Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood.
The above is a quote from a Johnny Cash song. It speaks to our need for each other. In the current news about all the ways political prisoners are tortured, isolation is right up there in the top.
In the '80s journalist Terry Anderson was kidnapped in Beirut and held for almost seven years. He's often said that the worst part was the isolation. He had to work hard at not losing his mind.
There were times in my life when I felt profoundly lonely. That could happen again because as we get older and less mobile we sometimes find ourselves isolated.
A few years ago I visited an old roommate from the time prior to my marriage. I remembered her as a sharp as a tack career woman.
After retirement she moved back to her home town and became a part of a very conservative religious movement. One that does not allow much contact with the outside world. No TV, movies, secular books, etc.
She lives alone and her only socialization is with church members a couple of times a week.
I could see instantly that dementia had set in. When I saw her lifestyle I wasn't surprised.
I'm happy that people who've been laid off their jobs are no longer hiding at home. We've read stories of people going on Facebook to share the news as they're walking out the door. I think this is healthy.
But here's what scares me.
A huge number of our prisoners in this country are kept in solitary confinement for long periods of time. Years even. It's cruel and permanently debilitating.
Even if you don't have sympathy for these people you have to be concerned about how they function in society after they're released.
Mother nature's quite a lady, but you're the one I need.
Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you're the one I need.
***
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Pills
When I was about 40 years old my aunt used to visit from time to time. She took a lot of pills. When I saw her lay them out on the counter I'd say to myself:
When I get to the stage where I'm taking this many pills it will be almost over.
I now take a ton of pills. I hope it's not almost over.
This afternoon I filled my boxes with two weeks supply of pills. This job is so boring that I have to watch an episode of Law & Order to get through it. OK, most of them are supplements so I try to tell myself that they don't count. But I lived the first 50 years of my life without them so maybe they do. And a couple of my prescription meds are absolutely essential.
As we get older, taking medication properly becomes harder and harder. I know people who pay a caregiver just to keep the pills straight.
Taking meds keeps us alive and healthy so I guess I should be grateful that I have them, can afford them, and know how to take them. Doing it wrong accounts for many visits to the ER - and, occasionally, death.
By the way, when you're hospitalized, you can't let up. You need to be aware of every medication they give you. And why.
Yesterday my boyfriend and I engaged in another very romantic and intimate activity.
We exchanged medication lists.
***
When I get to the stage where I'm taking this many pills it will be almost over.
I now take a ton of pills. I hope it's not almost over.
This afternoon I filled my boxes with two weeks supply of pills. This job is so boring that I have to watch an episode of Law & Order to get through it. OK, most of them are supplements so I try to tell myself that they don't count. But I lived the first 50 years of my life without them so maybe they do. And a couple of my prescription meds are absolutely essential.
As we get older, taking medication properly becomes harder and harder. I know people who pay a caregiver just to keep the pills straight.
Taking meds keeps us alive and healthy so I guess I should be grateful that I have them, can afford them, and know how to take them. Doing it wrong accounts for many visits to the ER - and, occasionally, death.
By the way, when you're hospitalized, you can't let up. You need to be aware of every medication they give you. And why.
Yesterday my boyfriend and I engaged in another very romantic and intimate activity.
We exchanged medication lists.
***
Letting Little Things Bug Me
The counter on Blogger isn't working so I have no idea how many people are now reading my blog at this particular time or how many new hits I have on my profile.
I'm a counter. I like to count things. So I'm frustrated.
I was talking with my friend this morning about our weekends. We both were involved in different events that didn't go quite as planned but turned out well.
I expressed a little frustration and she just laughed. Then I said:
"Well, I am a bit rigid at times."
She said, "Yes, there is that."
Author Phillip Roth used to talk about a guy who had a "Cloud of Apprehension" around him. Whenever one problem, large or small, was solved he just moved his cloud to another spot.
I don't want to be that guy.
***
I'm a counter. I like to count things. So I'm frustrated.
I was talking with my friend this morning about our weekends. We both were involved in different events that didn't go quite as planned but turned out well.
I expressed a little frustration and she just laughed. Then I said:
"Well, I am a bit rigid at times."
She said, "Yes, there is that."
Author Phillip Roth used to talk about a guy who had a "Cloud of Apprehension" around him. Whenever one problem, large or small, was solved he just moved his cloud to another spot.
I don't want to be that guy.
***
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The Perfect Sandwich
Yesterday morning was quite eventful. This morning was a bit stressful - but worked out fine.I'm so grateful that much of my life is fairly calm.
For instance, yesterday my boyfriend did a very loving thing. For lunch, he fixed me a perfect sandwich. He served it garnished with cherry tomatoes and sweet pickles.
It wasn't anything like the sandwich pictured here. It was Boarshead Swiss cheese on thin white bread. With mayo.
It was the perfect sandwich for me.
These days I like my sandwiches like I like my life.
Uncomplicated.
***
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Oldies Update
When we arrived at Panera's this morning my Oldies were already there. But I immediately noticed that Mrs. Oldie's eye was red. I asked her about it and she told me she had something in it. Maybe an eyelash. But she didn't want to make a fuss.
As I sat across from her I realized that she was distressed. The eye was burning and watering.
So I mentioned to Mr. Oldie that he might want to take her down to the end of the street to the urgent care place.
He wasn't too interested. While he loves and worships her, life is still pretty much about him. Besides, he didn't think he could find the place.
But after another half hour or so I knew she needed attention.
And then guess what?
I looked up and there, across the room, was their ophthalmologist's wife having breakfast. So I went over and asked her opinion. She said "take her to the emergency room."
So I went back to the table. But, then, while I was trying to talk them into going to the ER the ophthalmologist's wife comes over to look at Mrs. Oldie's eye and says:
That doesn't look too bad but I've called my husband. He's across town playing tennis but he'll be here in 30 minutes to look at your eye.
Mrs. Oldie said "Thank you."
Mr. Oldie said, "How much will he charge?" (He was kidding.)
So we left them in her capable hands. Our first stop on our two mile walk was to her hair dresser to break the standing appointment.
When we got home I called Mr. Oldie to find out what happened.
The ophthalmologist arrived at Panera's straight from the tennis court, examined Mrs. Oldie's eye right there at the table where she was eating, applied drops, gave her some medication and sent her home to bed.
We should all be so lucky.
***
As I sat across from her I realized that she was distressed. The eye was burning and watering.
So I mentioned to Mr. Oldie that he might want to take her down to the end of the street to the urgent care place.
He wasn't too interested. While he loves and worships her, life is still pretty much about him. Besides, he didn't think he could find the place.
But after another half hour or so I knew she needed attention.
And then guess what?
I looked up and there, across the room, was their ophthalmologist's wife having breakfast. So I went over and asked her opinion. She said "take her to the emergency room."
So I went back to the table. But, then, while I was trying to talk them into going to the ER the ophthalmologist's wife comes over to look at Mrs. Oldie's eye and says:
That doesn't look too bad but I've called my husband. He's across town playing tennis but he'll be here in 30 minutes to look at your eye.
Mrs. Oldie said "Thank you."
Mr. Oldie said, "How much will he charge?" (He was kidding.)
So we left them in her capable hands. Our first stop on our two mile walk was to her hair dresser to break the standing appointment.
When we got home I called Mr. Oldie to find out what happened.
The ophthalmologist arrived at Panera's straight from the tennis court, examined Mrs. Oldie's eye right there at the table where she was eating, applied drops, gave her some medication and sent her home to bed.
We should all be so lucky.
***
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Remembering My Mom
Actually, I don't remember my mom. She died in her thirities after spending years in a T.B. sanitariam. We later learned that T.B. wasn't contageous after the initial stages so all of those people being, for all intense and purposes, incarcerated in a sanitarium, wasn't necessary.
Moms pass on all kinds of gifts and skills to their kids. In my parents' generation, especially in the midwest, quilting was a skill that was passed from mother to daughter.
But in my case, nothing.
Except I'm a writer. And my mother was a writer. She grew up on a farm in Kentucky. Dirt poor, the 10th of 13 children.
At least three of them were writers. That used to puzzle me.
Years later when I studied the Southern Writers, I realized that many of them came from families where no one else could read, much less write.
Following is a poem that my mother wrote just before she was married. At the time she was writing fairly articulate articles from time to time for the newspaper.
This particular poem tells me about her talent and her wit.
Entertainin' Sister's Beau
When sister has a date sometimes
An' she's kinda late, you know,
She sends me in the parlor
To entertain her beau.
"Now don't you talk so much," she says
"An be a reg' lady."
An' 'en she keeps on askin'
Till finally I promises, maybe.
I sits upon the sofa in
A dignified sort of way,
An' I stick me finger in me mouth
Cause me don't know what to say
En he says to me, he says;
"Is your sister good to you?"
An' 'en that go me started,
An' he got tired 'fore I got through.
I tole him all the mean things
I could think of she had done,
An' when they ran out on me
I even made up some.
Course it wasn't lyin
Cause it was all fer his benefit,
But I'll not do it again,
Cause he didn't 'ppreciate it.
I never go in any more
Sis, she'd rather I don't
An maw, she won't let me,
So I just recon - I won't
But if I ever have a feller of my own
I'll tell him what I like
But I'm a very little girl yet,
So I'll kiss the family
Goodnight.
***
Moms pass on all kinds of gifts and skills to their kids. In my parents' generation, especially in the midwest, quilting was a skill that was passed from mother to daughter.
But in my case, nothing.
Except I'm a writer. And my mother was a writer. She grew up on a farm in Kentucky. Dirt poor, the 10th of 13 children.
At least three of them were writers. That used to puzzle me.
Years later when I studied the Southern Writers, I realized that many of them came from families where no one else could read, much less write.
Following is a poem that my mother wrote just before she was married. At the time she was writing fairly articulate articles from time to time for the newspaper.
This particular poem tells me about her talent and her wit.
Entertainin' Sister's Beau
When sister has a date sometimes
An' she's kinda late, you know,
She sends me in the parlor
To entertain her beau.
"Now don't you talk so much," she says
"An be a reg' lady."
An' 'en she keeps on askin'
Till finally I promises, maybe.
I sits upon the sofa in
A dignified sort of way,
An' I stick me finger in me mouth
Cause me don't know what to say
En he says to me, he says;
"Is your sister good to you?"
An' 'en that go me started,
An' he got tired 'fore I got through.
I tole him all the mean things
I could think of she had done,
An' when they ran out on me
I even made up some.
Course it wasn't lyin
Cause it was all fer his benefit,
But I'll not do it again,
Cause he didn't 'ppreciate it.
I never go in any more
Sis, she'd rather I don't
An maw, she won't let me,
So I just recon - I won't
But if I ever have a feller of my own
I'll tell him what I like
But I'm a very little girl yet,
So I'll kiss the family
Goodnight.
***
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Easter Message
Last Sunday, at the end of our Easter service we congregants were given grocery bags with instructions to fill them and return them next Sunday. They'll be taken to a food pantry to be distributed to the poor.
At my house my boyfriend is in charge of filling both of our bags. He's searching for bargains and is carefully filling the bags with all of the items listed on the side.
This idea came from seeing Rick Warren on "Larry King Live", saying that this is what they were doing in his mega church in Southern California, Saddleback.
Warren is one of those "New Evangelicals" who believe that Jesus' message is about caring for the poor and others in need (like me sometimes) as well as saving souls.
He's receiving a lot of flack about that.
Likewise, Joel Hunter, the pastor of Northland, (a central Florida mega church.) He's working hard to bring people together where they can legitimately come together.
Recently, when he was speaking at an interfaith group on torture Hunter mentioned "the cottage industry of hostility." He said, "I don't know how much the rest of the religious leaders up here have to face this, but I tell you, I get nasty, nasty letters every time I stand up for the poor, the immigrant the torture victims."
He went on the say he gets criticized by both conservatives and liberals.
...People who are paid to make people angry. People who are paid to create enemies, so we can feel good about ourselves.
What motivates these New Evangelicals?"
Jesus was the Prince of Peace. He was (and is) all about love and reconciliation. Jesus and every writer of the 66 books of the Bible advocated for the poor.
It's the Easter message. That we all might have an abundant life here and now - as well as later.
***
At my house my boyfriend is in charge of filling both of our bags. He's searching for bargains and is carefully filling the bags with all of the items listed on the side.
This idea came from seeing Rick Warren on "Larry King Live", saying that this is what they were doing in his mega church in Southern California, Saddleback.
Warren is one of those "New Evangelicals" who believe that Jesus' message is about caring for the poor and others in need (like me sometimes) as well as saving souls.
He's receiving a lot of flack about that.
Likewise, Joel Hunter, the pastor of Northland, (a central Florida mega church.) He's working hard to bring people together where they can legitimately come together.
Recently, when he was speaking at an interfaith group on torture Hunter mentioned "the cottage industry of hostility." He said, "I don't know how much the rest of the religious leaders up here have to face this, but I tell you, I get nasty, nasty letters every time I stand up for the poor, the immigrant the torture victims."
He went on the say he gets criticized by both conservatives and liberals.
...People who are paid to make people angry. People who are paid to create enemies, so we can feel good about ourselves.
What motivates these New Evangelicals?"
Jesus was the Prince of Peace. He was (and is) all about love and reconciliation. Jesus and every writer of the 66 books of the Bible advocated for the poor.
It's the Easter message. That we all might have an abundant life here and now - as well as later.
***
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