UNDER TRAVELS UP, AND DOWN AGAIN

August 4th

That end-times dread is the perfume I wear these days, or at least my aura,

 Schifoso. That's Italian for all fucked up. Which is how I feel most of the time. I feel it most of all at times like right now, when it is late,  when I am tired and hungry and shouldn't be writing but should be taking out the trash, putting in some laundry, getting the cats in, and feeding them. Sometimes I put my head on the pillow, and in the darkness re-contemplate the ways and means of suicide. 

It is nearly impossible to imagine a pleasant life ahead for me.

Then again I have a (not close) friend who has been dealing with ALS for many many many years. She has decided on self-euthanasia this fall, come Samhain. She still posts on FB about art and the things she loves, as well as the process and red tape of trying to get official sanction for ending her life. She really can't take the pain and the stress and the worry about money. I think she has been amazing, brave, and stalwart to last this long. Maybe I have been a bit,, too, although there will be not even the reward of relief.

People are amazed that Janet is so old. 98.5 They want to live that long. I say the hell with that. Plus,  there will not even be any family to conscript into care. 

The first order of stress is Janet. On the elevator on the way to see her nephrologist, she fainted. Nice. The building is chock full of old people doctors so there are always lots of wheelchairs and walkers. The building is big and there are only two elevators,  one often out of commission. So now there is me trying wrangle a prone Janet, only partly conscious. Don't you want to be there? 

People were kind and helped me get her out of the elevator. Of course, she shit her pants in the process adding to the delight. Incontinence, here is thy sting. 911 was called and she was taken to the hospital less than 1/4 mile away for which we will pay out of pocket around $500. Gee thanks. At least I didn't have to change her diaper. 

And once Janet reached a certain level of consciousness, she was jiving with the helpers and flirting with the EMTs. 

Her very kind nephrologist saw me without her. I wanted to get a take on what to do, hospice or palliative care. He looked through everything, all the reports from her recent hospitalizations and lab tests,  and said that she is not ready for hospice, but palliative care for sure. I cried at his kindness.

Crying happens a lot these days.

I got almost 24 hours of Janet freedom before they sent her home. No real diagnosis or prognosis. Just a salt pill once a day.

So now it is even harder for me to get away. She really can't go to the Senior Center anymore as she needs to be monitored much more closely. If one isn't on her every half hour, she will not drink water which is the cause of some of her problems. She doesn't have much of an appetite. Diarrhea most of the time. Oh, the joy of hauling out 30 pound bags of wet and shitty diapers a couple of times a week. 

She is far more vacant. Not going to play dominoes means she has almost no stimulation. As I said, she is not even playing unwinnable solitaire with her previous obsession. She wants to lie down all the time, is resentful if asked to move. 

It's no wonder I just want to sit and watch endless episodes of a French detective dramedy that takes place in a beautiful part of southern France on the Mediterranean and eat low calorie chocolate popsicles (are they really popsicles?,.. they are on a stick) and so many cashews I get ill.

Still, I try to get my exercise in four or five times a week. My private Pilates/yoga sessions with Sonia are always relief, healing, and being seen and sympathized with (she is on intense Mom care herself). I haven't been able to swim as much as I might like. 

And along the Armageddon lines, the traffic in LA has been on beyond insane. On my way to my lesson this morning, five lanes of traffic were at a dead standstill. I actually made a u-turn to drive down an on ramp to get out of traffic to try to go another way. Of course, every other freeway I got on was an utter nightmare. Another reason to get the hell out of here before the war and the bombings start. 

And the shock and awe of the reality of this country never ever for a moment stops. Dizzying to the point near unconsciousness. 

I always liked the Dead song New Speedway Boogie with the somewhat hopeful line, "One way or another, this darkness got to give ..." Not so sure about that. 

Besides grieving my mom, I have to figure out where I might be able to live which I won't really be able to do until I see what my inheritance might be. I have no idea how I am going to get along when her checks stop. I need to find out at what point I have to refund money to various sources. So many telephone calls, so little will.

I wish I had some lightness to share. Seeing Carolyn Wonderland with Dave Alvin at McCabe's was a light spot. Instead of swimming this afternoon, I opted for a most delicious nap with the incomparable Vera Paris. My yoga classes are going well notwithstanding the time (or focus) I don't have to plan class much.

THE WILLOWS

As we are made by what moves us,

willows pull up the water into their farthest reach

which curves again down

divining where their life begins.

So, under travels up, and down and up again,

and the wind makes music of what the water was.

— Marie Howe, New and Selected Poems, W.W. Norton & Co., New York, 2024 

The soon-to-be adopted kittens, Mouche and Tony Joe Black are having a frolic near the trash can in my bedroom. And it is midnight.