me a very long time, I finally grew to the point where I could fully commit, and I believe I did, the last decade of your life. You did that for me, my love. You.

2-16-06

Good Morning My Love –

Sindy was supposed to come down, with Andy, this weekend, but she’s had flooding in her basement and a major mold outbreak as a result. So no visit yet. (Can you hear my heavy sighs of disappointment? Didn’t think so.) I’m actually quite concerned about her because she’s been working down there without any masks or skin protection, and already is feeling the effects. I’m even thinking the  job is unfinishable by any but a professional outfit. I do fear she’s already incurred respiratory damage; already she has rashes.

 Second day of 50+ degree weather after a big snowstorm. Meltoff Day!! Found $5.28, including 16 quarters, in 90 minutes. Whee!!

D.’s favorite picture of you, which she framed, is the close-up of us dancing at Lisa’s wedding. I think she likes it because the you she sees there is the you she knew, as opposed to the ones where you’re younger. Have been thinking a bit about that day: Lisa plump but glowing; you in so much pain that you bore without complaint; C. in pain that he bore with continuous complaint; G. loud as ever. (I was thinking that, even dead, you’ve given me more than she ever did. You continue to inspire me.)

You know I hate to dance, but baby, I’m so glad we danced that day, so glad we held each other and let the music take us. I can feel your body against me, soft and warm, and see your face alighted, pain momentarily put aside, happy to be in my arms. That was the day I settled the debts with my past, for which I’m proud, but I’m as proud of being with you, my love, my darling, in front of my ex-wife and her people, in front of C. and his mother and their people, declaring that this woman is the love of my life, my mate, my companion, my strength. Our last hurrah, in a sense.

That was a good day.

2-17-06

Good Morning My Darling –

Lisa predicted that Mr. P’s friend Jane would clue him in re: my departure, and she was right. Mr. P asked me about it last night. Explained it wasn’t because of him, but because of the nursing home ambience. Said he was a challenge, not a problem, which almost got a smile out of him. I didn’t say my leaving was a certainty; I thought it’d be easier for him to handle that way, especially since I have no idea when a replacement might be found.

The med situation’s a bit complicated, as I found last night. Yes, his kindey meds are crucial, but so are his heart and BP meds. Can I broker a deal for two or three meds? Dunno. Doubt it. Will try…

Talked to Freddie. Didn’t like what I heard. He saw doctors, one who said the stomach problems might be cancer, the other running tests that’ll take a week. He was in a lot of pain as we spoke, having had baked beans, and was in a lot of denial too. He knows he should be in a hospital right now — he said so, grudgingly — but won’t, until the tests come back. Unless he can’t stand it. I just have a very very bad feeling. I’d be surprised — I hope pleasantly, depending on his condition – to see him alive in 2007. I offered to do anything he thought I could do for him. But he won’t ask.

Have had a lot of bills lately. Car insurance, now paid off; Amex, with the annual membership doubling the amount owed; frogs; Verizon; rent; $46. to the accountant — but that one I’ll gladly pay, since I’m getting back $1319! That, a three-paycheck March, and whatever comes in through ebay puts me in decent shape, even with no second job, until the next minicatastrophe.

I find I’m starting to listen to my music more. Must be a sign of something….But I’m still telling you I love you several times a day. Don’t see that changing soon. 

2-18-06

Good Evening My Love —

Tough going to Mr. P today; kept flashing back to visiting you in the hospital, feeling guilty for having left you alone the night before, dreading the chance of finding you worse, or mistreated, or both. You understood, or tried to, or pretended to understand why I couldn’t stay over. The bad back was part of it, but if I was in a hospital bed it wouldn’t suffer overly (not the cots. Those cots were murder). I just got to the point where I couldn’t spend all my days either at work or in the hospital. I couldn’t rest at night, being uncomfortable and on high alert. I had to relax, to the extent I could, for at least a little while. Take off clothes, smoke without paranoia, get the lighting right, the pillows. I needed it so I could do everything else I had to do. But I know it left you feeling frightened, lonely and abandoned.

I just had to trust that my showing up every day would reassure you, that making myself known to the staff in a friendly, sympathetic  but assertive way would keep the staff on its toes, and if they messed up with you, to deal with it as quickly and effectively as possible (with your guidance, of course, baby!). And sometimes, that’s what we had to do, and we did it pretty well. (You’ll recall also that after you were mistreated that night on Post-op 3, where they left you in wet clothes and bedding and wouldn’t help you call me, that I stayed the following night. If that was the best remedy or strategy, I’d do it, but I couldn’t do it every night.)

I always felt guilty and selfish. It was awful leaving you, seeing you sad and scared and trying not to show it. Left anyway. In 2005 you were almost helpless alone in those beds, all wonderfully electronic, but virtually useless to someone who’s blind and can’t tell one button from another, and who can’t feel very well. You’d grope and hope and try, but you were as likely to get yourself in trouble as get help. A bad night would feel like your worst nightmare coming true: sick and helpless in an alien place with a staff that doesn’t care.

Baby, I apologize for having left you there those nights. Thank God it ended at home, in love.

2-19-06

Good Afternoon My Baby –

Tomorrow you’ll be five months gone.

Writing it makes my tears come up, but — as yet — isn’t tearing me up. Subtle signs of healing. But, sweeheart, it’s not a sign I’m forgetting you. When I’m in the bedroom, a row of pictures of you greets me. When I’m on line, your picture (with me, at Lisa’s wedding) looks back at me. When I get in the car, the butterfly pendant hangs from the rear view, waiting to be greeted and kissed. And at work, your picture is the first and last thing I see on my computer. I’ve arranged my spaces and routines to keep you with me, as much as possible. And, baby, even if all these prompts and pictures disappeared, you’re so deeply in my mind and heart that I can’t imagine ever forgetting you.

I love you, Donna.

2-20-06

Five Months Gone, My Love.

I go on about my life. I go on and hope there’s a good reason to do so ahead somewhere. Right now, I go on out of habit, because Lisa still needs me, and because to give up would dishonor the way you lived your life and the extraordinary gift of love you gave me all those years. That’s enough for now, but I hope this isn’t the pattern of my life until my own decline comes.

Tony has asked me to consider what I want my life to be. I don’t know how to answer the question. Vaguely, I want comfort, freedom from serious financial worries, and — within limits — physical well-being. I’d like companionship but don’t know how to go about getting it. The two main barriers, I reckon, are my lack of funds to woo/wine/dine, and the Ghost of Donna Boyce. I’d have to curtail extraneous spending (frogs!) if I wanted to date. What to do about the Ghost, I have no idea. But I’d hate to be the person who’s measured against you. I’d probably ruin any budding relationship by dwelling on you and your specialness, so I can’t even contemplate dating until I can keep you quietly in the background. And I certainly cannot do that yet.

What else? Dunno. If I felt things were going along as they should I might be able to think of doing other things, but the finances are likely to remain iffy, and my first priority will be to stablize them. Of course, a companion who’d help out would be nice…and highly unlikely.

Love you, baby.

Letters to Donna/from 2-7-06

2-7-06

Good Afternoon My Love –

I’m having a bad day, not so much in my body — though I don’t feel well — but in my mind. I’m panicky today, scared, feeling lonesome and vulnerable and alone, uncared-for.

Didn’t sleep well. Second straight night. Woke well before the alarm felling ill and strange, my head unable to get into first gear. Tried staying in bed, but it didn’t help. Was afraid of coffee, of what it might trigger. Stomach jumpy. Tried milk. Helped a little. Gave up, called in sick, rested and slept through the morning, felt a bit better, thought about going into work for the afternoon, copped out, read and watched tv and felt guilty, began to stew about visiting Mr. P., more anxious than I’d been any time last week. Will head to Don Orione in 5 – 10 minutes, but feel awful emotionally.

Damn, baby, I’m scared of depression, scared of getting sick, scaed no one will ever care for me again, scared, scared, scared. See Tony the T tomorrow. Good thing.

Will leave now. I love you and miss you and need your presence and will never have it again. Bad, bad day.

2-8-06

Good Afternoon My Darling –

Still feeling lousy — GI tract — but got into work. It’s 12:30 now, a slow day, and as soon as I’m done with my orders I’m leaving. Emotionally a little better, physically a bit worse.

2-9-06

Good Morning My Love –

Eventful day yesterday, but first please know that rice and rest and Tony the T have improved things. At work now, feeling sore but normal. Good!

After strong advice from Lisa, backed emphatically by Tony, I reluctantly decided I have to beg off Mr. P. The absences of last Thursday and this Tuesday tell me I’m risking serious depression, a risk I can’t afford to take.

So a half-hour ago I called Home Instsead and talked to Susan Kelly. Her mother had Alzheimer’s and she still can’t go back to the nursing home where  her mother ended her days. So she understood, and said they’d get a replacement ASAP, and I said I’d continue the visits until they did. It may be a while, though, and I could have a month or more visits ahead. As far as whether Home Instead retains me at all, it’s up to them.

I don’t feel any profound sense of relief yet, since I’m yet to be relieved. Nor do I feel a strong sense of failure, since I’ve given this a decent try, toughed out some rough days, and am seeing the job to a responsible conclusion.

2-10-06

Good Afternoon Beloved –

Stanley has given me a draft of your song. I’m going to have to listen to it a few times to decide if I’m satisfied with it. It starts with melancholy notes, works toward some brighter moments, then repeats its melody in a major key. But I’m not sure its finish is positive enough. I’m also going to have to puzzle out the bare bones of the tune (Stanley arranged it with a piano background) so I can begin on the lyrics.

Mr. P was upset the first hour but better the last two, partly because he slept through much of it. While I wait to hear when I’ll be replaced, he wants me to add hours that he’d pay me for directly, which won’t happen. Mr. P still has his lucid moments, and he’s sharp enough to know that if he’s paying me directly he can demand things Home Instead would prohibit, like grooming, shaving, nail clipping etc.

I remain professional while at the Don Orione. But it’s a place I won’t mind seeing the last of. Two vignettes you’d recognize: the roach I killed in the corridor; the legless man in grey pants, darkening around the crotch as he wet them, watching me carry a urinal to Mr. P, telling me, “They said they didn’t have urinals, that I should just get in bed and they’d clean me up.”

And Mr. P may be getting a bedsore. God.

Weather finally coming, 6″ to 12″ and starting Saturday night, which will deep-six my dinner with D. & M., and continue well into Sunday. I should be done with Mr. P jujst before it starts, giving me time to stash the car at Broadway’s lower garage, and hike the half-mile home.

2-11-06

Good Afternoon My Love –

Snow holding off till midnight — but after that it’s going to snow like hell! In any case, dinner with D. & M. — and Paul, D.’s ex, because of the mess with her son — is on, once I’m done with Mr. P.  His birthday tomorrow. Got him a card. Daughter planned to celebrate tomorrow, but what with the forecast, I wouldn’t be surprised if it went down today.

2-12-06

Good Afternoon My Darling –

Blizzard well under way. Started about 4 a.m., has been coming down at over an inch an hour, with 30 mph gusts. Should end in the evening with over a foot on the ground.

After seeing Mr. P I went to D. & M.’s for a pleasant evening. Pot roast, mashed, veggies (gasp! carrots! You’d have hated ‘em), gravy, salad; good appetizers (remember the lox and cream cheese rollups we had when we first went there? Out on the deck with M. and me lifting you on and off it. But it was a good time, baby, wasn’t it?). Wine. Dessert (didn’t have any. Something chocolate moussy cake thing). A movie after: “Cinderella Man,” a vintage boxing movie directed by Ron Howard, starring Russell Crowe. Crowe excellent. Movie OK, quite good in places, well-acted, but too brutal.

Some conflict between M. &  D. over her son. M. wants D. & the son to admit that G., the son, is an alcoholic; D. keeps going back to the boy’s ADD as a more basic cause. Though I agree with M. more than D., I said that whatever the underlying cause, the drink and drive behavior has to change immediately; behavior mod necessary; treat the underlying cause long-term.

D. isn’t sure of what the law will do with G. His hearing’s on St. Patrick’s Day. Extensive license suspension seems certain; only the duration is not. Jail time probably won’t happen.

Left about 11:30, tucked the car next to B.’s in the Broadway lot. Will fetch it Monday morning. Brisk, windy, chilly walk back to the house. Safe if not sound. Now I’m just hanging out watching the snow fall…and fall…and fall. If it stops by 9-10 p.m., I’ll try to deal with snow on the steps, though where I’ll put the snow I’m not sure. Otherwise I’ll handle it in the morning too. Not worried about being late to work, got a foot-plus excuse. There’s even a faint chance ECS won’t open if the city stays shut down.

Lisa finished her last week at the old job OK, but is having a rough weekend emotionally. Feeling a bit scared, emotionally lost. I think she’ll be better once the new job starts and she has to focus on it. Will call her today.

Couldn’t reach Lisa, hope she’s OK.

Am trying to be virtuous, a good doogie. Have gotten my tax stuff ready to send to Bill. Am doing some questionnaires for Home Instead. Will call John, maybe J., maybe Freddie. Have dusted in a rudimentary fashion. May vaccuum later. Am playing poker, of course, pushing toward 3 mil. in chips. Always think of you when I’m nearing a big amount like that; we were so excited as we approached that first million. When you could still see and respond well enough to play yourself. Have been flashing back some to those awful clotted legs and how fast what little you had left physically was taken from you. It was a blessing — a dark one, I admit — that you didn’t have to live long blind and bed-bound.

As I wrote these last words I, of course, began to cry. But I have to say that, though I cry at least a bit most every day, I’m not as sad or weepy. It’s like the sadness is always there and easily accessed, but covered with new thin layers of skin, so it’s not as raw and sore. I guess that’s some kind of progress.

Taked to Lisa and Freddie. Lisa better, doing her church thing. Despite frequent bad days, she really is doing better.

Freddie thinks he has an ulcer, and may. But I fear the cancer is spreading into the stomach. Either way, he needs to have it seen to — he’s miserable with it, as you can imagine — and sees his primary care doc tomorrow. Is still angry at the medical profession for slights and screw-ups, real or imagined, which not only — most likely — contributes to his discomfort, but makes him resist advice. Plus I’m just not sure he really knows what’s wrong with him. Says he has colon cancer, then says it’s in his lymphatic system and that they removed part of the colon and is cancer-free in that area.

One incident made me think powerfully of you. He was getting treatment that made him nauseous. He’d had it before and knew he was likely to throw up. Asked for a basin. All they’d give him was the dinky little kidney-shaped bowl, despite his pleas for something larger; sure enough, the bowl soon overflowed. Familiar, huh? How many times did we play out the same scenario? Drove us both crazy.

I’ll call Freddie during the week to check.

Called J. — not home, to my surprise.

You were also powerfully on my mind yesterday, when I almost felt you were speaking through me.

I don’t think I told you about Mr. P’s friend Jane, who drives up from 40 miles south of here to hold his hand while he has dialysis. Three times a week, and his appointment is at 6 or 7 a.m. She stays with him for the duration, follows him ”home”, and visits for a while longer. She remembers how he was in the old days, and feels very bad for him, and thus is willing to put up with his grumpiness (to be mild). And, as with his daughter, he both depends greatly on her visits and gives her a hard time.

Yesterday I met her for the first time. She reminded me of my ex physically, though not as obese or loud, and more focussed mentally. Talked to her for quite a while and heard how pleased she was that I was visiting him, and how he seems to look forward to it (most likely because I enable his smoking, his one remaining vice from the past. As he puts it, “L. is loyal!”). I had to tell her I might not be able to continue, which bothered her and made me feel both pleased and guilty.

But she had another problem, not involving Mr. P; it involved a friend of hers, and the friend’s mother. 

(Bear with me; this is a bit complicated.) The friend’s mother is 95, hard of hearing but otherwise quite healthy and sound (Jane tells me), fully ambulatory. There’s some problem  with electrolytes that, when not kept on top of, can make her a bit loopy. She occupies the bottom floor of her own house, which suits her. Two problems: if she’s somewhere and her daughter’s late to pick her up, she likes to call the cops, and when her electrolytes are out of whack, she tends to wander and be disoriented. (There may indeed be mental deterioration, but I didn’t argue the point. Jane emphatically felt there wasn’t.) During a recent wandering she got picked up, was funnelled into the social services system in Rhode Island where she lives, was declared incompetent and put in a nursing home where — of course — her conditioned worsened to the point that they put tethers on her ankle and put her in a room that automatically locks if she tries to leave. Daughter frantic to the point of hysteria. Jane intervened, faced down the people running the nursing home, got nowhere, found a number of possible safety violations at the home, hired a lawyer.

Why she asked my advice I don’t know. But suddenly things began to come to me, things you’d think of, things you’d say. This is the gist of what I told her:

The situation is like when DSS takes custody of a child, and a determination is made. It’s also like a guilty verdict. They now have to prove their innocense, so to speak. So:

–They have to get a hearing, a new competency hearing or an appeal.

–The mother has to be in the best mental condition she can be in, and must understand she’s her own best witness and must be prepared to answer questions well, read and discuss an article if necessary;

–The daughter must get her act together and keep it together, or she’ll never get her mother back;

–They have to show, if they can, that the mother’s problems are not endemic, that they can be controlled, and that they’ve made contact with a visiting nurse organization so that the mother can be regularly monitored and, if necessary, treated;

–They need to show, by photo and diagram, that the house is suitable;

–As for possible nursing home violations, they need to accumulate their evidence quietly, perhaps research fatal fires in other nursing homes to show that this nursing home’s violations can be fatal, definitely prepare releases for local media outlets — and wait for the right moment to let the nursing home know that if they don’t back off, the information will in fact be released;

–The hearing must be thought of as a stage performance. It must be rehearsed; everyone needs to know her part and not screw up.

That was it. And as I talked, I felt you, your experience and approach speak through me. Even five years ago I might not have known enough to say all that. You educated me. Maybe, even, it was your voice coming out of my mouth.

Now let’s just hope I was right!

You strengthened me, thoughened me. Dealing with all we dealt with made it happen, but your assertiveness and savvy did it too. I wish I was stronger and didn’t need to stop seeing Mr. P, but (I hope ) that problem won’t last forever. You are gone, but you’ve left me in many ways better able to fuction than I’ve ever been. You took me at the lowest point in my life and, in a mere quarter century, made me strong. I love you, I’m grateful to you, and I’m so, so lucky to have had you.

Snow stopped some time after 8 p.m. Shovelled my stairs and doorway, the snow very light and fluffy, but the shovelling whupped me anyway, and I’m puffing now. Total approximately 18″, a biggie. Plenty of places got over two feet. I do expect to go to work tomorrow, worse luck.

Donna, I love you, and I’m grateful for having loved and been loved by you. Thank you for being who and what you were: very loving, very wise, very crazy, very sweet, very sharp, very tough, very brave, very special. Thank God for you, for having you in my life. I believe you saved it.

                                                  L.

2-13-06

Good Evening My Love –

Day before Valentine’s Day. If you still had Teddygrams I’d have stayed home today, we’d have been straight out, crazy/exhausted, for at least two weeks. Those Valentines Days with Teddygrams were insane: desperate men willing to pay anything if only we’d save their asses with their women. By the time it was over we’d hate the very word Valentine, but we always managed to do something to tell each other how we felt. Lisa apparently never had a sexy, romantic Valentines. She will some day, but remembering our not too special but wonderfully loving Valentines, I’m sorry for her.

Retrieved the car OK and got to work on time. Only fell once: ice over snow. By the time I got to work, though, the combination of last night’s shovelling, the walk, and the fall made my sorees start complaining, and they haven’t shut up all day. Will get really close to my heating pad tonight.

So I’m not going to talk much. Hope you understand.

But tomorrow I’m going to tell you, if I can, how much I love you.

Letters to Donna/from 1-31-06

1-31-06

Good Afternoon My Darline –

It’s about 3:45 p.m., and I’m now dealing with my stress problem in anticipation of tonight’s visit with Mr. P.  Tense, jittery, easily upset, thoughts turning sad, etc. Nowhere near as bad as last week. I can manage this, though  I’d prefer it just went away ASAP.

Doesn’t help that an icy snow began about an hour ago. No nor’easter, but hills, including the one up to the Don Orione, might be tricky. Hope they treat it. I go up that hill at 6, down at nine. Would prefer doing it sans accident….

2-1-06

Good Afternoon My Love –

Started hearing ads for Valentines. Rough. “This is one holiday you’d better not miss…” I can’t give you any presents any more, my love, though I’d like nothing better. All I can give you is the love in my heart, and I give you that every day.

Am discouraged by my visits to Mr. P, mainly because I can’t do much for him. All yesterday evening I tried to round up a Hoyer lift so he could go to the smoking room. It never showed up (one was busted so another had to be used by two floors; they were too busy putting people to bed, and after was too late etc.). He doesn’t sustain conversation, doesn’t want to be read to. Am not allowed to groom him. Can’t shift him without help. What good am I doing him? I plan to ask his daughter, who’s paying for this, if she’s satisfied, if there’s something she’d like to see me do more of, that sort of thing.

Can I bitch and moan about sories today? I’m sore by the bulging disc, left and right. I’m sore in the left sciatic nerve, which sometimes sends pain down the leg, as is its habit. I’m sore in the left groin and now a bit in the right. And I’m sore in both thumbs, especially the right, which extends across the hand. Other than that, I’m fine. End bitch and moan.

2-2-06

Good Afternoon My Darling –

Not a great day so far.

Got up, thought about the day ahead including Mr. P, didn’t feel bad but didn’t feel great, felt fairly depressed and couldn’t make myself go to work. You know I have days like this every so often, and you always welcomed my being home, our having an almost-stolen day together, and always worried about what they’d say at ECS. I said “days like this,” but this day isn’t like those others because you’re not here and that makes all the difference.

At least I’m resting my sundry sore places. I also did my measuring and cutting of the Contac paper to put under the batik masks. And since, of course, I measured wrongly I had to do it all over again. Will put the Contac up tomorrow or, more likely, the weekend. Then, probably, I’ll take it down again!

Saw Tony today, at 1. He’s surprised I’m still doing the Mr. P thing. He also wonders why Mr. P needs the Hoyer. I think it’s because without it, two attendents would be necessary whenever he needs to get up, instead of one. And there’s less risk of somebody getting hurt (aka Workman’s Comp.) In other words, $$$. Can’t say I blame the Don Orione, but it does hamper Mr. P. Will talk to his daughter tonight.

What bothers me most about staying home today is that I’m doing it mainly because I’m depressed, and depressed more about the Mr. P gig, and to some extent Lisa, than about your death. If I stay bummed and I’m struggling each day to get up and go to work, I can’t keep seeing Mr. P. Again, like my stress syndrome reaction, I want to see how things play out. But I can’t deny that my emotions are making a strong case for my discontinuing.

Hey baby — four and a half months after your death, and I finally had to buy some toilet paper! That’s how much you had stashed: four months’ worth! Love ya, baby, but you were a nut! I miss you, my love, but I don’t miss your Kon-Tiki-sized rafts of toilet paper, or having to take the plunger to the john after one of your rafts ran aground. But I’d put up with it gladly to have you here with me — healthy — right now. Oh, my love, how I miss you!

Back from Mr. P. He was in his wheelchair so we went to the smoking room — three times. Second-hand smoke so bad I left the room with a 2-pack habit. His granddaughter’s 13th birthday today; we had rum cake. At the end of the visit I talked with the daughter. She said he’d been less lethargic, more (for him) active since I started visiting. I needed to hear that. She also said he’d been a career postal worker, eventually becoming Postmaster; that after his heart surgery he was basically in bed for a year and his legs atrophied. He and his wife divorced but remained close, then she got ALS and moved back in with him until she died, which came with blessed quickness. She said he’d always been a patient, gentle man who never procrastinated, and never yelled at her or hit her. So the father she visits daily is not the man who raised her. Very sad, for both of them. Nice to hear her talk about the father she once had, the one she loves enough to visit this man with her father’s face and someone else’s personality.

2-3-06

Good Morning My Love –

Told ‘em at ECS I’d had a back flare-up, which is so close to the truth I’m prepared to believe it myself.

As I kissed the butterfly pendant in the car, and told you I love you and how much I miss you, I thought again of what I was missing: an extraordinary relationship. We had something rare, and we had it for a quarter century. A quarter century, baby! We’ve known people who couldn’t put up with each other for a quarter of an hour. Damn it, Donna, we were good, and I look forward to celebrating that fact with joy and pride, not just sadness.

Not too bad with Mr. P. He actually greeted me warmly, and sent me out for butts, a pack of which he immediately gave with $5. tip, to the barber, a woman. He had a nice smoke, we had a brief but real conversation, about the postal service. But he got anxious and a bit paranoid about his scooter. And then  just sagged, restless and tired. Napped mostly after that.

I really think he shoud be visited 1 1/2 to 2 hours every day, or at least six days a week so he can have a day to find things to bitch about. If I can, I’ll suggest it. Think three hours at a pop is too much for him. I couldn’t do all those days myself, I don’t think. And helper availability may fritz the idea, even if it’s deemed good.

2-5-06

Good Afternoon Beloved –

A few words before I head out, reluctantly to my Super Bowl shebang: barbeque spare ribs at R.S.’s, my colleague at work and former neighbor of Tom’s. He’s been making general invitations to me to come out for dinner, but hadn’t followed up with anything specific; this time, for Super Bowl Sunday, he did. It’s a long drive and a lousy menu but I felt I couldn’t refuse. Wished D. & M. had asked me first. They did ask me, but too late.

When I called D. to refuse the invite (I have another for next weekend) she told me about her son G., who has a drinking problem (among others) and likes to drive after drinking. Last week in the wee hours he was driving out on the interstate when he lost control and smashed into a guardrail, disabling the vehicle. Just after he got out of it, it was hit by another, speeding car. G. would’ve been dead had he not gotten out when he did. Someone in the other car did get hurt.

In the meanwhile, he’s in huge trouble. The state has finally toughened up its drunk-driving laws, and G. faces possible jail time (he’s a repeat offender) and a license suspended for as much as a decade. So D’s life is now upside down too, with G.’s father back to “help”, lawyers to be hired, G’s ass to be hauled to and from work, to and from court, and conflicts between G. and M. to be mediated. And of course D.’s work’s in a stressful period — always the way. The single best thing they can all do is acknowledge, out loud, G.’s alchohol dependency, and react accordingly. Had that been done several years ago….

And then this morning B. called. Bad cold, poor thing. And hasn’t heard from her John, so she knows he’s still likely abusing substances. She’s not trying to initiate contact (“so I won’t be lied to,” she says), just waiting and hoping.

Sadness and stress all over the place.

OK, guess I’ve procrastinated long enough. Love you, Donna, always will. God, I was lucky to have you!

Back from the barbeque. OK time. Glad it’s done.

The worst moment was on the way out, when I passed over the beltway and remembered our desperate attempts to treat your poor swollen legs after the brain surgery. We knew how serious it was and we tried our damnedest to relieve it, to do something, anything to get them back to normal. Those trips to the specialist. Futile. The thing we never anticipated. The thing that forced you into your deathbed.

The recollection caught me by surprise, and I was so pissed off about it that I laughed and cried at the same time, cried remembering how awful it was, laughed because I was so not expecting it. It wasn’t a happy laugh.

I also thought, again, how lucky I was to have you, to have that amazing, generous unqualilfied love that’s healed and strengthened so much in me. Lisa is also trying to recover from lost love, but it was a bad love. So is N.’s. So are most people’s. Not mine, my love, not mine. And under the sadness, the aching, the longing, is this wonderful shining thing we achieved. Thank you, baby. Thank you my darling. Thank you Donna

Now for the bad news: my frog collection has filled one full-sized bookcase and spread to another. And it gets worse. A delegation of my frogs is demanding I build them a pond. And feeding them is increasingly difficult, partly because there are so many of them, partly because of their diverse diets. The metal frogs want one kind of food, the stone frogs another. You have any idea the cost of metal flies? Yet I can’t seem to stop. Got another Zuni fetish; at least they’re small.

Did I tell you about the racket they make at night?

2-6-06

Good Morning My Love –

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you!…Just thought I’d mention it.

Back at work, which means back to a sore back. It’s getting to be a problem. Besides the discomfort, I’m finding my thighs increasingly stiff and inflexible, making bending over harder and more painful. I need P.T. badly, but I still don’t know what my schedule with Mr. P’s going to be, so am reluctant to commit to a time. Will have to do it soon, though; am starting to walk like the old man I am. (By the way, why is it that when you’re having trouble picking things up, you inevitably drop more than usual?)

N. says that Bryan’s bi-polar, manic-depressive, whatever. I always thought he was just a schmuck.

Put up the contac as background to the batik masks. Sure does make ‘em pop, though I’d have liked the contac to be a couple of shades darker. Best part is: I need two more masks to complete the row! Got one already; the other’s a few days away. Goodie!

Unfortunately for me, I keep thinking about your awful legs. I wish I’d asked what the odds were that anticlotting meds would’ve triggered a stroke. Low odds, no meds, no swelling, but who knew? I know, at first we hoped that wraps would help, but when they didn’t and when we concluded they wouldn’t go away on their own, we should’ve asked. Of course the mere thought of a stroke and its effects, was terrifying. And we didn’t understand how serious the swelling problem would become. I think about those legs, how they looked, and blistered, and superated, and hurt, and it seems so cruel that on top of everything else, you had to endure that. God, Donna, you endured so much at the end, and you were so classy about it.

Stanly says he’s got the harmonies worked out for your song, just doesn’t have a melody yet. How can you have harmonies without a melody?

How’s this for my epitaph: “Here lies Lawrence McDonald. He loved well, and was loved better.”

Our false Spring, which lasted about a month and featured many days in the 50s, has ended. Temps in the 30s this week, colder for a spell after. Our luck held re: precipitation too — lots of rain last week that, had it been seasonably cold, would’ve given us snow up to our eyeballs. As it is there’s no snow to be seen. This I do not mind at all. I figure eight more weeks until the end of March, even sooner maybe, and we’ll have survived another winter.
‘

Letters to Donna/from 1-24-06

1-24-06

Good Morning My Baby –

Very bad morning so far.

First: last night I got the word that Mr. P is back from the hospital, so I’m to see him this evening at 6. To my surprise I became just as nervous and scared as a week ago, my stomach doing its jumping bean imitation. Still going on now, at 9 a.m. Went through the strategies I’d come up with earlier, tried on the idea of being “just a kid from the old neighborhood” — but that neighborhood is Washington Heights in New York City, not the Italian section of this town. I need to get a read on him; once I do I hope I’ll be on firmer ground. But woo-hoo, am I nervous!

Then, on the way in, my mind kept casting up images, the bad ones, from your last days. Wouldn’t stop. I ended up yelling”Stop!!” at the top of my lungs (windows up, fortunately), and that slowed it down, but it’s still trying, and I’m still crying.

But the worst was when I was driving in. The car slipped out of gear. I felt it start to coast, eased it over to get off the restricted road I was on in case I needed a tow — and it slipped back into gear. Got my breakfast, and got to work. But if indeed the transmission is going, that — plus getting really sick — is the thing I’ve dreaded most: major car repair. And Patrick doesn’t do transmissions. Will have to ask B. for a reference and pray. And how having the car in the shop for a while will affect my Home Instead gig, I don’t know. I could take the subway and climb the hill to Don Orione on foot, but would rather not.

Yep. bad morning. As you know, my tendency is to panic big time when such pressures build, so you won’t be surprised to hear…that I’m panicking big time!!

Noon. A bit better.

Obvious now to me that the source of my upset (excepting the slipping transmission) is my re-entrance into the triple-d world of disease, despair and death. Having scenes of you in the latter stages pop into my head, and feeling high anxiety, almost terror, clearly are connected. Is it too soon? Maybe. I hope that the doing will to a great extent cancel out the fearing. If not, and I have to go through this whenever I see a client, I’ll have to reconsider this job. Hell, if the car shits the bed I’ll have to anyway.

Can I achieve a workable detachment? Can’t tell till I’ve tried. Maybe not loving my client will give me emotional space, and ongoing visits will maintain it. But I’ve been miserable this morning, far worse than just sad, and that scares me. I hope somehow I can feel you with me tonight, because I need help. Will also try meditative breathing in case you don’t show up.

On the good side, the sciatic is better.

1-25-06

Good Morning My Love –

My visit with Mr. P wasn’t so bad, but wasn’t so hot. I got through my three hours and helped him a bit. But he’s not blessed with a winning personality (on top of which, he’s tired and still somewhat disoriented from his hospitalization, which was caused by a “silent” heart attack and may have actually occured two weeks ago), and it’s not easy to figure what will actually make him feel better. I ended up reading to him and — just like with you, my baby — I put him fast asleep. He’s brusque, a bit rude, believes he’s owed for his imfirmities, so he tends to demand more than ask. He is/was a bright enough man, but not warm and fuzzy at all.

Then there’s the Don Orione itself: big, old, hot, understaffed. And the room, a grubby hospital-type space, cluttered, institutional, claustrophobic. And yellers in wheeelchairs just outside the door.

His daughter’s OK, wants to do the right thing, overbusy, put-upon. Her father isn’t especially nice to her, though I saw nothing overtly mean; she just endures. Three kids, home-schooled; household to run.

I was reasonably calm and composed, though uncomfortable (bad chair, temp. about 80), during the visit. Today I’m better than I was this time yesterday, but still very jangly and anxious. To me, it’s feeling an awful lot like post-traumatic stress syndrome, and if I continue to feel this way I don’t think I can or should go on with it. I see Tony the T tonight; will seriously discuss.

The transmission fluid was low and I’m hoping a drink of cherry syrup (which is what tranny fluid looks like) will make the Merc happy. But getting at the tranny dipstick, much less actually pouring fluid into the system, requires a contortionist with a long skinny funnel because of where the dipstick is located in the engine. Since I’m not the former and lacked the latter, most of the fluid I added landed on the ground. Phooey.

Lisa has her job offer in hand and will give notice at her old place on Friday. She’s in agony over it — same kind of symptoms I’ve had this week, plus the familial GI upset to boot. But by Feb. 10 she’ll be in her new pad and her new job! Go girl!!

Another weird New England morning. Very wet snow, even more waterloggsed than Monday’s, put half an inch on the car. Messy commute, lots of accidents — and blue sky by the time I got to work! This afternoon (it’s 1 p.m. — time for your soap, my love!) it’s springlike. Tonight will freeze. Tomorrow: bring skates.

I’m afraid my habitual laziness was able to reestablish itself to some extent: I really missed sitting, playing poker etc. I’ll get over it, but as an alternative to post traumatic stress syndrome, it sure looked good to me!

I miss you every day. But for a long time I’ve been able to get through most of my days without your active support. It always was welcomed, and I always felt safer and stronger because you were always there if I needed some substantive help. But yesterday was oneof those (thankfully infrequent) days when I really needed you, because I was (am) at that place you knew very well, where my usual props and interior supports break down. I tend then to get frantic, extremely pessimistic, and often want to cry. And crying is better than the ranting I usually end up doing. Thenyou’d hold me, soothe me, reason with me (if that was possible) and give me an anchor to ride it out with. How many of those spells did you pull me through? Too many to count.

Yesterday I felt profoundly alone.

1-26-06

Good Morning Beloved –

Today bad, not as bad as Tuesday thus far, but pretty rough. If it stays at this level I’m not going to continue with Home Instead.

Fortunately, Andy C. was out today and I’ve had to do his job as well as mine, which might be tiring but sure kept me occupied. Distracted.

Tony said that, yes, what I’m experiencing is a form of post-traumatic stress. He agreed that if it stays this bad, I’m well advised to stop.

Based on today and tonight, I’m not sure. Once in the nursing home, in his room, I’m OK, though I really can’t help him much. Brought him spring water, did what little things I could. He treated me OK, but was pretty rude to everyone else. Hard man to care about.

So far I give the staff there passing grades. They’ve got a lot to do, so they aren’t as prompt as residents like Mr. P would prefer, but they seem to know their business. I’m trying my usual technique of informed sympathy. Hope it works and they try a tiny bit harder for me, if not for Mr. P.

I’m going to stop now. Tired, a bit sore in the back. So I’ll get on the heating pad soon. But I want you to know, my love, that every day I miss you, every day my heart aches for you, and every moment I love you, and always will.

1-27-06

Good Morning My Best Baby –

See that last paragraph in yesterday’s letter? Well — ditto!!

Today’s memories have been sweet. Your delight at getting small gifts. Your coming up to me in the evening and asking, in your best little girl voice, “Do you have a cookie?” (I always thought your warm reactions to being lovingly treated showed that you’d grown up unused to such things. I hope, my darling, that by September ‘05 you’d gotten very used to them.) The way you never demanded. The way you bore a million miseries with grace (as opposed to Mr. P). God bless you, baby, you were a class act in all the ways that counted.

Had to go to Walgreens; it was filled with Valentine items. Bummer. No Stover heart, no Whitman Sampler for my love. But baby, though I can’t get you the candy and cards you loved, my love flows just as it always did. I love you Valentine’s Day, St. Swithian’s Day, today, every day.

Thought back to Christmas, to egg nog. I’d put it in the fridge, wait for you to want something sweet (“Do you have a cookie?”) and surprise you with it. I loved doing that. I believe you loved it to. I miss that so much. I miss you. So much, baby.

1-28-06

“Good Morning My Love –

Lots to do today, culminating in another visit with Mr. P. from 2 to 5 p.m. Not looking forward to it but not in a mess either, emotionally. Some problems, at this point comparatively mild. P.O., Home Depot, ebay, laundry, Don Orione — then off until Monday.

Lisa gave notice yesterday. And it was very interesting. As they’d done with a friend of hers when she wanted to leave, they talked about giving Lisa enough to keep her. But certain red flags emerged:

–They told Lisa they’d pay her as much as her new job would, but she’d have to work harder for it;

–Just ast they’d done with her friend, they wanted to flip-flop her and her friend’s positions. Apparently you’re important to them when you’re wanted elsewhere, but once they’ve got you they figure they can manipulate you as much as the want. Employees’ feelings irrelevant.

–And her friend reports they’ve already reneiged on their promises to her.

So, on Monday, they’ll pitch their offer to Lisa, and I hope she’ll refuse it. Will keep you posted.

Now 6 p.m. Today’s session with Mr. P went OK. Parts of the session almost enjoyable, as I wheeled him all over the Don Orione. It’s been a nice day at the end of a nice mild January (with February looking nasty!), so we went on the fourth floor balcony — now part of an adult daycare setup — and enjoyed a terrific view of the city and harbor. A bit windy, so we ended up downstairs, out front, while waiting for dinner. We even sang together — Beatles, Elvis, one-hit wonders from the ’70s. Mr. P not bad.

I pretend while I’m there. Remember, I’d come to visit you at Mt. A, all bright and friendly — partly to perk you up, partly to stay on the staff’s good side in case we needed something from them. An act. (I’d drop it with you, of course. We could be ourselves.) It’s almost like a uniform I put on when on duty. Hope I can sustain it, and that it’s enough.

Asked you to stay by my side while I was there. Did feel a sense of you. You’d have loved:

–the seven little ladies in a line of chairs, perched like tiny white-headed birds, all the same exact size, about five foot;

–the couple in wheelchairs, his hand reaching over to touch her leg, hers touching his. 

You wouldn’t have loved:

–the smells certain residents carry with them;

–the tiny, completely hairless black man who kept his eyes squeezed shut, covering himself completely with a sheet, then suddenly crying out;

–the nurse chasing a male resident, his pants around his knees, back into his room before he shit on the corridor floor.

But the main thing is that, if I don’t relapse into panic and misery on Tuesday (next visit) I’ll be able to continue with the job.

Damn it.

I held my little office glass frog against my cheek. It was warm from the computer and I cupped it in my hand and gently pressed. And there you were, next to me in bed, warm from your sleep, that faintly funky sleep smell about you. “You want to roll over on my shoulder?” I’d ask. “Is it OK?” you’d say in your sleep-thick voice. “Sure, baby, of course it is.” “OK — ” with your eyes still shut and a little smile on your softened lips — they were always softest as you slept — and you’d heave yourself over and nestle against my body, head on the well of my left shoulder (which I’d cover with a pillow) and with a contented little animal grunt you’d squeezed out the last bit of air between us, let out a soft sigh, and go back to sleep.

I love you, Donna –

                                                      L.

1-29-06

Good Morning Beloved –

I’ve noticed that my sleep is very slowly edging toward normal. Though it’s still a problem most nights, the whole process by which I get tired, doze, wake, smoke, try again, sleep a little, try again, smoke again etc etc etc, has lately started an hour or two earlier, so I may be averaging an hour or two more sleep a night. I’m not as frequently blotto when the alarm clock rings, and I’m definitely more alert during the drive in. I don’t ever expect to sleep “normally” again, but at least I can sometimes hope to sleep (a bit) by midnight.

Got in a walk. Sometimes I talk to you as I walk, more often when I drive. It usually ends sadly when I have to acknowledge you’re gone. And then I have to tell you how much I miss you, which is just slightly more than incredibly. I’m learning to live with the large empty space inside, like an obstacle in your house you have to learn to avoid, to the point where you almost don’t notice it but always take it into account. So I maneuver through my life now, after four months, with some facility — but all I have to do is stop and think a second (if it doesn’t come unbidden) and I know I’m living only half a life, since my other half is forever gone. I must accept it — I can’t change it — but it will never feel right, the space will never be filled. That special entity that was us is gone from everywhere but my mind and heart. It will never leave those places.

Lisa continues to show signs of healing, getting more comfortable in her new place and her new skin. Her talk is more optimistic, albeit guardedly.

She’s also gotten another cat, named Tony. Charlie is less than thrilled. Hope they can get along; poor Charlie’s life has been a series of upsets, most involving having to cope with other animals. Lisa says Tony is an easy-going, friendly cat. He’ll need to be.

1-30-06

Good Afternoon My Love –

Raw day, but it looks like the potential nor’easter on tap for tomorrow will be mostly rain. Yay!

Busy day so far: a skid going to NYC for a convention, and the usual Monday craziness. I’m stiff and sore, but otherwise OK. Was thinking about how I’d get you Whitman Samplers at Valentines (Jane loved them too!) and how you’d take a little bite out of every one to see if it was one you liked, and if it wasn’t, you’d put it back, so that eventually what was left looked like mice had been at them. Not your most endearing behavior, but so typically you that I cherish it, you pain in the neck!!

I also cherish the memory of us, on a raw day like this, snuggling like two little animals, all entwined and cozy, so safe, so sweet. We snuggled very well together, didn’t we, my love?

Letters to Donna/from 1-17-06

1-17-06

Good Morning My Beloved –

This is a big day for me.

I start my visits with Mr. P after work. Woke up this morning scared to death — what am I going to say to or do with this guy? Stomach-jumping panic. Calmed myself as best I could (needed immodium, natch). As a first real meeting, it should be easy, with me asking him about himself and taking it from there. Bought cards. Hope he likes sports. Hope he likes me. Hell, hope I like him!

Will tell you all about it tonight or tomorrow.

Also, I told Stanley to go ahead with your song. I chose him because he writes that kind of thing particularly well. I hope to write lyrics for it once it’s done. When that’ll be, I have no idea.

I know I should’ve done this before you died. I mean, what good is having your own song if you’re too dead to hear it? (Ah, but if there is a heaven…). But I don’t think I could’ve done it in the last year, when things were so uncertain and painful, and it didn’t occur to me earlier to actually commission a professional-quality work. Forgive me for that. I hope the piece turns out well enough to stand on its own, and live on in some form. Time will tell.

Stanley and I haven’t yet agreed on a price. I’ve told him I’ll give him a C note every paycheck until he tells me to stop. Will begin Friday.

Talked to John. Said he didn’t get your pics, so sent ‘em out again. Said D. had written him. Good!

Shelley winters died over the weekend. 80s, bad heart. Bet she died giving someone hell. She could be very good or a caricature of herself. But no matter what, she made you pay attention.

Well, my initial assignment for Home Instead didn’t go quite as planned. Got to Don Orione 15 minutes early, checked in at the desk — and was informed that Mr. P had just been carted off to the hospital, poor man.

Holy Auspicious Debut, Batman!

So now I wait while Home Instead checks things out and lets me know when my visits can begin, or even if I have a client!

Wrote this at work:

                             Doggerel For Donna

You’re gone./Gone from the shot and med/Gone from the hospital bed.

Gone from the daily pain/Never an MRI again./Gone from that damned ER/Gone to a far-flung star.

Gone from the downward slope/Gone from the end of hope./Gone from my arms and bed/But never from my heart and head.

And Donna, at the end of days/We’ll love again. Always.

                                                   L.

1-18-06

Good Afternoon My Darling –

Have you noticed that I address you more affectionately at the start of these letters than I ever did in life? “Baby” was my main term, and I’d love to be cuddling you and calling you that right now.

After yesterday’s eventful/anticlimactic/emotional day, today’s just sedate. Did talk to B. last night, who says her John is drinking again, which means he’s probably doing drugs again, which means he’ll probably lose his job.

Lisa is keeping Charlie the Cat. He’d become erratic and irritable, possibly due to the many changes in his living quarters and having to spend six months in a house with a terrier. He also may have begun the usual feline physical decline. She leaned toward leaving him behind but couldn’t.

As for me, I’m sore around the bulging disc and a tad tender through the hips. Looks like another intimate evening with the heating pad.

But, Donna, please be assured that no matter what kind of day it is, I love you and miss you and cherish you.

1-19-06

Good Morning My Love –

I love you, Best Baby!

One of those days when, in the words of the Late Great Donna Boyce (that’s you, baby!) I’m not quite up to par (“pah-h-h”, in Donnaspeak). Still sore, though the heating pad helped — and will have to help again — and am not thinking at top efficiency today. It’s like I left my first-string brain home and brought in my back-up. A bit jittery/jumpy. Not knowing what extra work I’ll be doing or when contributes to the feeling.

Christy had her adrenal gland removed on Monday, a laproscopic procedure but requiring full anesthesia. She was loopy Monday evening, better but still woozy yesterday. Wonder how many hormone replacements she’ll have to take?

C.S.’s cough is no better, and gets worse as the day lengthens. And today she’s developed a rash around her trunk and up her back. I’m very worried about her; I feel in my gut there’s something really wrong that’s not being addressed.

I’ve noticed that my letters have become more trivial, mundane. Not so many deep issues discussed, not so many emotional bombshells. It’s as if the internal landscape is flattening out, losing its peaks and canyons. The bland normalcy of routine is painting the scenery beige. Though my psyche, I suppose, won’t miss the frequent turmoil, I do feel the immediacy of your presence fading, as I’ve already said, as if my last grip on the you of 9-20-05 is slipping, and only by revisiting the traumas, images and issues of those last days can I keep my tenuous grasp. Baby, I don’t want to do that! It hurts so much. I have to change how I keep you inside: not crying from every nerve ending, not behind every thought, but warmly, softly, subtly, in those places in my heart and mind I can easily go, but tucked away from the moment-to-moment. I need to put you where Jane is.

Jane, as you know, resides as much as anywhere in my language. So many of my expressions are hers, from the ’40s, heard through the years, so colorful, now unique, so peculiar to her. I can often hear her in my head, see her expressions — the warm smile, the skewering look, the drama-queen angst and her fury at the evil ways of the world.

You are much more pervasive in my mind, my love. I can hear your voice too, calling me “baby love,” talking on the phone, yelling for me from any place in the apartment. I can smell the cigarette, see its smoke. I can feel you: your shorn head that felt so good and looked so heartbreaking, all those parts of your body that I knew and enjoyed so often and so long (you were stacked!!), and the wonderful feel of the skin on your cheek, so soft, like a child’s. My fingertips remember. The heft of you as I’d help you in and out of beds, chairs, cars. The sight of your lively eyes and sensual, expressive lips — my mind, my nerves and synapses are drenched with you. That’s the problem, but ultimately that’s the solution. You are so deeply inside. You will be there when I call you, when I need you. Or so I pray.

And even though I got rid of the vast majority of our stuff, 90% of what remains, of what I look at and touch every day, was ours, and will always carry the subtle sense of Donna Boyce. I have, as much as I can, made sure you are everpresent in my world. That world, after all, owes its best characteristics, its specialness, to you and the life, so hard and sweet and full of love, that we shared. And because of all that, you will always live inside me.

I guess I need to have the immediacy of your death fade so I can get through whatever remains to me without crying all the time. But I swear you will be with me, in me, every single day.

Right now I’ve gone from having one Home Instead client, then maybe two, to probably having none. Mr. P is still in the hospital and not expected to get out next week. A man in Winthrop they’d talked about having me visit on Sundays, will be covered by someone else who’s worked with him before. All this could change, but right now, my second job is a total bust!

Patience, patience…

1-20-06

Good Afternoon, My Darling –

One-third of a year.

I already cried over this, like the White Queen in “Through the Looking Glass.” It’d  all be so much better if I knew that some day, somehow, I’d see you again.

Wilson Picket died yesterday. Ne no longer has to wait for the Midnight Hour.

Good talk with Lisa last night. Another company is interested in her, as a loan processor. It requires comfort with sundry computer systems, plus good customer relations, so she’s qualified. Has already had her first interview.

And she’s already feeling better being in her own place. She likes it, likes the privacy, likes it being hers, thinks it’s a nicer place than her last one, in her previous life. Even better, she went through some pictures from that previous life and although they evoked the usual miserable reactions, she didn’t fall apart. She could’ve, if she’d let herself.  But this time she didn’t.

She’s made progress. 

1-21-06

Good Evening My Darling –

Had a busy day planned, and then the GI tract intervened. So my busy day has become a do-nothing day, and I’m only mildly guilty about it. Just glad it’s not a work day.

Was watching a movie, heard a character say: “My wife died ten years ago,” and I just started to cry. I’m barely handling your being dead one-third of a year. Somehow the thought of ten years without you was more than I could contemplate. Dumb, huh?

Lisa’s gotten a job offer, nice money, but not the loan processor job. Probably will take it. I like that she works out decisions logically but factors in the “affective domain” — her gut — and tries to accommodate both. Now we’ll see how the decision actually works out….

In talking to her Thursday I worked out a strategy for handling Mr. P. One: try the usual conversational gambits; two: try activities he’s supposedly open to. If he isn’t responsive, then I talk to him candidly about his situation, and point out that while I can’t do anything substantive about it, I can help make the days a little less bleak — is that worth our doing together? If he’s still unresponsive, I turn the problem over to Home Instead and go on from there. Maybe he won’t let himself be helped. Maybe he just needs some patience and honesty. But at least now I have a Plan, and feel much less unsure of myself. Still don’t like the nursing home setting, though. Just adds problematic psychological factors nowhere near as prevalent as when the client’s in his own space.

1-22-06

Good Morning Beloved –

GI tract better this morning, thanks. Back’s sore, not sure why. Will work on it through the day.

J.’s PC is screwed up; she had trouble downloading your pics (and then of course had problems just looking at them). I suggested the Simply PC lady, who helped both of us. Knowing J., she won’t take my suggestion.

I forgot to tell you: Charlie the Cat isn’t ill, just has an infected foot.

I think I figured out why I got so interested in the human propensity for taking on projects we know will cause us pain. Believe it’s tied to my need to “prove myself” — like early rites of passage (c.f. walkabouts, et al).

Issues of childhood become issues of manhood. Because I misbehaved so often and so spectacularly as a child (stole, lied, set fires, was a truant and a runaway), I’ve felt for 50 years that I had to rehabilitate my self-image, as well as my external personna. Thus I became obsessed with honesty, and very serious about ethics in my late teens, and much concerned with concepts of honor. Not that my behavior was especially honorable during my 20s: sleazy dealings with my ex-fiancee, playing fast and loose with Army rules and regs, selling to the Saigon black market. And more.

Though my conscience isn’t clear about these times, I’m not overly guilty either. Any nastiness between Suzanne and me was well earned by both sides. Army rules and regs were often insane when applied to real world situations. And I was in a country where American mores were irrelevant. I’d later discover Situations Ethics; I’d already seen it in practice in Viet Nam, in those few instances where there was any ethics at all. Yet even in Viet Nam it was possible to build a good relationship based on mutual respect. I believe I achieved that with my coworker Hien, and I believe we counted each other as friends.

I found that mutual respect is, like the related Golden Rule, a foundation for genuine interactions between anybody from any culture. Hien, Thanh the landlord’s nephew, even Kim were people I learned to respect, and who came to respect me. The same process characterized my teaching there. When my Vietnamese students saw that, contrary to most Americans, I didn’t feel automatically superior to them, they opened up, tried harder.

I returned from Viet Nam with a purpose — to become a teacher — and a cause: to help end the Viet Nam war. As such I had become more like my mother. Jane was passionate about everything, but particularly political and social issues (she truly hated injustice and cruelty). She had no respect for a sentient person too indifferent or self-involved to take a stand about the wrongs which, to Jane, were obvious on every corner, in any country. So I set out to prove myself a worthy Citizen of the World.

But personally, I still wasn’t what I should’ve been, and my ex and Lisa paid the greatest price for my emotional immaturity. After the catastrophic denouement of the marriage, I knew that I couldn’t live comfortably with myself unless my personal ethics matched my intellectual ethics. I’m not sure I conceptualized it that way. But when your ex-to-be found us and we had our confrontation in the street, I made my stand (romantic, reluctant and foolish as it was), and for 27 years followed up that one badly-made stand, and in the end really did prove myself — with notable and noted exceptions — worthy in my own eyes.

But I discover that being worthy in my own eyes is, for me, an ongoing process, never completed, never marked “Done” and filed away. I am not like the Christian who is “saved” and figures he’s got a free ride to Heaven. (Since I don’t believe that Jesus was God, I guess I’m not a Christian, conventionally speaking, at all. I do respect and try to emulate his extreme ethic of pacifism and antihypocrisy.) I can’t just be fat and happy, can’t just smugly exist. So I must prove myself again. And my own standards say I must do so by “doing something worth doing” – which assumes a certain degree of difficulty and psychological discomfort — which gets me back to the original question of taking on painful projects.

(At the same time, part of me wants to do nothing more than go to work, come home, veg out, sleep, get up, go to work….The Couch Potato in me.)

Tony the T talks about motivation. Mine seems involve an understanding that my self-respect must be continually earned, and that one cannot truly earn anything easily.

1-23-06

Good Morning My Love –

Snowy morning. A quick two inches of perfect snowball snow. Would give a lot to have a snowball fight with you, my love. We may get more — weatherman waffling.

So I started the car, swept my steps and my bit of walkway, put down most of the rest of my halite, then cleared the by-now-warm car and boogied. Conditions fair, requiring caution, but nothing dire. Just messy.

The weekend was dominated by my sciatic nerve. It’s bad, though it’s been worse. Limits my sitting. Add that to the sore lower back, which limits my standing. So I’m having my ups and downs. I may have to endure a painful week, or more.

No word re: clients.

Sindy coming down the second week in February, will use a sleeping bag on the living room floor. Andy says he wants to come down too. I’m assuming that, at this moment, you’re glad you’re dead, as Andy has more city-related phobias than an Amish. The bright side is, Sindy says she’s treating at Legal Seafoods.

Find myself transferring some of my deeply-ingrained habit of worrying from you and your maladies to C.S. and hers. Her cough hasn’t abated; she’s getting run down and grey-looking; I already noted the trunk rash she developed. She took off two Fridays ago, and left early last Friday. Almost unheard-of for her. This is a woman who survived breast cancer at the cost of a permanently screwed-up lymphatic system, thus she’s immune-compromised, as you were. And she works like hell. Since both of you emulated Cleopatra (the Queen of Denial), I’ve had to listen to her poo-poo and evade and look to iffy medicines on the fringes of conventional treatements for quite a while now, just as I had to wait out your denials and related strategies. “It’s just a cough, it’s just a cough,” she’ll say, hacking away. Well, it’s not just a cough. Now, finally, she’s getting blood work done. I’d throw her in the hospital and run every test and scan I could until we had a diagnosis. With her complaining about it every step of the way.

The thought of her seriously ill gets me almost as emotional as I was (am!) with you. That surprises me; I didn’t know how much I cared about what happens to her. OK, she’s a distant fourth behind you, Lisa and Jane, but even a fourth-place finisher seems to carry a lot of my emotional baggage.

I just don’t want any more people I care about, especially women, to suffer. Much less die.

It crossed my mind to write you daily for a year, then when the spirit moves me after that. Since it’s your spirit moving me, I imagine I’ll be writing often. Don’t know if that’s actually what I’ll do….But remember when Gil’s father died, and he performed certain observances for a year? That also crossed my mind.

My latest invention, a healthy snack for kids: a candy cane made entirely out of raisins. I call it…”raisin cane”….

I do think you’d like Crazy Jimmy, despite my heat (actually, cold) problems. He’s a classic good-hearted passionate Italian nut.

Anyway, I go to pay him rent and I see two things: he’s growing a beard and he’s not dying his hair any more. As you know, I like to take credit for inspiring beards in men who’ve recently met me — it’s happened once or twice (probably coincidence) — but though I secretly think I did inspire Jimmy, I’m worried his girlfriend isn’t going to like hanging out with a scratchy-chinned old man and not the young-looking retiree she’s hung out with for years.

He was also telling me that he and I are living on borrowed time. He was at his girlfriend’s house with four of her friends, all widows, all with their own homes. Jimmy imagines men our age dropping dead left and right — he does have a point, women do outlive men — and figures it’s our turn soon. Me, I just glommed onto the picture of four comfortable widows, and me, a nice 60-ish guy who wouldn’t mind being taken care of. Should I press him to set me up? Or is he hoping to service all five himself, AKA Italian Stallion? Hell, that might kill him right there!

Here’s a strange thing: all I have to do is picture you the day before you died, Donna the Sweet Child’s last expresssion of love and joy, and think about what so many people did to that sweet child when you were a child, and I start to cry, and I get angry and want to find somebody who wronged you, and hurt that person. Bizarre, huh? I felt that way for years, but it’s much stronger now. Of course I won’t act on the urge, even if I could, but it’s curious how strong the feelings are.

It’s 3:30 and I’ve managed not to aggravate my little aches and pains too much. First, it’s been a fairly quiet day. The snow, C.S.’s whatever-it-is, and a burst water heater have rid ECS of its bosses for the day. Christy and Craig aren’t in either. So I’m not running around like a crazy person. And I vary my tasks, so I sit a spell, stand a spell, spell a spell (“i” before “e”…), and so on. That way nothing has to suffer too much for too long. Also, since I sit on a backed stool 15″ in diameter, I can hang my left bun off the edge so it doesn’t have to deal with the pressure of my weight, which pleases the sciatic. Nice that my ass is huge enough to allow for that. All hail the Crisco Kid!!

Lisa is thinking I’m more of a humanitarian than I am, because I’ve been sending her exerpts of these letters, and one, from January 21, was so high-minded it fooled her. So I had to write her this:

“I can’t accept the mantle of one who does Good in, or for, the World. I sort of stumble into things. My motivation for joining Home Instead is more financial than humanitarian. Not that I mind helping; I even glean a modicum of virtue from it. But if in December somebody had offered me $10 an hour to answer phones in a strip joint, I’d have taken it. This is one of my areas of hypocrisy. I talk a great talk, but don’t necessarily walk the great walk. Intellectually I care hugely about issues, but what gets me off my ass and actually doing something is usually either necessity, or loyalty to/love of a single person. I’d do most anything for you, but it’d have to be worth my while to do all that much for Humanity. My mind is much braver than my gut. Emotionally I bond with very few people, but very intensely. And Humanity did not treat those few I’ve loved very well; consequently I’m one of those who ‘loves humanity. It’s people I can’t stand,’ as a wag once told me. My own anger at injustice reflects the experiences of childhood; Donna’s history dovetails with those experiences. For Jane and me, for Donna and me, it was Us against the World, and humanitarians don’t susually emerge from such a mindset. I feel I really can’t do much better than what I’ve done; it’s the price I pay for my growing up. I only feel guilty about it when I’ve spewed forth much high-minded stuff (which I really believe but can’t seem to act on) and someone is fooled into thinking I am what I seem. Raise me differently and I might be a crusader of note. But my life has taught me to be very wary of people, and question their motivations. I’ve learned to trust (mainly from Donna) but, as I’ve said to you once or twice, cut the cards.

“You’re really much closer to what I should be than I am. You find a cause you care about , and invest yourself physically as well as intellectually. Glad you have some of your mother’s activism.”

I had to write it. Long ago when Lisa was a little girl I could see the hero worship grow in her, knew I’d encouraged it, and knew that since I was no hero she’d eventually become disillusioned. So it was necessary for me, when I’d screwed up, to point out to Lisa my clay feet. I think it was a wise thing to do, and it helped. She still sees me as a role model, a bit larger than life, but she knows and accepts that I’m human, and very fallible. Just needed to remind her.

You did teach me to trust, and you did it by loving me so long, so well, and so completely that my fears of being hurt by the person I love, that had made me do things to push them away (and you know how many times I ran that game on you in the early years), eased, relaxed and largely disappeared. That allowed me to set aside my habitual suspicions and get a decent read on people. I found I do it well, and have a pretty good sense of who can be trusted and how far. (Still screw up, though.)

And my love for you, grown so strong over the years, made me fight — fight for you.

Letters to Donna/from 1-10-06

1-10-06

Good Evening My Love –

Talked to Tony the T about how the immediacy of your death is fading, and how it feels like I’m losing you all over again.He responded with the analogy of a wound, raw, painful and immediate. But if it’s healing as it’s supposed to, it scabs, then fades to a scar. The pain largely subsides, the trauma recedes , and you’re left with, maybe, an ache and a reminder. He says the acute pain of loss must end or I’m in trouble. He reassures me that you will never leave my heart or memory. I suppose. I do know and think I noted in these pages, that I’ve deliberately brought the most painful memories of your last months and days to stay in the forefront of my mind because it keeps me close to you somehow, it puts me back in a time when you were everything, and my need for you is so great that I’d rather experience excruciating emotional pain so I can maintain, at least in my head, that incredible closeness, that soul-melding, that was us. Now it’s harder to do, and — I guess — necessary to let go. But it still feels like you’re dying again, and it feels disloyal somehow. So I guess I’m not healed yet.

Read him the New Year’s Resolution entry. He found it impressive but it didn’t spark any probing discussion. It may do so later.

I think I also told you that when I decided I needed an additional job, I called my old courier boss Phil in case he could use me. That was two months ago, and he never called back — until yesterday! There was a message at work. Oh well — I’ll call him, keep a thin line of communication going, just in case.

After therapy I visited F.E.; we did business and talked (his well-heeled mother is in early Alzheimers, and his sister is bleeding her dry), then headed “home”. And I thought, I should be hurrying home to Donna, to my baby, my love. And I realized I’m getting used to not heading home to you, getting used to being by myself. I know I have to, but God, it feels bad!

1-11-06

Good Afternoon My Darling –

I’ve come up with an idea for the next hit tv series, a cross between “Sex and the City” and “Lost.” I’m calling it “Mislaid.”

OK: why did the blonde stop; using birth control pills? They kept falling out.

1-12-06

Good Morning Beloved –

Tough week physically so far: Monday, the trots; Tuesday, very sore muscles on the right side of the back; yesterday the sciatic, or whatever it is, flared up so that as I played poker I was tilted to the right on one cheek, looking foolish (or drunk) and feeling sore as hell. Vicodin helped, but it’s still tender today.

And how are you?

It occurred to me at lunch that in about a week, you’ll have been dead for four months — a third of a year! How is that possible? Yesterday, in my mind, you were in the bedroom, going, gone — yesterday, I swear! It can’t be that long.

Yet it is.

But later in the day I happened to think of Twinkies, which of course made me think of my favorite Twinkaholic: Donna Boyce! Like all your other fights, you fought that addiction hard, enduring D.T.s — Delirium Twinkums — and sleazy street-corner Twinkie pushers. But in heaven you can have all the Twinkies you like, without gaining an ounce or raising your blood sugar level even one point. Sure hope that’s the way it is.

Today’s been a bit tough because everything wants to be sore, and I’m trying to be easy on myself. Right now I’m not in any considerable pain, just aching in about seven different places, so I guess I’ve succeeded. Heat and rest tonight.

On the othr hand, it’s January Thaw time, with temps in the 50s and the illlusion of imminent Spring. All that ends Saturday night, but I’ll take it. There’s more light now, which is a small but welcome improvement, and each day carries us closer to the end of the worst. Not that anybody, especially me, thinks that we won’t get creamed by snow in the next 2+ months. But at least we’ve gotten this far without anything god-awful.

1-13-06

Good Morning My Darling –

Down here it’s Friday the 13th, and if you were here you’d be trying to crawl under our platform bed. But where you are, I trust, the calendars have expunged Friday the 13th and you can rest easy, my love.

Still sore — and last night my inner thigh decided it wanted some of this fine action and began to cramp. Didn’t play too much poker because of the sciatic. But today at work shouldn’t be too grismal (Jane’s word) so I hope I won’t aggravate everything too much and be OK by next Tuesday.

Did I mention the lumieres I got? The guy who did those two sensational raku plates we both love/loved, Rod Santana, made these: pear-shaped ceramic, with cutouts on one side leaving a tree design which, when a tea light is added, gives out a silhouetted tree with the warm candle light behind. Lovely and evocative. Got one in blue for Lisa’s housewarming present, and one,caramel-colored, for me. You’d really like it. Light the candle, turn out the lights, enjoy. Scented candle even better. Wish you were here to see it –

–Hell, just wish you were here.

Have spent too much on myself lately. Got a new pipe. Got shirts. Tried to get more extrawarm socks. Buying frogs and luminiers on ebay, and the odd elephant for Lisa. I try to pay by money order as much as I can; thus my Amex last month was only $170. But $5, $20, $30 at a pop for this frog or that, and all of a sudden it’s ATM time, and away goes my accumulated cushion. Am counting on Home Instead and my ebay selling to keep me afloat. The one big voluntary expense ahead may be that Isabella quarter I’ve coveted for years. F.E. showed me the dealers’ book prices, and I think I’ll stick with ebay.

(Oh, by the way: you sent Lisa a card celebrating her new pad. Had a kitten and butterflies on it. Nice choice, baby!)

Tomorrow at 10 a.m. I meet someone from Home Instead who’ll give me some orientation paperwork; I’ll fill it out and bring it in for further orientation on Monday. Presumably I’ll start actually working for them by month’s end.

Was listening to a U-2 album, a song called “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” and I realized that, yes, I indeed had found what I was always looking for, without realizing it: someone who would love me unconditionally. Didn’t know it, but when I found you (or did you find me?) I found my heart’s desire. Gone now. But I had it, baby, for 27 remarkable years. I’m not looking any more. Lucky to have had it once.

Love you, Donna. Thank you so much.

C. did a very good job putting 18 pictures of you onto a disc. Cleared ‘em up a bit, framed older b&w ones with a white border. Showed me how to load ‘em onto my system and send ‘em out (maybe. Remember, it’s me, the Cyber Idiot.) I’ll see this weekend. Lisa, John, Freddie, D., J., probably Stevie (I haven’t heard from them since October, and don’t expect to), mayby June, maybe Tom, maybe Jy. will all want these shots. There’s a wonderful one of you curled up on the bed at Bradlee Street, in your beloved red robe, on the phone, laughing, cigarettes at hand. Another of you dressed to the nines in red, cigarette held in a most alluring and sophisticated way. So many wonderful shots. Even the one of us dancing at Lisa’s wedding is special. All 18: a treasure.

I love you.

                                                         L.

1-14-06

My Dearest Donna –

Met the Home Instead lady — 6′, plain, nice — and got the paperwork. Rest of orientation Monday at 11. May also meet the client. So I could be starting very soon.

Two little things brought back big memories:

I was running low on Tylenol 3, looked at the bottle, and figured I could call in a refill. So I did — and then noticed it was your prescription. They took it, but when I went to pick it up, they told me your Health number was no longer valid (gasp!). Shocked, I told them to check it out, went home, called Dr. G and got my very own prescription. Lord, how much time and money did I spend at Walgreens? Seemed like, in the last six months, I was there almost every day, if not for meds, then for wipes, diapers, pads, wraps and everything else under the sun. Baby, I don’t miss that! And though I never minded getting it all, I knew that, especially the diapers, it represented a very painful and humiliating step back for you. You handled it with class, though. So much was taken from you in the last months. You were so fine about it.

And today I got a haircut. The guy who did yours did mine. This time we talked sports; he was as gentle with me as he was with you. You wouldn’t like the haircut, thought; curls that had started up again are now on the barbershop floor. Sure feels nice to touch, though, and I truly miss your stroking my hair, which you always did after a haircut. Of course, I miss stroking yours. Wish there was a place between where you are and where I am, where we could meet for coffee, hold hands, touch each other, kiss….I miss you so, my love.

1-15-06

Good Morning My Love –

The Patriots’ wonderful streak came to a painful end last night when they coughed up a furball (and the football, several times) in Denver. Sigh! But they’re going to be good for a long time, so I’m only crushed, not devastated.

Apparently my G.I. tract is a Pats fan too, judging by its discomfort and displeasure this morning. Immodium and patience.

Have started sending out your pictures. They really are a wonderful collection of shots.

It’s 5:15, just got back from lunch with Freddie. Uno’s. Two ales apiece, he had minestrone and bread sticks, I had chicken gorgonzola, your old favorite. The b.s. — and there was plenty — was free. Freddie of course insisted on paying for the rest.

He seems over his cold, or whatever it was. He’s still on the outs with his doctors, and I worry about that. He’s going to let himself get uncessarily worse before he does anything about it. I know from you that such behaviors reflect his need for control, to feel his life’s still his. But I’d rather not see him shorten that life in the process.

He’s gotten a second draft of the movie script of The State Boys’ Rebellion. Likes it. He’s the dominant character, the movie’s now primarily about him, and — he says — a real tear jerker. Apparently some liberties are taken with the truth, for dramatic effect. Freddie believes he’ll be able to be on screen, as himself, at the end of the movie to sum things up. He says if the Gov hasn’t come through with an apology by then he may give the Gov a zinger. If Freddie’s still alive at that point….

I asked him if he’d talked to Stevie lately. He hadn’t. I haven’t heard from Stevie since shortly after you died. I called to give him my new address and phone number, sent him a Christmas card, and called him today to tell him about your pics. No word. Freddie started bringing up incidents from thirty years ago and more, to explain why he and Stevie are a bit cool toward one another. Sounds like Mina’s family, doesn’t it? Holding grudges for half a century.

Freddie did say he’d talk with John if the opportunity arose.

He also gave me Christmas presents: 3 Japanese tea cups and a small Portuguese pitcher that he had to have gotten at a yard sale. After our years of collecting, baby, we knew quality; these weren’t quality. Hope the Salvation Army likes ‘em; they’re just the kind of stuff I’m trying to get rid of! At the same time, Freddie took thought and some trouble, plus money, to get them. So I thanked him as sincerely as I could.

The weather has finally gone back to normal, worse luck. Rained yesterday, then the temp dropped and when I looked out this morning, a thin sheet of white covered the ground. What I discovered when I went out to meet Freddie was that between the rain and the snow was a layer of frozen rain that encased the car. It froze the locks. I had to crawl in via the back. Took a long time before the car thawed enough form me to even work the driver’s side door lock.

Long talk with N. Bryan just as abusive as ever. N. just as indecisive as ever. Now Bryan’s diagnosed as bipolar, but since he won’t do anything about it, so what? She’s talking about getting a job….With N., as you know better than I do, talk is very cheap, action very very rare. We reminisced about you a lot, a pleasure/pain thing for me but I guess important to her. Who else can she talk to about you? Bryan?

You were — and are — much loved. And people across the country are still hurting that you’re no longer among us. The world’s loss, our loss, my loss.

1-16-06

Good Morning My Love –

Bitterly cold this morning. By week’s end it’ll be in the 40s and 50s. Crazy.

When I went to pick up my Tylenol 3 at Walgreens, there was a long line and lots of slowly filled prescriptions, despite four people working on ‘em. Why? The new Medicare prescription programs, now in place, but working badly partly because of confusion about all the competing plans, but mainly because the computer support and links weren’t set up properly by the government, so scrips couldn’t be approved or processed. Classic bureaucratic snafu. The pharmacies are going crazy and the elderly are befuddled, anxious and pissed. What a mess. Thank you, Bush — you’ve given us a taste of how you’ve run the Iraq war!

Today at 11 begins (I think) my work with Home Instead. Will finish orientation, then meet my client. If that goes OK, I assume I’ll start my visits this week. Will report, of course.

Nina and Je. wrote effusive thank-you notes after receiving your pictures. Keeping you alive in their memories is important to them, to many people. Nina says you were more like a mother to her, which made me think she’s a typical child of her times, because she never took your advice when it really mattered. Wish I could say, on the basis of our talk yesterday, that she’s going to change any time soon. It’s like she’ll let herself acknowledge everything bad in the relationship with Bryan, but can’t take the actions these acknowledgements demand. Like a person afraid to swim, she’ll stand freezing by the poolside, trying to talk herself into diving in but can’t, all the while talking about it, talking about it, drawing around her a group of people she complains to, appeals to, and ultimately ignores. Me, I don’t feature being part of an ignored group. But you never fully lost patience with her. That reflects your loyalty more than anything else. I did mention how, to me, the strain on her children seemed to show in their Christmas-card faces. And, typically, Nina acknowledged it, then just went on. Like part of her psyche is teflon-coated.

2 p.m. Back from orientation and the Don Orione Nursing Home. Met my client, Mr. P. More responsive than I expected. Breathing tube, large scar on his chest — bypass? Private room. Scooter, but I’m not sure how much he uses it. Picture of a son or grandson, in uniform. Religious pictures. TV with a remote he’s confused about. Speaks fairly softly and sometimes indistinctly. The write-up says he likes cards, so I bought a deck, large numbers in case there’s a vision problem. My sense of him was that he’ll wait and watch and then let you know where he, and you, are at. He can act up. He can be angry, sullen, resentful. Was none of those things today, but was being polite. Apparently can be a bit rascally with female staff, according to the desk nurse; was worse initially but has settled down. Is anxious and demanding about things involving his basic comfort. I can help with that, which should help my interaction with staff. Hope his daughter, whom the nurse described as one of those who upon arrival gets all her father’s grumbles dumped on her and feels she has to buttonhole the staff, implying they’re not giving him sufficient care. Hope that won’t be a problem for me.

Tues., 6 to ?; Thus., 6 to ?; Sat. 2 to ?. That’s the schedule.

So: work tomorrow, come home, cup of coffee, over to Don Orione, do my thing, come home, call in hours and activities (activities are classified — in my case — as companionship or “home helper”, with a slight pay differential favoring the latter). I also will keep a journal of each visit.

The Don Orione is huge, and confusing. Mr. P’s wing — west — seemed to have been at some point tacked onto the main building. A lot of good Eastie faces on the staff, a fair number of Hispanics, very few black faces. I think that reflects an accommodation of the residents’ racial attitudes. Plenty of typical nursing home scenes, of elders in wheelchairs in the corridors out by the nurse’s station, waiting, waiting, waiting (and, of course, watching the “parade”). Didn’t hear any wails or screams, and although the floors were often crowded and a little grubby, I didn’t catch any whiff of the Bad Nursing Home smell.

I have several worries: will I actually be able to help this man in any way? Will family be a problem? And — my deepest concern at this point — will I be able to detach my work with Mr. P from my memories and experiences with you? So far so good….

Lisa reports she’s now moved in. There was some question about whether she should leave Charlie the Cat behind, since he’s a bit bipolar with her and may also be sick. But in the end Lisa would’ve been extremely guilty leaving him anywhere, so he’s now in the new digs, bitching and checking things out in classic cat fashion.

It’s 5 p.m. and I’m having a bad time and don’t know why. I got home, did my usuals: turned on oven, turned on computer and tv, checked for phone messages, listened to Lisa’s, got started on poker, checked ebay and emails, read Tom’s email, wrote you, wrote Tom, called Lisa, made coffee (and, for once, would’ve paid hard money to make one for you, my love), made KFC mac and cheese for lunch, looked over Home Instead materials and its notes on Mr. P, looked for my Social Security card (which I can’t find — Home Instead wants a copy, but I think I’m OK without it), felt soreness from the sciatic flareup, shut the computer down, shut the oven, lay down, read some of yesterday’s paper, began a new Abe Lieberman mystery (goodie!), watched a program about a girl, perhaps very abused, who shot her father to death, dozed a bit.

Then I came awake. The apartment was very cold, especially the bedroom — or was I cold inside? I felt very very lonesome, very sad. I looked in a box I’d already checked, thinking of the Social Security card, but found only papers from the days before and just after your death, and I began to cry. Maybe the box triggered it, but it wasn’t the cause. I’m still crying and don’t understand it. There’s probably a connection with my visit to Don Orione, but if so it’s not yet clear to me.

Perhaps it’s simply a matter of leaving my little insulated enclave where I have only my own troubles to deal with, and reentering the world of pain, decline, loss and tragedy. I know I experienced some reaction; is this it? Will it continue? Discouraging to feel this way, but can’t overreact. Patience. Focus on moment to moment.

Letters to Donna/from 1-2-06

1-2-06

Good Morning My Love –

Looks like a bad storm is coming tonight through tomorrow. I have the rest of the day to see how the storm, a fast-moving but potent little bastard that could put nine inches of heavy wet glop upon us, is doing. If it looks like the forecast is accurate (for a change), I’ll put the car in the Broadway garage next to B.’s, and use busses and trains. I’ll park it tonight if that’s my decision.

As the evening deepended yesterday, so did my thoughts — well, deep as in dark, not profound. Remembering how in the last month you couldn’t do on-line poker because the tumor prevented your brain, usually so quick, from processing the changing table situations fast enough to keep up, to make playing decisions fast enough for the site. Add vision problems, and it became impossible. You’d try, get distracted, get knocked off the table, get frustrated, get off the site and do something else. Then you just had to let it go.

That memory led to my recalling how you told me, several times, that you’d die sooner than everybody (but you) thought, and how right you were. (In fact, you knew before the MRI something was seriously wrong. Hey, I knew it too. I could see it.) God knows, listening to that nice fool Dr. Lee, I thought we’d be together today, maybe see our 28th anniversary. But you knew. You knew your body. You told me you felt everything declining, all systems failing. You knew.

And, thinking about poker, I had this fairly searing throught: by the end, the diseases had stripped so much from you. The woman I see in my pictures was in so many ways not the woman who lay in her bed the last days. But when the diseases took everything they could, they left in the end your love, your courage, and somehow — amazingly — your joy at being loved, at being with the people you cared about and who cared about you. Those qualities no one, nothing could take from you. My God, you were something!

Well, that got my first cry of the day out of the way!

Except or Lisa, no one called yesterday to wish me Happy New Year. How do you tell somebody who’s facing a year without his long-time love and companion to Have a Happy? I’m a bit grateful that no one tried to utter such a pile of crap. I guess I could’ve called people, but that would’ve put them in the position of almost having to respond with the same pile of crap they’d been avoiding. So I made no calls.

The folks at Home Instead have been calling my references, so I anticipate being hired once my CORI clears. Even ten hours a week would allow me to pay for weed and laundry and maybe a treat for myself (like dinner out) once in a great while.

(Now the yutzes are saying that here, tomorrow’s weather could be rain by the time I head to work. So I may garage tomorrow night. Stay tuned!)

Won’t be seeing a movie. The choice is to sit here alone, playing poker, watching sci-fi and sports, eating goodies I got yesterday, or spending $10 (including a small unbuttered popcorn) to sit in a theater alone, watching a movie I have no burning desire to see. Fully dressed as opposed to somewhat less than. No real choice. I stay here.

I continue to be concerned about sleep — mine — the lack of it, I mean. Last night wasn’t bad; fell asleep between 1 and 2 a.m. But the night before it was more like 5 a.m. You know how long getting to sleep — and staying asleep — has been a problem for me. Haven’t been able to do anything about it since living alone. So since your night-owl ways may well have contributed to the problem’s onset, it’s my own behaviors/physiology that maintains it. Is it age? Stress? Effects of long-term marijuana use? Do I lack melatonin? Is my late-evening routine counterproductive? I know I eat wrong, that I should decrese my intake as the night deepens. To do that I’d have to eat  earlier, then fight off the well-ingrained habit of eating late. I’ve already broached the topic with Tony the T, with reference to Mt. A’s sleep clinic. Not feasible if I have to sleep there, but maybe it can help. Will discuss it with him again this week.

Have begun preparing to return to work. These are things I’d have tried to do quietly so you wouldn’t be saddened by tangible evidence that our uninterrupted time together would soon end. I’ve set the alarm, shaved and done a preliminary beard-shearing, a flurry of white whiskers falling into the sink. It’ll be easier for me tomorrow to have some prep done, because I need the time to talk myself into going to work, despite a week and a half to warn me of the dangers of sitting here alone. Maybe, without you to make me want to stay, it’ll be easier to go.

Just saw on tv a woman who shaves off her eyebrows and then pencils them back on — like the old Donna Boyce. Yuck. Very glad I persuaded you that your own eyebrows were fine — more than fine, since they grew from up by your hairline all the way down. OK, so they needed trimming. OK, a lot of trimming. But once trimmed, they were great eyebrows, much better than pencils.

Much nonsense about New Year’s resolutions, as usual. Do I have any? Yes. To keep on. Best I can do.

I’d already determined I need more income. I’ve already acknowledged the dangers of continuing a sedentary leisure style (hard to think of sitting around here being periodically miserable as “leisure”, but I guess superficially it fits the definition), the possibility of med/pot abuse, the need to keep my mind stimulated, the need to feel worthy (haven’t talked about this, because I just realized it’s been an important theme in these letters). I’ve repaired/sustained the broken/altered platform on which lives (societally speaking) are constructed: employment, housing, transportation, clothing, food, health care. Now I have to reconstruct my psychic dwelling. What do I do to sustain my mind and soul, so I can be spiritually/psychologically sound, which for me is more than a six-pack and a tv movie after work — or even a joint or six and a decent mystery after work. That’s existing, not living, as temptingly easy and comfortable as it may be. I just believe my conscience/standards/superego won’t let me live that way without serious internal conflict. Lazy as I am, I can’t shut up that part of me, so I may as well give it enough to keep it quiet.

It’s irrelevant to ask if any of this unhappiness, pain, loneliness and struggle is fair or right. It feels unfair and wrong, feels like punishment (which feels unfair and wrong), feels personal. It isn’t any of those things. It just is, part of being human. In fact, as I write, millions of humans are going through what I’m going through: death of loved ones, pains of loneliness, fear of the future — and worse, much worse. That realization doesn’t make me feel any better, but it’s a slap in the face to my self-pity, and so protects me from sinking deeper.

It’s also a danger to feel, as Lisa apparently does, that my life is essentially worthless and/or meaningless if I’m not with somebody. I really do believe that I can be genuinely proud of my life if I can live it honorably, part of which involved proper interaction with people. But that  in no way requires intimacy. I also believe that if I construct a life I can be proud of, it may even make me more attractive to people with similar values, and that consequently intimacy may result, result from living my own life the way I know in my heart it should be lived: fairly, honestly, guided by principle and compassion and humor. Gee, if I found a woman who lived that way, I’d be attracted, right? Maybe….

Anyway, the details of my own life are all I have control over. Can’t go out into the street and horsecollar my next True Love (can, actually, but risk arrest). Don’t trust dating services; besides, I’m too cheap for ‘em. How’s that AA credo go? Change what you can, accept what you can’t, know the difference? Amen. 

My love, you’ve left me alone. Hey, you couldn’t help it. But alone I am and for the foreseeable future, alone I must remain. However, if I had qualities when we met, and if my years with you enhanced those qualities and developed others, then I enter this phase with enough resources not only to continue but, perhaps, if I’m strong enough, eventually to be proud again of who I am and what I do. I’m proud of what we did together; now I must earn my self-respect all over again. Hard goal. Worthy goal. Can’t live in my own skin without, to some extent, achieving it.  

Happy New Year, my darling.

                                                         L.

1-3-06

Good Afternoon Beloved –

Well, it’s 3 p.m. and we’re still waiting for the snow to start. Yesterday morning that idiot meteorologist on NECN was saying 9 inches in town. I think he’s scared that if he underpredicts a snowfall and more comes than expected, he’ll be lynched, so he always overpredicts.

Not that I’m upset. Now I won’t have to tuck the car into the Broadway lot, and shlep back and forth to Humble Abode. And we’re going to be stormy all week, so I’ll have something to bitch about.

Well, it was easier to get ready for work today because I didn’t have to leave you behind, which would sadden me almost as much as it saddened you. Be assured I’d rather be saddened with you here with me, than be saddened because you’re not.

Work, of course, is busy: a week and a half of orders, new postal rates, blizzards of rental returns to go through and mark, and a large miscellany of smaller tasks all like baby birds crying to be taken care of. This morning my lower back complained; this afternoon it’s my upper back and shoulders. Hope that by Friday my body will have forgiven me for returning to work. 

Psychologically, of course, being back at work helps. My eyes and hands and, to some extent, mind are kept occupied, and I have to interact with coworkers, which tends to keep the blues away. And I like b.s.ing with Robert about sports and Christy about anything. And of course work is the most crucial element of my financial health. So bennies all around. Just don’t ask my back (relax, baby — I’ll put heat on it tonight).

1-4-06

Good Evening My Love –

Heat helped, and will help again tonight, I’m sure.

Songs got to me some today, in that sneaky I’d-forgotten-that-part way they have. In a perfectly innocuous song, a nice toe-tapper, comes the line: “What’s important in this life? Ask the man who’s lost his wife,” a real killer as you’d imagine. Then the song “Home,” from Bonnie Raitt’s “Sweet Forgiveness” album, with its longing for love and comfort, got to me; and finally, the last song from the Pretenders’ “Learning to Crawl” album (the source of the first quote) is about a loved one far away approaching Christmas, who returns, and Christmas becomes joyful again. You couldn’t return, my beloved, from whatever far land you’ve gone to, and Christmas may never be joyful again.

Home Instead has even called Tom in California, so I guess they’re serious. Besides all the aforementioned bennies from the extra work, it’ll also allow me to commission Stanley to write a 2+ minute melody, sweet and sad, singable by amateurs like me, and if possible, suitable for lyrics if I can come up with any. I never gave you a song. Perhaps, too late, I can do it now.

Besides, poor Stanley would kill for any kind of commission, even something as miniscule as mine.

Hey, the lavender sachets came, and they’re neat: silken little pillows of potent odor. And they’re kicking the butt of my funky/sour pipe smell. I put one in a drawer under the bed where I keep the goodies, one in the drawer in the living room where I keep the ashtray I use when I smoke out there, and one in each of the trashcans, bedroom and livingroom, where I dump all that smelly crud. Worst is when I clean the pipe — it can really stink then. But Sister Sachet has sashayed into my life, which may not be better, but sure will smell better!

Lisa is still excited about her new place. By now it’s starting to fill in and take shape as she brings stuff into it. And she likes the idea of her own place, and looks forward to living there. Her hoped-for new job, however, is pussyfooting around. She thought she’d get a commitment from them by now, but got put off. It actually sounded encouraging in the larger sense: the guy said he’d hire her today, and at the salary she wanted, but there’s something Hush-Hush Big in the wings (merger? acquisition?) that could, if it goes through, cause many changes, and perhaps it’d be better if they held off for a while. Lisa thinks he’s being straight with her and will hold off, but she’s not happy and not taking disappointment/frustration well just now.

1-5-06

Good Morning My Love –

Does an idle electrician long for shorts?

A day after the much-ballyhooed snowstorm gave us zilch, I awoke this morning to find an unexpected half-inch on the ground. No big thing, of course. You’d be amused to see me, though: I brush off the steps and bit of walkway with the broom we used to sweep the balcony with, and strew halite (from my handy-dandy 25lb. bag) on the surfaces like an old farmer strewing seed — except I use one of the old plastic travel mugs as a strewer. I’m responsible, you see, for keeping these areas clear and treated, and I do. Very domestic.

So now it’s all cloudy, rainy, dank and murky. November in January. On the other hand, November in January is a lot better than January in January!

C. has taken home my selection of pictures of you; says he’ll scan ‘em and give me a disc to load onto my system so D., John, J. and anybody else who wants ‘em can download ‘em. A mental promise fulfilled — once it’s done. Pray I don’t screw up my end.

Song and memory after me again today. Passed a New Year’s hat in the street, discarded after First Night. Remembered the hats, the masks, the fans I’d pick up and bring home to you, to your delight. One mask we kept 10 years. You couldn’t manage First Night physically, so this way I’d manage to bring it to you. Good/sad memories. 

But the song was another killer. Quite a while ago, Delaney & Bonnie had a minor hit called “Neverending Love,” which popped into my head. Nice little ditty. Problem is, it kept popping into my head all the time you were having radiation:

“I’ve got a neverending love for you/From now on, that’s all I want to do./From the first time we met I knew/I’d have this neverending love for you.

“After all this time of being alone/We can love one another, live for each other from now on!/Feel so good I can hardly stand it…” I could never get past that line, because it was so opposite of how I really felt, and yet my heart endorsed the song. Same reaction today: the toe-tapping song plays in my head, I get to that one line, start to cry, tell myself to stop it, and in a couple of minutes it’s playing in my head again. Rough.

Bush has been using the Patriot Act as an excuse to do illegal wiretaps on whomever the Powers feel like tapping, and many people, including Republicans, are upset. Good Ole John Dean thinks it’s an impeachable offense, and he ought to know. If we were in a declared war, Bush would get away with it, and probably will this time.

Problem is, a leading D.C. lobbyist named Abramov, who’s been greasing palms, mainly but not entirely Republican, is under indictment and says he’s gonna squeal. This schmuck’s connections go all the way to the top, so Bush may find himself impeached after all, and the G.O.P. is going to take a terrific hit, whoopee!! Assuming Abramov isn’t assassinated — I’m serious — his testimony could cost the Republicans the 2008 election, and by then their majority in both houses. I feel better than I’ve felt in six years, politically speaking. Maybe the hypocritical bastards will finally get what’s coming to them.

Not that you ever cared all that much for politics. But you knew I did.

Got in the car and kissed the butterfly pendant ten times, as usual. And then yelled out that I’d rather be kissing you, that you were a hell of a lot better kisser than a goddamn metal butterfly! –

1-6-06

Good Morning Beloved –

C.S. back today. Was moved by my thank-you letter. To her and R.S. it’s all about loyalty, employee loyalty to the company and by extension to them, personally. And they reward loyalty with support. Sounds like a good system to me. It sure saved our asses, baby — well, my ass. In the end, so sadly, nothing could save your ass.

I’ve discovered I can no longer have hot chocolate in the morning without paying for it (G.I.-wise) during the day. Bummer. Since I had hot chocolate this morning, you can guess how the day’s gone.

Because of my lack of heat (except when the oven’s on) I recall the heating problems we had on Truman Parkway. Flatley himself coming up to bleed the system, his fixes temporary at best. Had the heat been good, that would’ve been my favorite of the places we lived in together. I loved the balcony looking out over the river, and watching the huge grey carp go drifiting by like mini-submarines, or the mating turtles, slowly turning over and over while in the act. I also remember you falling through the plate glass door; my feeling that, since you always charged full speed ahead when you walked, you were partly responsible (but there was a tear in the rug, so it was legally Flatley’s fault); the way you were characterized as “damaged good” – so insulting — because you had MS. I didn’t want you to sue, but you did. You were right and I was wrong and I listened to you more after that.

Am I now entering the stage of grieving where the immediacy of your death, as well as your post-mortem psychic presence, have faded, leaving me to try to pull memory after memory out of my brain to keep you psychologically close? I’ve noticed that the difficult last few years have pushed many older memories down; the urgency of our more recent travails was so compelling that those memories overwhelm older ones. But there’s a lot, I suspect, still to be discovered in those distant recollections. I don’t want to be consciously dredging them up to keep feeling close to you or to have something to write about. Let them come in their own way, their own time. And I will find you in them, and cherish what I find, and learn what I can from them.

In my heart, my love, my best baby, you will never die.

1-7-06

Good Afternoon Donna My Love –

Nice busy morning: up at 8:30, coffee, dishes, poker; out to the P.O., laudromat (still being lazy about that), paid Verizon, north for more ebay work; back via Salvation Army for a heavy shirt to replace the grey corduroy I found with you at Morgan Msemorial. Sadly, the shirt got ripped. I bought an L.L.Bean heavy shirt of about the same color. Plus I got a short-sleeve shirt to replace another casualty of lg’s assaults on his own clothing.  After that, shopping and banking and back to the lair.

Deep Soap tells me that on “Days, ” tears will copiously flow as Chelsea accidentally kills Zack (who are these people?); Freddie called and said he was back and has been sick — he says a cold, but I wonder. Will tell you more when I see him in a week or two.

Tonight I do din-din at D. & M.’s, and will watch the Patriots’ playoff game on their huge hi-def tv/grownup toy.

That spell of good days I had before the holidays has not returned. But neithe has a string of miserable days. I’m not being torn up as much or as hard (still being torn up, though). It’s a C+ kind of emotional limbo, with some ups, some downs, but because just getting through the day isn’t as much of a struggle, I give it the +. Hang on, hang in, wait it out. The one constant is you: your presence in my mind and heart, these letters. I walk with you, I ride with you; you’re with me when I work, watch tv, play poker. It’s not just the mnemonics — the butterflies, the photos on the desk and by the bed, the screen saver at work. These are props. Important props, but props. You reside inside, and while I’m conscious you are there, where you belong, if you can’t be with me in the real world.

I think in time you’ll gradually recede into the dustier areas of my mind. But I believe you’ll remain an active presence, and it will give me comfort to know that, whenever I need to find you, to speak to you, you’ll be there.

1-8-06

Good Afternoon My Darling –

Enjoyed my evening at D. & M.’s. Good company, decent food and a Patriots’ victory always seem to work. D. agreed to work with John if he’s interested; I’ve emailed John to that effect. Now I wait. Crossed fingers. If John ever says to me anything like, “Hey, I might’ve underestimated Ma,” I may feel like my post-you life’s work has been accomplished.

BIG news: today I made a purchase I usually make once a decade: a new wallet!! A Calvin Klein trifold, black leather, yet! Protects the zillion or two cards I’ve accumulated. Was tempted to ritually burn the old one.

And that’s not all I got. From D. & M. — D., actually — I got new gloves for Christmas and a wonderfully dorky cap, colored UPS brown, with ear flaps, that I’ll likely never wear. The gloves are great.

There’s also a possible near-future meeting with your half-sister June, whom D. said would like to re-meet me, though I suspect D. either misunderstood or misheard. I always had the impression that June viewed me as the human equivalent of your third arm: a part of you, but weird and probably unnecessary. My impression of her was of subtle vagueness: she was bright and nice enough, but somehow not fully formed and still uncertain whether her primary focus was on career, family or love, and waffling between each.

Talked to Freddie yesterday (good day for me and Mina’s kids), but didn’t like the sound of him. He says it’s a cold or bug he picked up either in Oklahoma or driving back (for a State House meeting about apology and reparation for the Fernald nightmare), and wonder if it’s a cancer symptom and he’s in the denial I was worried about. Of course, I could be just trying to justify my own theory. He sounded hyper, anxious and angry, though he was perfectly civil if argumentative. He says he’ll come up in a couple of days, which probably means one to two weeks.

1-9-06

Hi My Love –

Had the trots today, molasses cookies the likely culprit. Stayed home. Better now.

Heard from Home Instead, looking to set up an orientation meeting. I guess that means my references checked out. Also, I see Tony the T tomorrow. May read him the New Year’s Goals entry.

Will yak more tomorrow. Tired tonight.

I love you, always will.

Letters to Donna/from 12-25-05 « Letters to Donna: A Journal of Mourning

Letters to Donna/from 12-25-05 « Letters to Donna: A Journal of Mourning