Hello, all you wonderful Critter-Type friends and associates out there! This blog is written in response to a letter I received, and contained transcripts of a pretty tense "conversation". I am offering my opinion (which I warn, should be taken as such, since I don't "know it all"). Based on my observations, however, I am going to throw in my two hundred cents' worth, and who knows? Maybe it will help one of you out there. So here goes:
The main comment I have difficulty with is stating that doctors will take a thousand dollars to line their pockets and "extend suffering". Those are some really strong words, and if you recall the Client Relations module of VT5, you will remember that twelve people will say something negative for every one positive comment made out there...not only that, but the negative remarks begin to grow into legends because it's like a game of "telephone".
Considering that a great deal of any veterinary practice's clientele comes via word of mouth, doing something like that would harm a reputation and be very costly in the long run. So I am not buying it. For a veterinary practice, it's one of those "penny wise and pound foolish" methods of conducting business, and most simply know better. Remember, there is ALWAYS more than one side to every story.
And you know as well as I do that emergency practices do charge more...they have to. The level of skill which the doctors and technicians must possess, the fact that they are open all night long, and typically have to pay techs extra (which they deserve)...and carry drugs and supplies that cost a great deal more than your typical "day practice"...well crap yes, it's going to cost more.
I know many E.R. vets. I've seen plenty of desperate cases come in. They try to get a quick but accurate assessment before proceeding with treatment and are as up-front as they can be as to whether they think a patient will respond, how long it will take, what the alternatives are. They HAVE to do this. No one but no one wants to render treatment and then have to eat all of those charges and expenses, so an estimate is given up-front to see what course of action can or can't be taken. I know there are practices out there which do not have the patient's best interests in mind, but they are not the majority, not even close.
It's arrogant to say that a particular group has a 90% success rate and to say that veterinarians have a 10% success rate. I think these statistics are invented, and do not come from any legitimate statistics collected by anyone. It's going to vary from region to region, depending on time of year, from year to year. Either that or they are skewed. Let me give an example.
When I first started out fostering kittens, I didn't know as much as I do now...did I have more losses than I did after I really learned the ropes? Sure I did. Then as time went on, the success rate climbed. And yes, I did hit 90%. Hell, there were times when my rates soared to 100%. I did not let it go to my head. CUZ that would be STOOPID!!
BUT! As the doctors I worked with observed and realized the kind of "knack" I had, they started sending kittens my way...and guess what? They were more challenged kittens...that's how it is when you develop a reputation and start getting most if not all of your litters from an emergency clinic. The clinics are terribly busy, and the practitioners know that they just aren't staffed to give the sort of care a tiny kitten (or a bunch of them) demands. It is wrong to take them in, and then to have to leave them sitting in a box in a cage, getting soiled, cold, hungry. No one wants to do that. No one wants to have to walk past a cage and hear that heartbreaking mewing, knowing no one can get to them just yet, and that most likely, they'll have to be euthanized before the end of the shift. So they maintain a database of volunteers who can intercept quickly, before the kittens reach the point where they're unsalvageable.
Nevertheless, in many instances, I had many orphans, that, by the time they reached me--they were in "shit shape". Some of them were screwed up when they came in--umbilical infections, dehydration, URIs, etc...So....I had my work cut out for me. I had that little premature kitten that went into arrest the first day after I got her home and did FRICKEN CPR. She made it, only to get desperately, mysteriously ill at age three weeks. I could not figure out WHAT was wrong with her. It went on all night, literally 10-12 hours of dying. I hit her with everything I had, and by some kind of miracle, she pulled through. Never say "never"! What was it exactly that saved her? Hell if I know! I don't even know what was wrong with her!! But hey, she lived. My daughter has her still, and she will be five years old in June. Her name is Blackberry, and she was the little kitten I put into one or two of my Power Point presentations.
Other kittens didn't make it. They likely had congenital problems that weren't evident at birth; I can't say, because I did not have post mortems done. They were dead. I didn't want to turn around and cut the poor little things up to top it all off. What good would it do? There are ten thousand things that can go wrong during the developmental process, and it isn't as if I can cut a little window into every sick kitten I get hold of so I can say, "Oh yes! It's a heart chamber defect!" (Yeah, right.) All I know is that I'd have two or three kittens from the same litter, and one of them would start to lag behind. I had a pair of kittens that started out the same size, but by nine days of age, one kitten was only maybe half, or maybe even a third the size of the other. At age ten days, the little one had died. I gave him all I had, I had help from my vet friends, it broke my heart, but at least I knew we had done everything we could. If there was any way that little guy could sense he mattered, then he knew it by the time he passed away. It will sound hokey to some, but I held him in my hands as he became unresponsive, and finally I told him it was okay to let go. I knew he was tired. He couldn't fight anymore, and I couldn't make him, but I could keep him as comfortable as I could until he slipped away. Do you remember our feline restraint lab? I had the young Siamese (Nakori) and the brown tabby shorthair that was just fine as long as he could hide his face somewhere (Bobby AKA Boo). Bobby was the survivor of that pair of kittens, and I've always felt like a bit of his brother lives on in him.
All I know is that when the majority of kittens I took in were sick, well, hell yes, the mortality rate was going to go up. How can it not? I had a friend I did rescues with, and once I got them stable, I usually handed them over to her, so I could help more sickies, the tube-feeders, the "I will have to bathe you 12 times a day, give you SQ fluids, crack out the Karo syrup, give antibiotics, and keep you within eyesight and earshot at all times" cases. So guess what? Her success rate began to exceed mine, but only if viewed from one angle. I had weeks where the mortality rate was 50%, sometimes higher. It just depended on what was wrong with them. But the question has to be asked: Was I losing my "touch"?? No!! If I took all the kittens I ever fostered and added them all up and then added up all the deaths, yes, I will estimate that the survival rate had might possibly have slipped from 90% to maybe 80%. Did that change the way I did things? Nope! I had to tell myself to SCREW THE NUMBERS. It will NOT change the amount of effort I will put into foster/medical care.
That said, I will tell you that it got to the point where a doctor would call me at home and I'd have to ask what was wrong with them and how they felt about their condition...and some I had to say "I'm really sorry, but I just can't" to....if they had maggots and I was already running a damned ICU from home, I already had my hands full and it was in no one's best interest to compromise the babies I was putting so much into. I finally came to an agreement with the vets I knew to "please don't call" if they knew I had super special-needs babies, and whatever they had come in was in grave condition. Then I could focus my attention to what I already had. One of the most important things a foster family MUST know and practice is to NEVER take in more than you can care for, or sooner or later it will bite you in the ass! And it wasn't so much my ass I cared about; it was about trying to do the most good.
This is a very long-winded way of saying that it is very unfair to point fingers at vets or anyone else and portray them as pathetic failures and then compare themselves as shining examples. Pride comes before a fall. See my "bite you in the ass" observation above.
Most fading kittens that make it past the first few days, but die somewhere down the road succumb to infections or parasites. Remember that the prepatent period for roundworms is 2-3 weeks following birth, and then if you give them a week to wreak havoc in a kitten or puppy's body....guess what? Four weeks can be a critical time. There are parasites that evade detection; there are infections that can result from littermates suckling on genitals...there is cumulative damage that happens because of long-standing diarrhea...the profound anemia that can occur in a matter of hours due to fleas...it goes on and on.
Then there are the kittens that are only a few days old; they look fine in the morning and are dead by nightfall.
One problem that many laypersons are not aware of is "Neonatal isoerythrolysis"...it happens when a mother cat with blood type B becomes impregnated by a tom with blood type A. Those two CLASH. The kittens will most likely inherit blood type A, and when they start to nurse, they receive the colostrum with anti-blood type A antibodies. However, their intestines are still "leaky", that is, they have normal "holes" in them that permit large antibody proteins to pass through them into the blood stream for the first two days. Usually this is a good thing. This is how the babies get a nice fat dose of the antibodies they need in order to avoid many illnesses until their own immunity develops. The exception is that blood type antibody that happens with a B-type mother and A-type babies. Those Anti-A antibodies pass through the kittens' intestines, enter the blood stream, and begin to destroy the kittens' blood cells. If you were to pull as sample from the kittens, you'd find that the blood is agglutinating...clumping together because they are being attacked by antibodies.
This happened with the second litter I cared for back in 1995; by the time we knew it, it was too late. The mother was a Himalyan and the father? It's anyone's guess.
However, the rule of thumb is to allow 99% of kittens (especially "mutts") to get colostrum, it at all possible, because the isoerythrolysis is a problem which happens most commonly among purebred queens that "mis-mate" with a non-purebred tom. Blood type B accounts for 7-15% of the feline population, depending on breed and region.
Whew!
What I am saying is that I have a big problem with the title "fading kitten syndrome"...it is dangerously generic, and it's about as useful as saying "crib death". It does not address WHY or HOW it happened. It becomes dangerous when the title is just slapped on to a little one and then to say, "Oh well, this one is supposed to die."
Supposed to? GRRRRRRRRRR!!!
So there.
I don't know how much this rambling letter will help you, but hey, you can always use the information I gave you to dazzle friends, coworkers, and employers. They'll think..."Wow, that Zoe" or "Wow, that Breanna! She's a sharp one. I should give her a raise!! " =o)
In truth, you probably will have a great deal of trouble getting a lot of help from a vet, because some are awfully busy, and some will admit that newborn/orphan husbandry is just not something they're good at... so, expect the answer to be "no", or "maybe" UNLESS YOU KNOW HIM OR HER, and know otherwise. If you have a great rapport, ask in advance if it might be okay to call with questions if they should arise. Let them know that you've got a litter now, so there's a heads-up. Yes, many veterinarians will know that it may be biting off more than they can chew and say, "no, I'm sorry"...but who cares?? YOU ONLY NEED ONE "YES"!!!!
So don't give up!!!
PS: By the way, my daughter is getting close to completing all of her lower division requirements in college and has reached the crossroads...she is giving very serious thought to veterinary medicine...whether it be a vet or a tech, I applaud her! By George, in spite of all I put her and her brother through with all those little kitties running around and sometimes pooping on the baseboards (and sometimes worse than that!)...plus, we never had a dining room because every year it turned into a nursery/clinic...and there were so many times I asked her if she'd mind bottle-feeding a litter so I wouldn't have to take it to work...well, I guess it didn't condition her to dread the word "veterinary".
YESSSSSSSS!!!!
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Winter Wonderland
It didn't happen in time for Christmas, but I think today has made up for it. I awoke to Jasper's coughing and after chasing him around with the AeroKat, I happened to glance out the window and it was completely white outside.
I lit the fireplace and stood back for a moment to take it all in.
This was at eight A.M. and it is still snowing. I have about six inches on the decks; the once-naked trees are festooned in snowflakes and the evergreens look like models from a Christmas card.
I let Nakori and Jasper out onto the deck for a short spell...they were fascinated by the little flakes falling from the sky, and their coats fluffed out to insulate them as they took tentative steps into the snow, leaving unbearably cute little footprints that made me smile when I looked at them after the kitties came back in.
Jasper practically had to be pulled back inside but Nakori came willingly, his whiskers decorated with flecks of snow. Damn, that was cute!
He ambled over to the fireplace and assumed the loaf position, enjoying the warmth. Reflections of tiny flames darted around on his eyes--all he needed was a little Santa hat to transform him from adorable to downright schlocky.
I'm in my bedroom now, and I can hear kids laughing and hollering outside--I bet they're doubly happy that it's a No School Day AND they get to play in the snow.
It is expected to snow through out today, overnight and into tomorrow. Originally the weather reports forcast snow turning to sleet this afternoon and finally rain, washing all the white away and turning the roads to black ice after the temperatures drop back down overnight, and that's anything but pretty.
However, the wonderland has gotten something of a reprieve. It's really gorgeous. After several months of just about the worst depression I've ever experienced, I find myself in something of a magical place: not far from Sean and Amanda, living in a large but cozy home, reveling in a beautiful landscape and feeling grateful for the turn of events that, although I hate the way they came about, I'm grateful to have been set free to come back home.
I mean, really home
I lit the fireplace and stood back for a moment to take it all in.
This was at eight A.M. and it is still snowing. I have about six inches on the decks; the once-naked trees are festooned in snowflakes and the evergreens look like models from a Christmas card.
I let Nakori and Jasper out onto the deck for a short spell...they were fascinated by the little flakes falling from the sky, and their coats fluffed out to insulate them as they took tentative steps into the snow, leaving unbearably cute little footprints that made me smile when I looked at them after the kitties came back in.
Jasper practically had to be pulled back inside but Nakori came willingly, his whiskers decorated with flecks of snow. Damn, that was cute!
He ambled over to the fireplace and assumed the loaf position, enjoying the warmth. Reflections of tiny flames darted around on his eyes--all he needed was a little Santa hat to transform him from adorable to downright schlocky.
I'm in my bedroom now, and I can hear kids laughing and hollering outside--I bet they're doubly happy that it's a No School Day AND they get to play in the snow.
It is expected to snow through out today, overnight and into tomorrow. Originally the weather reports forcast snow turning to sleet this afternoon and finally rain, washing all the white away and turning the roads to black ice after the temperatures drop back down overnight, and that's anything but pretty.
However, the wonderland has gotten something of a reprieve. It's really gorgeous. After several months of just about the worst depression I've ever experienced, I find myself in something of a magical place: not far from Sean and Amanda, living in a large but cozy home, reveling in a beautiful landscape and feeling grateful for the turn of events that, although I hate the way they came about, I'm grateful to have been set free to come back home.
I mean, really home
New neighbors.
Last evening after retrieving the mail, I noted a welcome mat in front of the doorstep adjacent to mine. It hadn't been there before, and I took it as a sign.
This morning, the move-in has begun. Thump, thump, thump. Furniture is making the perilous, zig-zag trip upstairs. Nakori is sitting up on my bed, and I seem to be some sort of barrier between him and the Noisy Stuff. He has the roundest eyes I've seen on a cat; they are pale blue saucers with small blackened pancakes sitting directly in the center of each. His gaze is fixed on the bedroom doorway, which seems to be the Portal to The Scary Zone of Mayhem.
Jasper is completely the opposite in his viewpoint regarding things at or outside the front door. If the UPS guy knocks, Nakori heads for the closet, while Jasper runs to the door. One almost expects him to wag his tail and bark. Nakori's response is exactly what one expects from a cat, especially a cat who lives entirely indoors. No, it's Jasper who's the behavioral anomaly.
Aside from his asthma, I don't think there's one thing about Jasper that isn't amusing.
I live with Yin and Yang.
This morning, the move-in has begun. Thump, thump, thump. Furniture is making the perilous, zig-zag trip upstairs. Nakori is sitting up on my bed, and I seem to be some sort of barrier between him and the Noisy Stuff. He has the roundest eyes I've seen on a cat; they are pale blue saucers with small blackened pancakes sitting directly in the center of each. His gaze is fixed on the bedroom doorway, which seems to be the Portal to The Scary Zone of Mayhem.
Jasper is completely the opposite in his viewpoint regarding things at or outside the front door. If the UPS guy knocks, Nakori heads for the closet, while Jasper runs to the door. One almost expects him to wag his tail and bark. Nakori's response is exactly what one expects from a cat, especially a cat who lives entirely indoors. No, it's Jasper who's the behavioral anomaly.
Aside from his asthma, I don't think there's one thing about Jasper that isn't amusing.
I live with Yin and Yang.
Like, majorly overdue.
What an abomination. I've not written forever. At first it was because I didn't really feel like doing anything, and now, it seems to be a matter of doing (almost) too much. The latter is better. The former is a waste of air, a waste of consciousness, a waste of life.
Um, yeah. Enough with the waxing philosophical stuff.
Sean got a puppy a few weeks ago. Go look on the last page of my photos to see him. He has been christened Dexter. He is a Jack Russell Terror(ier). Naw, he's acutally a good boy. Sean and Nichelle are very committed to socializing him and teaching him good manners. He has very symmetrical markings, which I like. He is also the short-legged variety, which I also like. The way I see it, if you're going to spend ($$) on a purebred dog, let the breed be fairly distinguishable. Heaven knows Jack Russells, Rat Terriers and Fox Terriers have enough ambiguity: wire-hair, smooth coat; and that combination coat. Long legs, short legs, flat heads, roundish ones, ugly, cute, and enough with the ambiguous terrier stuff already.
Anyway, the point is, Sean has a puppy.
And he's cute. So is the puppy.
And there are so many vet techs among my blog-reading populace that I implore you to go look at his pictures, regardless of whether you want a puppy-fix or you don't and whether you're a vet tech or aren't.
Damn it, Dexter is family.
I've changed Jasper's inhaled meds over to Seravent, which lasts longer. I'm trying very hard to get him off that dreaded oral prednisone. Seriously, aside from exacerbating his already-enormous appetite, he whizzes like a racehorse. When I clean his litter box, I haul out clumps the size of Oahu.
*Oh God*
In the middle of watching Rainman on WGN, there's a station break with a commercial about "male enhancement". What the hell is with that? How much do they pay these guys to do the commercials? They've got to be right up there with hemorrhoids and feminine odor. Blaghh!!
Well, wasn't this a nice, repulsive little fireside chat? Okay, not "fireside".
It's Memorial Weekend.
But you get the idea.
Signing off.
Um, yeah. Enough with the waxing philosophical stuff.
Sean got a puppy a few weeks ago. Go look on the last page of my photos to see him. He has been christened Dexter. He is a Jack Russell Terror(ier). Naw, he's acutally a good boy. Sean and Nichelle are very committed to socializing him and teaching him good manners. He has very symmetrical markings, which I like. He is also the short-legged variety, which I also like. The way I see it, if you're going to spend ($$) on a purebred dog, let the breed be fairly distinguishable. Heaven knows Jack Russells, Rat Terriers and Fox Terriers have enough ambiguity: wire-hair, smooth coat; and that combination coat. Long legs, short legs, flat heads, roundish ones, ugly, cute, and enough with the ambiguous terrier stuff already.
Anyway, the point is, Sean has a puppy.
And he's cute. So is the puppy.
And there are so many vet techs among my blog-reading populace that I implore you to go look at his pictures, regardless of whether you want a puppy-fix or you don't and whether you're a vet tech or aren't.
Damn it, Dexter is family.
I've changed Jasper's inhaled meds over to Seravent, which lasts longer. I'm trying very hard to get him off that dreaded oral prednisone. Seriously, aside from exacerbating his already-enormous appetite, he whizzes like a racehorse. When I clean his litter box, I haul out clumps the size of Oahu.
*Oh God*
In the middle of watching Rainman on WGN, there's a station break with a commercial about "male enhancement". What the hell is with that? How much do they pay these guys to do the commercials? They've got to be right up there with hemorrhoids and feminine odor. Blaghh!!
Well, wasn't this a nice, repulsive little fireside chat? Okay, not "fireside".
It's Memorial Weekend.
But you get the idea.
Signing off.
I want to head directly to the Springwater Trail after work and pick more blackberries. I am running out of space to store them. The freezer will be full at this rate, and they have a life expectancy of about two days in the fridge. I could always dry some, though that takes days (despite the dehydrator company's claim that it takes "just hours"--shah, right!)....
....one way or another, I will manage to do something with the blackberries. I must have those berries, dammit! This is my last summer as an Oregon resident and the last time I will be able to just cruise on over to the trail and load up on free fruit. Naturally everything has its price--in this case, it is my skin that pays....oh, and how.
I like to consider myself as something of a rather apt individual, nimbly pulling the bramble vines aside and deftly plucking the berries and gently tossing them into the collecting basket. Actually I should refine that last remark. The "right" way to pick a ripe blackberry is not to pluck it, but to sort of bend it right at the base of the stem, and it should just fall off. The best berries in the world are the truly ripe ones--nothing like them--just heavenly. However, the big drawback is that they are so damned delicate. Often they will squish right between my fingers (oops!) or perhaps under their own weight once in the basket. The result is a sloppy, juicy, staining mess. Washing the berries is tricky as well.
But the biggest challenge is not the berry but the vine upon which it grows. There are cultivars which are thornless and their seeds are very small, but unfortunately they're pretty bland, too, and they aren't free. So if one is willing to put up with a few seeds, then it's just a matter of how to get the berries without winding up in the emergency room with injuries that look as if a platoon of angry kittens decided to use the berry picker as a scratching post. To be sure, some small injuries are inevitable. Two nights ago I returned home with about five pounds of berries and no less than two dozen tiny scratches on my forearms. The vines are also very good at snagging one's hair and clothing and the result can be a real mess: holes in one's shirt, hair a mess and berry juice smeared everywhere (a hint from Heloise here: Oxy-Clean or another hydrogen peroxide-based cleaner will remove berry stains like magic).
There have been years where I've hauled home twenty or thirty pounds of fruit: and then the house smelled like a heavenly place as I cooked up preserves, made syrup, baked pies and turnovers and made blackberry cobbler. I make a killer pie crust, if I may say so myself (and I just did). I was a semi-permanent fixture in the kitchen--boiling jars, cooking, baking, cleaning, and occasionally looking up to smile at anyone who happened to drop in--no doubt with blackberry seeds in my teeth and red-black stains on my hands and clothes. Sometimes I'd get tired and the whole thing would become a big pain in the ass and I'd just want to be done with it already.
....but come winter when the days are cold and grey, there is something almost magical about popping open a jar of preserves, carefully hand-labelled with the year and the place where I harvested the fruit. The smell and taste seem to somehow make the sun peek out from behind the clouds and I can almost smell the fresh, grassy scent of a beautiful Oregon summer afternoon on a little breeze that seems to come from nowhere.
Perhaps this explains why, in spite of the wounds and the mess, I always have a big smile of victory and anticipation on my face as I plop my basket of berries on the countertop after a successful foray along the Springwater Trail. I've developed enough wisdom to know that I'm making memories as I do so.
....one way or another, I will manage to do something with the blackberries. I must have those berries, dammit! This is my last summer as an Oregon resident and the last time I will be able to just cruise on over to the trail and load up on free fruit. Naturally everything has its price--in this case, it is my skin that pays....oh, and how.
I like to consider myself as something of a rather apt individual, nimbly pulling the bramble vines aside and deftly plucking the berries and gently tossing them into the collecting basket. Actually I should refine that last remark. The "right" way to pick a ripe blackberry is not to pluck it, but to sort of bend it right at the base of the stem, and it should just fall off. The best berries in the world are the truly ripe ones--nothing like them--just heavenly. However, the big drawback is that they are so damned delicate. Often they will squish right between my fingers (oops!) or perhaps under their own weight once in the basket. The result is a sloppy, juicy, staining mess. Washing the berries is tricky as well.
But the biggest challenge is not the berry but the vine upon which it grows. There are cultivars which are thornless and their seeds are very small, but unfortunately they're pretty bland, too, and they aren't free. So if one is willing to put up with a few seeds, then it's just a matter of how to get the berries without winding up in the emergency room with injuries that look as if a platoon of angry kittens decided to use the berry picker as a scratching post. To be sure, some small injuries are inevitable. Two nights ago I returned home with about five pounds of berries and no less than two dozen tiny scratches on my forearms. The vines are also very good at snagging one's hair and clothing and the result can be a real mess: holes in one's shirt, hair a mess and berry juice smeared everywhere (a hint from Heloise here: Oxy-Clean or another hydrogen peroxide-based cleaner will remove berry stains like magic).
There have been years where I've hauled home twenty or thirty pounds of fruit: and then the house smelled like a heavenly place as I cooked up preserves, made syrup, baked pies and turnovers and made blackberry cobbler. I make a killer pie crust, if I may say so myself (and I just did). I was a semi-permanent fixture in the kitchen--boiling jars, cooking, baking, cleaning, and occasionally looking up to smile at anyone who happened to drop in--no doubt with blackberry seeds in my teeth and red-black stains on my hands and clothes. Sometimes I'd get tired and the whole thing would become a big pain in the ass and I'd just want to be done with it already.
....but come winter when the days are cold and grey, there is something almost magical about popping open a jar of preserves, carefully hand-labelled with the year and the place where I harvested the fruit. The smell and taste seem to somehow make the sun peek out from behind the clouds and I can almost smell the fresh, grassy scent of a beautiful Oregon summer afternoon on a little breeze that seems to come from nowhere.
Perhaps this explains why, in spite of the wounds and the mess, I always have a big smile of victory and anticipation on my face as I plop my basket of berries on the countertop after a successful foray along the Springwater Trail. I've developed enough wisdom to know that I'm making memories as I do so.
Wound count and Blackberry Wisdom
1:30 pm -
At this time I will estimate the number of scratches and small puncture wounds from bramble battle to be approximately thirty on each arm and perhaps a half-dozen on each leg. My forearms have the feel of a little kid about to break out in chicken pox. Mind you, some of them are very small--no larger than a mosquito bite--but remember, each dot or line represents a snag, scrape or poke from vines which seem to have an almost antagonistic attitude about them....or are they merely challenging me?
....after all, one could be philosophical about this whole berry picking business, which is what I found myself doing as I picked blackberries last evening. There were metaphors everywhere I looked.
For example, the best berries--big, juicy and ripe--are hidden behind the foliage; they are not brazenly displayed. Novice berry pickers pass them by, but I know better; I've been doing this for years and consider myself to be something of a blackberry authority. One has to forage around a bit and pull back a few thorny branches--and sustain a scratch or two (or a dozen) to find the best fruit. And no, you can't wear falconer's gloves to pick berries: you may as well use a hammer. Long sleeves and long pants help, but it had best be an old shirt or pants, because fabric will snag much more readily than skin. My boyfriend thinks I'm nuts to pick berries wearing something minimal like a tank top and skirt or shorts (don't you, Duane?) Ah yes...well...Jungle Jane here is telling you that those vines and stickers separate the mice from the men--or in this case--the real berry afficianados from the wimps.
Timing is important. If one is impatient and picks a berry before it's ripe, it will be sour. Sure, you can try taking home a load of unripe berries and letting them ripen in a bag, but they just don't turn out the same. They lack flavor. Sometimes they just sort of rot and never get sweet. Conversely, if you wait too long, the berries will be sweet all right, but they are very delicate and don't have much time left. And then there is the whole science of making preserves: underripe berries will make jam that's as stiff as taffy; the overripe berries have lost all their pectin and the resulting product will be a runny mess--or pancake syrup, depending upon how optimistic your outlook is. I happen to like blackberry syrup better than maple syrup--or any other flavor for that matter. Thus, regardless of how my preserving efforts go, I will have something worth spreading on toast or pouring on pancakes.
Don't be greedy. Save something for the other hikers and leave the really soft, overripe fruit where it is--it will make a nice meal for a bird or other wild animal.
These thoughts came to me as I reached up, leaned over, or knelt down and gathered blackberries. Other thoughts rallied about in my head as well. I enjoyed the relative peace of doing something alone, a time-out from work and other people. As the last light of day began to fade, I heard music: two times in a row it was The Moody Blues--Days of Future Passed. I heard "Tuesday Afternoon", "Twilight Time" and "The Sunset". The trail closes at sunset, so I mulled that over a bit.
Exactly when is sunset? How much light must remain to still be "twilight"? I let the crickets decide. First one cricket began to chirp slowly, tentatively, a solitary call to the other crickets to come out and do whatever it is crickets do (they are probably calling out for sex--and no, it's not a horny mind telling you this, gentle reader; it's just one of those facts--animals make noises for a number of reasons: sex, territory, a warning to enemies or a distress call to other members of their species--but most likely it's sex). The first cricket was joined by a second, and not long after that a third cricket threw in its two cents' worth.
I decided then that it is officially Sunset on the Springwater Trail when I can hear three crickets; hence it shall hitherto be referred to as the "Three Cricket Rule". Hey, the Eskimos supposedly coined the term "Three Dog Night" when it got cold enough outside to bring three sled dogs into the igloo to help warm it up. I suppose I've just committed some kind of political/demographic faux pas...but hey, this is my journal. You want something P.C.? Go read the New York Times....and I'm sure there's something that will offend someone there as well.
So this is it for today; my manuscript on the Wisdom of Blackberries is about to conclude. To summarize: Nothing that's worthwhile seems to come without at least some sort of work, price, or risk attached. Wild blackberries are free: Nature doesn't charge by the pound. However, it takes a bit of patience, timing and skill to claim the sweet reward, and you really have to love blackberries to put up with so much inconvenience.
It doesn't hurt to have some witch hazel to dab on the scratches, either.
At this time I will estimate the number of scratches and small puncture wounds from bramble battle to be approximately thirty on each arm and perhaps a half-dozen on each leg. My forearms have the feel of a little kid about to break out in chicken pox. Mind you, some of them are very small--no larger than a mosquito bite--but remember, each dot or line represents a snag, scrape or poke from vines which seem to have an almost antagonistic attitude about them....or are they merely challenging me?
....after all, one could be philosophical about this whole berry picking business, which is what I found myself doing as I picked blackberries last evening. There were metaphors everywhere I looked.
For example, the best berries--big, juicy and ripe--are hidden behind the foliage; they are not brazenly displayed. Novice berry pickers pass them by, but I know better; I've been doing this for years and consider myself to be something of a blackberry authority. One has to forage around a bit and pull back a few thorny branches--and sustain a scratch or two (or a dozen) to find the best fruit. And no, you can't wear falconer's gloves to pick berries: you may as well use a hammer. Long sleeves and long pants help, but it had best be an old shirt or pants, because fabric will snag much more readily than skin. My boyfriend thinks I'm nuts to pick berries wearing something minimal like a tank top and skirt or shorts (don't you, Duane?) Ah yes...well...Jungle Jane here is telling you that those vines and stickers separate the mice from the men--or in this case--the real berry afficianados from the wimps.
Timing is important. If one is impatient and picks a berry before it's ripe, it will be sour. Sure, you can try taking home a load of unripe berries and letting them ripen in a bag, but they just don't turn out the same. They lack flavor. Sometimes they just sort of rot and never get sweet. Conversely, if you wait too long, the berries will be sweet all right, but they are very delicate and don't have much time left. And then there is the whole science of making preserves: underripe berries will make jam that's as stiff as taffy; the overripe berries have lost all their pectin and the resulting product will be a runny mess--or pancake syrup, depending upon how optimistic your outlook is. I happen to like blackberry syrup better than maple syrup--or any other flavor for that matter. Thus, regardless of how my preserving efforts go, I will have something worth spreading on toast or pouring on pancakes.
Don't be greedy. Save something for the other hikers and leave the really soft, overripe fruit where it is--it will make a nice meal for a bird or other wild animal.
These thoughts came to me as I reached up, leaned over, or knelt down and gathered blackberries. Other thoughts rallied about in my head as well. I enjoyed the relative peace of doing something alone, a time-out from work and other people. As the last light of day began to fade, I heard music: two times in a row it was The Moody Blues--Days of Future Passed. I heard "Tuesday Afternoon", "Twilight Time" and "The Sunset". The trail closes at sunset, so I mulled that over a bit.
Exactly when is sunset? How much light must remain to still be "twilight"? I let the crickets decide. First one cricket began to chirp slowly, tentatively, a solitary call to the other crickets to come out and do whatever it is crickets do (they are probably calling out for sex--and no, it's not a horny mind telling you this, gentle reader; it's just one of those facts--animals make noises for a number of reasons: sex, territory, a warning to enemies or a distress call to other members of their species--but most likely it's sex). The first cricket was joined by a second, and not long after that a third cricket threw in its two cents' worth.
I decided then that it is officially Sunset on the Springwater Trail when I can hear three crickets; hence it shall hitherto be referred to as the "Three Cricket Rule". Hey, the Eskimos supposedly coined the term "Three Dog Night" when it got cold enough outside to bring three sled dogs into the igloo to help warm it up. I suppose I've just committed some kind of political/demographic faux pas...but hey, this is my journal. You want something P.C.? Go read the New York Times....and I'm sure there's something that will offend someone there as well.
So this is it for today; my manuscript on the Wisdom of Blackberries is about to conclude. To summarize: Nothing that's worthwhile seems to come without at least some sort of work, price, or risk attached. Wild blackberries are free: Nature doesn't charge by the pound. However, it takes a bit of patience, timing and skill to claim the sweet reward, and you really have to love blackberries to put up with so much inconvenience.
It doesn't hurt to have some witch hazel to dab on the scratches, either.
4:02 pm
Only someone who knows me very well--well enough to have spent more than one summer around my household--can appreciate the willpower I've mustered up this year when it comes to....kittens.
Truth be known, I was getting tired anyway, and the feline population around this place has steadily risen from two to eight since my move here in 1998. Now I am faced with the difficult task of finding homes for four of them....but I digress. Yesterday, while putting a shipment away, I heard the all-too-familiar sound of a kitten chorus eminating from the Special Procedures area. When I got to the source of the multitude of mews, I was greeted by a most heart-rending sight: there must have been six of them. They were all about four weeks old. To the far left was a brown tabby, and beside him was a tortoiseshell, and next to her was a dilute torti with long hair. There was another tabby in the back, mewing in the wrong direction. But the kitten who really caught my eye was the little colorpoint. I will call it a boy, since it (now "he") looked very much like Nakori from last year's brood. He was the most vocal of them, and was using his littermates as stepstools to get closer to where I was. He looked squarely at me. It was a Direct Hit.
"What"--you might ask--"do you mean by a 'direct hit'?"
I'll tell you what.
For some reason kittens are my Cryptonite. I am typically safe as long as I don't touch them or, most dangerous of all, make eye contact. Kittens have little "death rays" which they project from their innocent-looking eyes, rays which turn me into some kind of mutant felo-humanoid species with all of the protective instincts of a mother cat. I guess it is what one might go so far as to term a "host/parasite" relationship. You know, there are species of birds which knock the eggs out of other birds' nests and lay their own.
I believe the cowbird is most famous for this behavior. I don't know why the hell a bird would leave its nest if it's setting on a clutch of eggs, but birds must do this, or else the cowbird would never get its chance. When the legitimate but unsuspecting parent birds are out on errands, the cowbird quickly squats in the nest, lays an egg, and takes off. Talk about hit and run! It isn't even necessary to knock the other eggs out of the nest because the chick which emerges when incubation is complete is a behemoth by comparison to the other baby birds. The littler birds don't have a chance. You'd think the parent birds would get a little suspicious when the ever-hungry offspring of questionable lineage surpasses its parents in size. Maybe they're too tired to notice, or maybe the dad bird doesn't want to get confrontational with the the mom bird ("honey--you've been fooling around, haven't you?") In any case, the ploy works, and the kid eventually leaves the nest to carry on with the family tradition.
There are insects which deposit eggs in their host and the host becomes a lobotomized, living nursery for the young. There is some kind of parasitic creature which does the same thing with a certain species of crab, residing in a little trapdoor of the crab's carapace where the eggs would normally be stashed.
I think I've made my point.
A similar phenomenon seems to happen to me if I get caught in Kitten Eye-Beams. That little siamese had caught me in his cross-hairs; in fact, I think he'd smelled me coming. (Sniffs axillary region with concern.)
Fret not: I was able to break the gaze before it was too late. Luckily, these little guys had a foster home, so I didn't even have to feel guilty about anything. As a matter of fact, as I went about putting things away, that litter of kittens made so much racket that I found myself becoming--gasp!--annoyed! Yes, it's true, I confess. I was glad I didn't have kittens in my home this year. I'd had enough to keep my mind occupied and I was already tired.
Eventually the kittens settled down and fell asleep in a furry pile of dangerously potent adorableness.... I finished my business and headed back to my office. I had escaped.
That's right, folks: I did it. I was momentarily captured in The Beam and have lived to tell about it.
Only someone who knows me very well--well enough to have spent more than one summer around my household--can appreciate the willpower I've mustered up this year when it comes to....kittens.
Truth be known, I was getting tired anyway, and the feline population around this place has steadily risen from two to eight since my move here in 1998. Now I am faced with the difficult task of finding homes for four of them....but I digress. Yesterday, while putting a shipment away, I heard the all-too-familiar sound of a kitten chorus eminating from the Special Procedures area. When I got to the source of the multitude of mews, I was greeted by a most heart-rending sight: there must have been six of them. They were all about four weeks old. To the far left was a brown tabby, and beside him was a tortoiseshell, and next to her was a dilute torti with long hair. There was another tabby in the back, mewing in the wrong direction. But the kitten who really caught my eye was the little colorpoint. I will call it a boy, since it (now "he") looked very much like Nakori from last year's brood. He was the most vocal of them, and was using his littermates as stepstools to get closer to where I was. He looked squarely at me. It was a Direct Hit.
"What"--you might ask--"do you mean by a 'direct hit'?"
I'll tell you what.
For some reason kittens are my Cryptonite. I am typically safe as long as I don't touch them or, most dangerous of all, make eye contact. Kittens have little "death rays" which they project from their innocent-looking eyes, rays which turn me into some kind of mutant felo-humanoid species with all of the protective instincts of a mother cat. I guess it is what one might go so far as to term a "host/parasite" relationship. You know, there are species of birds which knock the eggs out of other birds' nests and lay their own.
I believe the cowbird is most famous for this behavior. I don't know why the hell a bird would leave its nest if it's setting on a clutch of eggs, but birds must do this, or else the cowbird would never get its chance. When the legitimate but unsuspecting parent birds are out on errands, the cowbird quickly squats in the nest, lays an egg, and takes off. Talk about hit and run! It isn't even necessary to knock the other eggs out of the nest because the chick which emerges when incubation is complete is a behemoth by comparison to the other baby birds. The littler birds don't have a chance. You'd think the parent birds would get a little suspicious when the ever-hungry offspring of questionable lineage surpasses its parents in size. Maybe they're too tired to notice, or maybe the dad bird doesn't want to get confrontational with the the mom bird ("honey--you've been fooling around, haven't you?") In any case, the ploy works, and the kid eventually leaves the nest to carry on with the family tradition.
There are insects which deposit eggs in their host and the host becomes a lobotomized, living nursery for the young. There is some kind of parasitic creature which does the same thing with a certain species of crab, residing in a little trapdoor of the crab's carapace where the eggs would normally be stashed.
I think I've made my point.
A similar phenomenon seems to happen to me if I get caught in Kitten Eye-Beams. That little siamese had caught me in his cross-hairs; in fact, I think he'd smelled me coming. (Sniffs axillary region with concern.)
Fret not: I was able to break the gaze before it was too late. Luckily, these little guys had a foster home, so I didn't even have to feel guilty about anything. As a matter of fact, as I went about putting things away, that litter of kittens made so much racket that I found myself becoming--gasp!--annoyed! Yes, it's true, I confess. I was glad I didn't have kittens in my home this year. I'd had enough to keep my mind occupied and I was already tired.
Eventually the kittens settled down and fell asleep in a furry pile of dangerously potent adorableness.... I finished my business and headed back to my office. I had escaped.
That's right, folks: I did it. I was momentarily captured in The Beam and have lived to tell about it.
Springer
9:40 am
Duane had the TV on when I awoke this morning. He was switching channels--and it dawned on me why MTV and Jerry Springer are so enormously popular. Television is the very manifestation of an imaginary world.
I think people see the provacative nymphets and cash-flashing pimpstas on MTV and (perhaps unconsciously) see the embodiment of what they wish they were. Then they flip on Springer and see the toothless, trailer-dwelling, two-timing toads and thank God that at least that's who they aren't. It all makes sense now.
In the meantime, it's time to get ready for work.
Duane had the TV on when I awoke this morning. He was switching channels--and it dawned on me why MTV and Jerry Springer are so enormously popular. Television is the very manifestation of an imaginary world.
I think people see the provacative nymphets and cash-flashing pimpstas on MTV and (perhaps unconsciously) see the embodiment of what they wish they were. Then they flip on Springer and see the toothless, trailer-dwelling, two-timing toads and thank God that at least that's who they aren't. It all makes sense now.
In the meantime, it's time to get ready for work.
Springer
9:40 am
Duane had the TV on when I awoke this morning. He was switching channels--and it dawned on me why MTV and Jerry Springer are so enormously popular. Television is the very manifestation of an imaginary world.
I think people see the provacative nymphets and cash-flashing pimpstas on MTV and (perhaps unconsciously) see the embodiment of what they wish they were. Then they flip on Springer and see the toothless, trailer-dwelling, two-timing toads and thank God that at least that's who they aren't. It all makes sense now.
In the meantime, it's time to get ready for work.
Duane had the TV on when I awoke this morning. He was switching channels--and it dawned on me why MTV and Jerry Springer are so enormously popular. Television is the very manifestation of an imaginary world.
I think people see the provacative nymphets and cash-flashing pimpstas on MTV and (perhaps unconsciously) see the embodiment of what they wish they were. Then they flip on Springer and see the toothless, trailer-dwelling, two-timing toads and thank God that at least that's who they aren't. It all makes sense now.
In the meantime, it's time to get ready for work.
A very, very grueling day.
Among the things that happened was that, for whatever reason, I found myself thinking about my dad on the way to work, ultimately crying because in spite of his frequent awfulness, I know he loved me as much as he was able to love anyone. I never saw him after I moved, and I didn't even see him when he was in the hospital, dying--I just didn't know he was really that sick. He "cried wolf" so many times (or at least it seems he exaggerated about his aches, pains and maladies), that when he really did get sick, I suppose it just seemed like another call for attention.
If I'd have known how bad things were, I would have gone to see him. I wish we could have talked, at least one last time. I wish he were still alive and managing to find some kind of happiness and serenity that seemed to evade him all of his life. Whether or not it was the product of his own selfish behavior, I still wish he could have known inner peace....and I wish we could have talked. It hurts to think that it's too late now. I can never talk to him again, never tell him that I forgive him for his faults or that in spite of everything, I did love him.
I took Yuki to work with me today, since the evening class is studying cardiology, and Yuki has had a heart murmur, so she would be a good subject to study. In addition to the EKG, Yuki also got shaved and poked by novice students for blood draws (and she wasn't too pleased about that, but Yuki is not a mean cat--she meowed a few times in protest, but that's as bad as she gets). Each time we put her though another ordeal, she was exhausted when it was over: panting, trembling, and with a distressed look on her face. I thought she was panting because she'd gotten overheated from struggling. After we got a look at Yuki's heart, I realized it was probably due more to cardiac insufficiency than being too warm.
I was unaware that Dr. Settles would have the ultrasound cart, which provided a lot of information (and bad news) that I hadn't anticipated. I was shocked to learn how ill Yuki is (and has been for awhile), and how much damage her heart has sustained. The doppler unit magnifies every heart sound and I could tell just by listening that there was something terribly wrong. Instead of a nice, clean, regular whooshing sound, I could hear turbulence and an irregular heartbeat. Her left atrium, which should have been no larger than 13mm, was 18 mm. The muscle of the left ventricle was thickened, and the valves themselves were rather anomolous-looking, and it was quite visible how the blood was splashing back into the atria, rather than making a clean trip through the ventricle, and out to the pulmonary system. The net result was that we were all observing a heart that was working very hard but wasn't able to carry out its intended function. I realized then how very sick Yuki has been.
Dr. Settles explained that Yuki needs to be on medications right away. Whether or not they will extend her life expectancy is unknown, but at least she'll feel better.
I remained calm and cheerful--after all, I was supposed to be the instructor: brave, knowledgable, and wise, so I had to play it very cool, and managed to keep my feelings under wraps, at least until the drive home, when I felt dreadfully sad that I hadn't done something sooner. Poor Yuki has probably been feeling like crap for quite awhile now. I should have had her evaluated years ago. The meds should help to prevent blood clots from the valvular backflow and to decrease the workload to her poor, tired heart. Eventually she may need something to regulate her heart rhythm.
Now I know why she'd get "that look" when she tired quickly after playing. Poor thing.
I forgot to bring my cell phone to work today and called Duane to tell him this. He told me to honk a couple times when I got to the garage so he could help me carry the heavy things upstairs. When I got home, I did just this and waited, but no Duane appeared. Tired, hungry and emotionally drained, I just wanted to get upstairs and be done with it. Finally, I lugged the stuff up myself, and found Duane sitting at his computer, wearing headphones. It would have been amusing if the day hadn't been so taxing.
As I put things away, I informed Duane about Yuki's woeful situation.
I knew Yuki had to be famished and thirsty, so I went in to the kitchen and heard the cats' water fountain making that "running on empty" racket and refilled it. The food dishes were empty as well, so I poured kibbles into them and as I did so, the plastic dispenser popped open and food poured everywhere. Duane came into the kitchen to help, but I was in sensory/emotional overload and said, "please, just let me clean it up", since there's only one dustpan and brush, and it was my mess. As I swept up the food (which was all over the kitchen), I eventually broke down and began to cry--not bawling, just that quiet, exhausted kind of crying I do sometimes.
Time to attempt to get some sleep.
If I'd have known how bad things were, I would have gone to see him. I wish we could have talked, at least one last time. I wish he were still alive and managing to find some kind of happiness and serenity that seemed to evade him all of his life. Whether or not it was the product of his own selfish behavior, I still wish he could have known inner peace....and I wish we could have talked. It hurts to think that it's too late now. I can never talk to him again, never tell him that I forgive him for his faults or that in spite of everything, I did love him.
I took Yuki to work with me today, since the evening class is studying cardiology, and Yuki has had a heart murmur, so she would be a good subject to study. In addition to the EKG, Yuki also got shaved and poked by novice students for blood draws (and she wasn't too pleased about that, but Yuki is not a mean cat--she meowed a few times in protest, but that's as bad as she gets). Each time we put her though another ordeal, she was exhausted when it was over: panting, trembling, and with a distressed look on her face. I thought she was panting because she'd gotten overheated from struggling. After we got a look at Yuki's heart, I realized it was probably due more to cardiac insufficiency than being too warm.
I was unaware that Dr. Settles would have the ultrasound cart, which provided a lot of information (and bad news) that I hadn't anticipated. I was shocked to learn how ill Yuki is (and has been for awhile), and how much damage her heart has sustained. The doppler unit magnifies every heart sound and I could tell just by listening that there was something terribly wrong. Instead of a nice, clean, regular whooshing sound, I could hear turbulence and an irregular heartbeat. Her left atrium, which should have been no larger than 13mm, was 18 mm. The muscle of the left ventricle was thickened, and the valves themselves were rather anomolous-looking, and it was quite visible how the blood was splashing back into the atria, rather than making a clean trip through the ventricle, and out to the pulmonary system. The net result was that we were all observing a heart that was working very hard but wasn't able to carry out its intended function. I realized then how very sick Yuki has been.
Dr. Settles explained that Yuki needs to be on medications right away. Whether or not they will extend her life expectancy is unknown, but at least she'll feel better.
I remained calm and cheerful--after all, I was supposed to be the instructor: brave, knowledgable, and wise, so I had to play it very cool, and managed to keep my feelings under wraps, at least until the drive home, when I felt dreadfully sad that I hadn't done something sooner. Poor Yuki has probably been feeling like crap for quite awhile now. I should have had her evaluated years ago. The meds should help to prevent blood clots from the valvular backflow and to decrease the workload to her poor, tired heart. Eventually she may need something to regulate her heart rhythm.
Now I know why she'd get "that look" when she tired quickly after playing. Poor thing.
I forgot to bring my cell phone to work today and called Duane to tell him this. He told me to honk a couple times when I got to the garage so he could help me carry the heavy things upstairs. When I got home, I did just this and waited, but no Duane appeared. Tired, hungry and emotionally drained, I just wanted to get upstairs and be done with it. Finally, I lugged the stuff up myself, and found Duane sitting at his computer, wearing headphones. It would have been amusing if the day hadn't been so taxing.
As I put things away, I informed Duane about Yuki's woeful situation.
I knew Yuki had to be famished and thirsty, so I went in to the kitchen and heard the cats' water fountain making that "running on empty" racket and refilled it. The food dishes were empty as well, so I poured kibbles into them and as I did so, the plastic dispenser popped open and food poured everywhere. Duane came into the kitchen to help, but I was in sensory/emotional overload and said, "please, just let me clean it up", since there's only one dustpan and brush, and it was my mess. As I swept up the food (which was all over the kitchen), I eventually broke down and began to cry--not bawling, just that quiet, exhausted kind of crying I do sometimes.
Time to attempt to get some sleep.
(comment on this)
Friday, April 2nd, 2004
8:53 am
I took Yuki with me to the campus yesterday in hopes that we could get some chest films for a better overall picture of her heart problem. I had a lot of students to help with their radiography assignments first, however. Finally, when it was Yuki's turn, there was no one to help, so I just shot them myself, meaning I had to lay her on her back, and then on her side, stretching her front legs with my left hand and her rear legs with my right, with the lead gloves draped over my hands (as opposed to wearing them) because I couldn't steady her otherwise and I was trying not to cause her any more stress than she'd already experienced. This was no big deal since I have done many feline whole-body rads with no help. I just wanted to finish as quickly as I could to spare poor Yuki as much stress as possible.
Nevertheless, the past few days had taken their toll on her, and as I was gowning up, she remained on the table, not attempting to jump off or run away. I was rather glad for this until I noticed that her forelimbs were starting to give way underneath her and she slumped over to one side, her eyes nearly closed. For a moment I was filled with that sick sense of dread that Yuki might have just thrown a clot and was now dying right before my eyes. However, as I picked her up and positioned her on the V-tray to shoot the first film, she protested some, and I realized that all the will hadn't left her just yet, and I exhaled a sigh of relief. I can't say whether Yuki had experienced a syncopal (fainting) episode, or if it was sheer exhaustion, but at least she seemed to have returned to the world of the living.
I don't think I have ever taken a ventral/dorsal and lateral thoracic picture on any animal so quickly in my many years of practice as I did when I got those two shots of Yuki's chest.
The rads showed a rounded, enlarged heart (which was no surprise, but still disturbing to see). There seemed to be little space left in her chest for lungs, leaving me to wonder how she managed to breathe--then again I managed to get both films as she inhaled, bringing her diaphragm and liver right up next to the thoracic cavity, making it appear smaller and more crowded than it actually was. It's very hard to instruct a cat to exhale and hold the position while one pushes the pedal, so I had to settle for what I could get.
I returned Yuki to her cage and throughout the rest of the day and evening, I went in to take a quick check on her. She seemed okay.
Friday, April 2nd, 2004
8:53 am
I took Yuki with me to the campus yesterday in hopes that we could get some chest films for a better overall picture of her heart problem. I had a lot of students to help with their radiography assignments first, however. Finally, when it was Yuki's turn, there was no one to help, so I just shot them myself, meaning I had to lay her on her back, and then on her side, stretching her front legs with my left hand and her rear legs with my right, with the lead gloves draped over my hands (as opposed to wearing them) because I couldn't steady her otherwise and I was trying not to cause her any more stress than she'd already experienced. This was no big deal since I have done many feline whole-body rads with no help. I just wanted to finish as quickly as I could to spare poor Yuki as much stress as possible.
Nevertheless, the past few days had taken their toll on her, and as I was gowning up, she remained on the table, not attempting to jump off or run away. I was rather glad for this until I noticed that her forelimbs were starting to give way underneath her and she slumped over to one side, her eyes nearly closed. For a moment I was filled with that sick sense of dread that Yuki might have just thrown a clot and was now dying right before my eyes. However, as I picked her up and positioned her on the V-tray to shoot the first film, she protested some, and I realized that all the will hadn't left her just yet, and I exhaled a sigh of relief. I can't say whether Yuki had experienced a syncopal (fainting) episode, or if it was sheer exhaustion, but at least she seemed to have returned to the world of the living.
I don't think I have ever taken a ventral/dorsal and lateral thoracic picture on any animal so quickly in my many years of practice as I did when I got those two shots of Yuki's chest.
The rads showed a rounded, enlarged heart (which was no surprise, but still disturbing to see). There seemed to be little space left in her chest for lungs, leaving me to wonder how she managed to breathe--then again I managed to get both films as she inhaled, bringing her diaphragm and liver right up next to the thoracic cavity, making it appear smaller and more crowded than it actually was. It's very hard to instruct a cat to exhale and hold the position while one pushes the pedal, so I had to settle for what I could get.
I returned Yuki to her cage and throughout the rest of the day and evening, I went in to take a quick check on her. She seemed okay.
Yuki is showing some improvement today. Last night was a very bad one for her; I feared I'd find her under the bed, either dying or already expired. She was breathing very rapidly last night and hiding and she was agitated although her mentation was kind of disoriented. I was really worried that she was going into full-blown heart failure. I gave her a small oral dose of Lasix since her breathing was so harsh and she hadn't urinated all day. I was beginning to think that perhaps the diltiazem was worsening her heart condition. Maybe it was more a matter of the stress at sitting in a cage at the campus and getting jabbed with needles and hearing strange noises and seeing strange sights and all of the weird and unfriendly smells bombarding her.
This morning I "compounded" her heart meds into a liquid emulsion made from pureed fish, taurine, l-carnitine, fish oil, vitamin E, co-enzyme 10 Q, and enough water to make it liquid. I pulverized and blended the hell out of it and made it to a dilution that she will get 2.5 ml twice daily. I guess the fllavor was a bit awful in spite of my efforts; nevertheless, I noticed that she responded differently this time. I took her pulse pre-medication and it was clipping along at a pace between 180 and 240 beats per minute. Two hours after her meds, she was comfortable and her heart rate was around 130, which is ideal. Her appetite is good and she is back to being her typical affectionate self again.
I will remain cautiously optimistic.
This morning I "compounded" her heart meds into a liquid emulsion made from pureed fish, taurine, l-carnitine, fish oil, vitamin E, co-enzyme 10 Q, and enough water to make it liquid. I pulverized and blended the hell out of it and made it to a dilution that she will get 2.5 ml twice daily. I guess the fllavor was a bit awful in spite of my efforts; nevertheless, I noticed that she responded differently this time. I took her pulse pre-medication and it was clipping along at a pace between 180 and 240 beats per minute. Two hours after her meds, she was comfortable and her heart rate was around 130, which is ideal. Her appetite is good and she is back to being her typical affectionate self again.
I will remain cautiously optimistic.
She's....gone.
2:28 am -
Sweet Yuki went into acute congestive heart failure and died Monday morning, April 19, at just after eleven o'clock.
It was a difficult weekend for her, as her symptoms waxed and waned, but the bad times grew more pronounced and of longer duration. It was terrible to see her tire so easily and practically collapse after just a slight bit of activity. I could not tell if the meds were making her worse or if she was beyond the help of medications. It was good to see her sleeping comfortably in her cat napper, one little dark foot lazily dangling as she dozed, and breathing fairly easily...when she was able to do so.
On the night of the 18th, after a really bad day, Yuki summoned enough energy to climb up onto my bed and cuddle close to me, kneading and purring with all she had to give. When she was well, I probably would have pushed her away, but on Sunday night, I intuitively knew that there was no telling how much time Yuki had left, and there was no way I'd deny her the one thing she so craved: love. I was almost afraid she'd suffocate. It was sweet and sorrowful all at once, feeling her warm breath on my neck as she purred. I promised myself I'd never push her away again.
I am so glad I went with that instinct.
On Monday morning, her breathing was very labored and she was restless and uncomfortable. She kept going to her "bad" place in the hallway. A bit later she hid under the bed, and I thought I heard her struggling. I looked under the bed and she decided to leave that spot and return to the hallway. I noticed then that she was almost on her side, head lowered, and she was panting. Her ears and rear feet were cool, and I knew then that something had to be done. Either she needed to get to a hospital as quickly as possible and have her chest tapped and be put on oxygen, or else it was time to put her to sleep.
I got in the shower to get ready to go and take Yuki somewhere, anywhere that could ease her labored breathing. She looked so anxious and it killed me to see her like this. When I was drying off, I had a strange feeling come over me--that I would find her in the hallway, and that death had come and taken Yuki away.
That is exactly what happened.
Yuki was on her right side, and her eyes were open, staring blindly into the otherworld. I knelt over her for a moment, then went to get my stethoscope to confrim that she was really gone. I closed her eyes and began to weep as I stroked her soft fur for what I knew was the last time. I felt pangs of regret that I had not been there in her last moments, even though it would have been terribly upsetting to see her go agonal. I told her good bye and that I'd always love her. After a few minutes, I made a little bed from her carrier and a blanket and put flowers, rosemary and a sprig of catnip, on her and placed one of her toys next to her...then I covered her up. She looked so sweet and peaceful, as though she were napping.
I took her to the campus and made arrangements to have her cremated. Enid is going to make me a glass pendant with some of Yuki's ashes mixed in with the glass.
I miss her so much.
Sweet Yuki went into acute congestive heart failure and died Monday morning, April 19, at just after eleven o'clock.
It was a difficult weekend for her, as her symptoms waxed and waned, but the bad times grew more pronounced and of longer duration. It was terrible to see her tire so easily and practically collapse after just a slight bit of activity. I could not tell if the meds were making her worse or if she was beyond the help of medications. It was good to see her sleeping comfortably in her cat napper, one little dark foot lazily dangling as she dozed, and breathing fairly easily...when she was able to do so.
On the night of the 18th, after a really bad day, Yuki summoned enough energy to climb up onto my bed and cuddle close to me, kneading and purring with all she had to give. When she was well, I probably would have pushed her away, but on Sunday night, I intuitively knew that there was no telling how much time Yuki had left, and there was no way I'd deny her the one thing she so craved: love. I was almost afraid she'd suffocate. It was sweet and sorrowful all at once, feeling her warm breath on my neck as she purred. I promised myself I'd never push her away again.
I am so glad I went with that instinct.
On Monday morning, her breathing was very labored and she was restless and uncomfortable. She kept going to her "bad" place in the hallway. A bit later she hid under the bed, and I thought I heard her struggling. I looked under the bed and she decided to leave that spot and return to the hallway. I noticed then that she was almost on her side, head lowered, and she was panting. Her ears and rear feet were cool, and I knew then that something had to be done. Either she needed to get to a hospital as quickly as possible and have her chest tapped and be put on oxygen, or else it was time to put her to sleep.
I got in the shower to get ready to go and take Yuki somewhere, anywhere that could ease her labored breathing. She looked so anxious and it killed me to see her like this. When I was drying off, I had a strange feeling come over me--that I would find her in the hallway, and that death had come and taken Yuki away.
That is exactly what happened.
Yuki was on her right side, and her eyes were open, staring blindly into the otherworld. I knelt over her for a moment, then went to get my stethoscope to confrim that she was really gone. I closed her eyes and began to weep as I stroked her soft fur for what I knew was the last time. I felt pangs of regret that I had not been there in her last moments, even though it would have been terribly upsetting to see her go agonal. I told her good bye and that I'd always love her. After a few minutes, I made a little bed from her carrier and a blanket and put flowers, rosemary and a sprig of catnip, on her and placed one of her toys next to her...then I covered her up. She looked so sweet and peaceful, as though she were napping.
I took her to the campus and made arrangements to have her cremated. Enid is going to make me a glass pendant with some of Yuki's ashes mixed in with the glass.
I miss her so much.
Five Sure-Fire Statements Guaranteed to End Communication and Create Emotional Estrangement
2:16 pm -
1. "You just don't want to admit it when you're wrong."
2. "You're a nut." Then hang up phone.
3. "You're just mad because you can't be the center of attention at all times."
4. Ask your mate to tell you what's bothering him/her, even if he/she is reluctant to do so, promising to not get angry. When he/she finally opens up and lets it out, get angry anyway.
5. Keep an audible running count every time your mate says something you don't like.
1. "You just don't want to admit it when you're wrong."
2. "You're a nut." Then hang up phone.
3. "You're just mad because you can't be the center of attention at all times."
4. Ask your mate to tell you what's bothering him/her, even if he/she is reluctant to do so, promising to not get angry. When he/she finally opens up and lets it out, get angry anyway.
5. Keep an audible running count every time your mate says something you don't like.
Wow.
2:42 pm -
Hard to believe it has been two years since my last post.
Like some kind of quasi-goth, quasi-loser, I'm about to write something dank and gloomy. Blogs can be that way, I suppose...it depends somewhat on the writer. Some people find an electronic journal to be a suitable place to squeal with good news and cute puppies and horseshit. (Ooh, do I detect a bit of hostility?)
Nah, not really.
Envy, perhaps? Whatever.
Things between Duane have resolved. I moved out last November. Someday, when I'm feeling a little more feisty, I will write about that adventure.
I stayed here in California, and continued to teach; I just couldn't leave my students. They meant so much to me.
Times were tough: I had to borrow against my retirement account in order to make ends meet...it's just so insanely overpriced in this region. Nevertheless, I kept plugging along in spite of the continuing saga of The VMB and its beaurocracy and how demoralizing that whole pursuit had been for nearly three years. I coped with my old supervisor kinda quitting/kinda getting fired, and replaced by a coworker who I can only describe as competitive and back-biting.
She got a raise...a rather nice one, I suppose...took month-long trips overseas, went to the massage therapy classroom for her weekly rub-down, while I was lucky if I even got to get any sort of a break.
In January, however, we finally, FINALLY found another instructor. I was elated. We got along famously and for the first time in years, I had a real partner to work with.
In mid-August, however, I was knocked flat on my back by a stunning blow--in a word: "layoff".
Had the plan been all along to replace me? When did my "boss" become aware of this? There were so many tell-tale things along the way--things I tried to brush aside, but couldn't. I mentioned a few of these observations to coworkers I trusted, but they they didn't want to believe it. I tried to dismiss that can't-quite-pin-this-sucky-feeling myself...believe me, it's not my idea of a fine way to spend the day.
August 16 was the afternoon I discovered I was correct in my suspicions...that my "gut" feelings are seldom off-base.
So ends my connection with California.
Come December 1, I will be gone.
There are a few unpleasant little things I must take care of first; plus my lease has to expire. My doctor put me on disability, but I've yet to receive a cent from the good old State of California.
I've come to hate this place in general.
The climate is mostly okay, and it's pretty where I live.
However, the cost of living is an abomination.
But even that is not the Big Reason.
There are too, too many painful memories here.
I was born here and spent most of my life in this state, so I do have a frame of reference.
What bothers me most, I guess, is how ruthless the world can be sometimes.
Oh, I know; it could be worse. I'm lucky I didn't drown in a tsunami. But come on, already! I don't want to measure happiness by distance from natural disasters.
On the bright side, I look forward to being near my kids again.
It's just so difficult to assimilate. After all, I don't know where I'll be living. The future is vaporous and foggy.
I'm trapped in a one-room, $1100.00 a month cell.
But really.
I will write again when I'm feeling a bit more chipper.
I used to be such a person.
Surely it hasn't been snuffed out...I'm just a bit muffled.
Hard to believe it has been two years since my last post.
Like some kind of quasi-goth, quasi-loser, I'm about to write something dank and gloomy. Blogs can be that way, I suppose...it depends somewhat on the writer. Some people find an electronic journal to be a suitable place to squeal with good news and cute puppies and horseshit. (Ooh, do I detect a bit of hostility?)
Nah, not really.
Envy, perhaps? Whatever.
Things between Duane have resolved. I moved out last November. Someday, when I'm feeling a little more feisty, I will write about that adventure.
I stayed here in California, and continued to teach; I just couldn't leave my students. They meant so much to me.
Times were tough: I had to borrow against my retirement account in order to make ends meet...it's just so insanely overpriced in this region. Nevertheless, I kept plugging along in spite of the continuing saga of The VMB and its beaurocracy and how demoralizing that whole pursuit had been for nearly three years. I coped with my old supervisor kinda quitting/kinda getting fired, and replaced by a coworker who I can only describe as competitive and back-biting.
She got a raise...a rather nice one, I suppose...took month-long trips overseas, went to the massage therapy classroom for her weekly rub-down, while I was lucky if I even got to get any sort of a break.
In January, however, we finally, FINALLY found another instructor. I was elated. We got along famously and for the first time in years, I had a real partner to work with.
In mid-August, however, I was knocked flat on my back by a stunning blow--in a word: "layoff".
Had the plan been all along to replace me? When did my "boss" become aware of this? There were so many tell-tale things along the way--things I tried to brush aside, but couldn't. I mentioned a few of these observations to coworkers I trusted, but they they didn't want to believe it. I tried to dismiss that can't-quite-pin-this-sucky-feeling myself...believe me, it's not my idea of a fine way to spend the day.
August 16 was the afternoon I discovered I was correct in my suspicions...that my "gut" feelings are seldom off-base.
So ends my connection with California.
Come December 1, I will be gone.
There are a few unpleasant little things I must take care of first; plus my lease has to expire. My doctor put me on disability, but I've yet to receive a cent from the good old State of California.
I've come to hate this place in general.
The climate is mostly okay, and it's pretty where I live.
However, the cost of living is an abomination.
But even that is not the Big Reason.
There are too, too many painful memories here.
I was born here and spent most of my life in this state, so I do have a frame of reference.
What bothers me most, I guess, is how ruthless the world can be sometimes.
Oh, I know; it could be worse. I'm lucky I didn't drown in a tsunami. But come on, already! I don't want to measure happiness by distance from natural disasters.
On the bright side, I look forward to being near my kids again.
It's just so difficult to assimilate. After all, I don't know where I'll be living. The future is vaporous and foggy.
I'm trapped in a one-room, $1100.00 a month cell.
But really.
I will write again when I'm feeling a bit more chipper.
I used to be such a person.
Surely it hasn't been snuffed out...I'm just a bit muffled.
Time to heal.
2:53 pm - Private
I've previously mentioned that I left Duane and I left California. I did not go into much detail of how I was affected, and what I am left with in its wake.
It was a four-year relationship: a year prior to moving in with Duane, two years living together, and the year in my own place, prior to returning to Portland. We thought we might repair things, but the damage was irreparable: I was simply unable to love him anymore.
So where did it all go?
I came to realize that, aside from the bedroom, this man seldom expressed emotional affection.
I spent the majority of four years in a rather sterile situation.
I think I speak for most women when I say that we need an mental connection with our partner to foster one that is sexual.
Metaphor: a plant must have water and sunshine to grow; if there is none, it will eventually wither and die.
Numerous attempts were made communicate this to no avail.
Over time, my sexuality fell into a coma.
This made Duane indignant and angry.
It was a vicious circle.
When he was angry with me, he would speak or write to me in such a way that it felt more like an indictment than an expression of hurt. To complicate things, the responsibility (blame) was assigned to me.
Sure, there were times when I was furious. I am not proud of things I said out of sheer frustration. I've always worn my heart on my sleeve. I know this can be good and bad. At the risk of seeming as if I am rationalizing everything, I still must say that my mercurial response to our never-resolved problems...well, it just seemed more "natural" (not necessarily "better") than the sort of response I received:cold, sharp, expressionless scrutiny intended to shame me.
I did not want to have a romantic relationship with a Principal. The lover became more of a disciplinarian.
He possessed a "blunted affect" (lack of vocal inflection, facial expression).
He was extremely intelligent: he couldn't have become a noted astrophysicist otherwise. There are, however, plenty of geniuses who are also emotional dummies.
I used to wonder if he was affected by a mild form of autism. I went as far as to research that subject, and the parallels were uncanny. At least one of his siblings demonstrated similar traits.
He'd never attended counseling in his previous marriage nor with me. He never had a psychological evaluation to confirm or deny my concerns.
On one hand, he he was a man who was just so...clinical...yet, at the same time, he was also jealous and insecure. At times he was practically obsessed with the idea that I must have some dark and hidden reason for supposedly shunning him. When I learned he had gotten into my computer and searched all over the hard drive as well as scouting around the internet, sniffing out my trail in the form of my blogs and other posts...well, that was an eye-opener.
It froze me out. The love I once felt just iced over.
Had I been able to predict what was in store when I made that fateful move to California...well, I never would have gone there. It turned out to be a demoralizing experience. Too many things went wrong. I know I deserved something better. I should have been appreciated. I don't say this out of some self-righteous sense of entitlement. I poured so much of my heart into my home life and work that I little left over for myself.
I still bear wounds from that time. I am trying to heal, making efforts to fill that empty place. Thank God for my children. I am grateful to have my friends. It is soothing to be among the trees and the mountains and the rivers.
I am slowly reconnecting with those parts of my life that were severed when I left Oregon. My confidence is still in shards, however, and this is a serious problem. It affects my professional life and creates fear and anxiety at the thought of future romantic involvement.
I am torn between feelings of loss and despair and the small glimmer of hope that I will get myself back.
I know what is healthy and what is not.
I can only hope for hope.
I'm a survivor, though. I've made it this far.
I don't want to simply "survive". I want to Live.
I think it will just take time.
I'm patient, anyway.
it's a start.
I've previously mentioned that I left Duane and I left California. I did not go into much detail of how I was affected, and what I am left with in its wake.
It was a four-year relationship: a year prior to moving in with Duane, two years living together, and the year in my own place, prior to returning to Portland. We thought we might repair things, but the damage was irreparable: I was simply unable to love him anymore.
So where did it all go?
I came to realize that, aside from the bedroom, this man seldom expressed emotional affection.
I spent the majority of four years in a rather sterile situation.
I think I speak for most women when I say that we need an mental connection with our partner to foster one that is sexual.
Metaphor: a plant must have water and sunshine to grow; if there is none, it will eventually wither and die.
Numerous attempts were made communicate this to no avail.
Over time, my sexuality fell into a coma.
This made Duane indignant and angry.
It was a vicious circle.
When he was angry with me, he would speak or write to me in such a way that it felt more like an indictment than an expression of hurt. To complicate things, the responsibility (blame) was assigned to me.
Sure, there were times when I was furious. I am not proud of things I said out of sheer frustration. I've always worn my heart on my sleeve. I know this can be good and bad. At the risk of seeming as if I am rationalizing everything, I still must say that my mercurial response to our never-resolved problems...well, it just seemed more "natural" (not necessarily "better") than the sort of response I received:cold, sharp, expressionless scrutiny intended to shame me.
I did not want to have a romantic relationship with a Principal. The lover became more of a disciplinarian.
He possessed a "blunted affect" (lack of vocal inflection, facial expression).
He was extremely intelligent: he couldn't have become a noted astrophysicist otherwise. There are, however, plenty of geniuses who are also emotional dummies.
I used to wonder if he was affected by a mild form of autism. I went as far as to research that subject, and the parallels were uncanny. At least one of his siblings demonstrated similar traits.
He'd never attended counseling in his previous marriage nor with me. He never had a psychological evaluation to confirm or deny my concerns.
On one hand, he he was a man who was just so...clinical...yet, at the same time, he was also jealous and insecure. At times he was practically obsessed with the idea that I must have some dark and hidden reason for supposedly shunning him. When I learned he had gotten into my computer and searched all over the hard drive as well as scouting around the internet, sniffing out my trail in the form of my blogs and other posts...well, that was an eye-opener.
It froze me out. The love I once felt just iced over.
Had I been able to predict what was in store when I made that fateful move to California...well, I never would have gone there. It turned out to be a demoralizing experience. Too many things went wrong. I know I deserved something better. I should have been appreciated. I don't say this out of some self-righteous sense of entitlement. I poured so much of my heart into my home life and work that I little left over for myself.
I still bear wounds from that time. I am trying to heal, making efforts to fill that empty place. Thank God for my children. I am grateful to have my friends. It is soothing to be among the trees and the mountains and the rivers.
I am slowly reconnecting with those parts of my life that were severed when I left Oregon. My confidence is still in shards, however, and this is a serious problem. It affects my professional life and creates fear and anxiety at the thought of future romantic involvement.
I am torn between feelings of loss and despair and the small glimmer of hope that I will get myself back.
I know what is healthy and what is not.
I can only hope for hope.
I'm a survivor, though. I've made it this far.
I don't want to simply "survive". I want to Live.
I think it will just take time.
I'm patient, anyway.
it's a start.
That old white foot locker.
3:24 pm -
I am not sure why I decided to go rooting through "The Trunk". The point is that I did.
A rather beat-up looking white foot locker sits on the floor of my closet in the left rear corner. I've had this trunk for at least sixteen years, and prior to then, the contents--which have increased over time--were schlepped around in some manner of cardboard container.
Just what is in that trunk?
Stuff.
You know, things which possess no practical purpose in the physical world, but I keep them nevertheless.
The total monetary value of this mass of papers and nick-nacks and whatnot is worth approximately 49 cents, if that. Maybe it's worth more, and maybe less. But to me, it's priceless.
Examples of some of the inventory residing within that big ole box:
--Greeting cards spanning thirty years: There's the Siamese Kitty Card I received when I was just a toddler, as well as cards for my children
--Yearbooks from junior high school
--A partial skein of yarn once attached to a baby blanket I never finished. I started it when I was expecting Sean.
--Needlepoint projects I never finished, either
--Sketches drawn by both of my kids, and some that I drew as well
--A coin proof set from the year of my birth, sealed in lucite
--photographs from my wedding
--My son's third grade, navy blue cub scout shirt, adorned with sundry patches and pins; along with it dwells the powder blue neckerchief with dark blue print;
--my son's fourth grade Webelos scout shirt--a big step up: that year he graduated to khaki with yet more patches pins and badges, and the blue neckerchief moved up to a more sophisticated red tartan plaid
Those shirts would look like doll clothes when compared to my adult son's 6 foot, 180 lb frame.
--A long, thick lock of hair which is my son's and daughter's combined.
--one blue baby bootie with no mate
--one pink baby bootie, also mateless
--Notes exchanged with girl chums during class when we were supposed to be studying
--Report cards: the kids' as well as my own; some were good and some were not so good
--Letters written by my then-fiance...letters which traveled nine thousand miles to reach my hands, all for the modest price of a postage stamp, which was 22 cents at the time
--Journals dating back to when I was thirteen years old
Really, now: how does one put a price on such a motley collection?
And why do we value such sentimental stuff?
Perhaps the word "sentimental", that which evokes emotion, is the answer. The older we get, the more memories and appointments and various account numbers are jammed into our heads. The "old days" are relegated to the dusty convolutions, seldom visited--unless we are reminded of them. Sure, songs and aromas can summon memories, but there's nothing quite like holding an object in the hand--a tangible piece of the past.
My logical, practical side warns me to avoid inhaling deeply. There's no telling what sort of mites or beastly beasties might be scuttling around in the dust.
The emotional side wants to breathe in the scent of oldness--even if it is somewhat disconcerting to realize that events that were once fresh, experienced by a self that was once young, now smell like a second-hand store from the 1920s.
It's poignant, bittersweet, visiting those times and recalling those feelings. Little things--usually involving romance--that once caused me to mope around or cry, now seem silly. I'm almost embarrassed by the self I used to be. She sure did fret over some stuff that strikes me as trivial today.
Motherhood was the turning point. It becomes clear as I forage through mementos collected during the 1980s and 1990s, that my children became the predominant force that governed my life. This was something that would never change.
Why then, have the little objects destined to join the ranks of Sentimental Stuff dwindled to practically nil?
I think I might know.
One, since many documents and most photographs have gone digital, they are now stored...neatly nestled on our computer hard drives.
Somehow, a trunk full of hard drives just isn't the same thing.
The other thing that could be taking place is that my children--now adults with homes, lives and loves of their own--have diverted that nostalgic traffic to beat-up "white trunks" of their own.
At least I hope so.
I am not sure why I decided to go rooting through "The Trunk". The point is that I did.
A rather beat-up looking white foot locker sits on the floor of my closet in the left rear corner. I've had this trunk for at least sixteen years, and prior to then, the contents--which have increased over time--were schlepped around in some manner of cardboard container.
Just what is in that trunk?
Stuff.
You know, things which possess no practical purpose in the physical world, but I keep them nevertheless.
The total monetary value of this mass of papers and nick-nacks and whatnot is worth approximately 49 cents, if that. Maybe it's worth more, and maybe less. But to me, it's priceless.
Examples of some of the inventory residing within that big ole box:
--Greeting cards spanning thirty years: There's the Siamese Kitty Card I received when I was just a toddler, as well as cards for my children
--Yearbooks from junior high school
--A partial skein of yarn once attached to a baby blanket I never finished. I started it when I was expecting Sean.
--Needlepoint projects I never finished, either
--Sketches drawn by both of my kids, and some that I drew as well
--A coin proof set from the year of my birth, sealed in lucite
--photographs from my wedding
--My son's third grade, navy blue cub scout shirt, adorned with sundry patches and pins; along with it dwells the powder blue neckerchief with dark blue print;
--my son's fourth grade Webelos scout shirt--a big step up: that year he graduated to khaki with yet more patches pins and badges, and the blue neckerchief moved up to a more sophisticated red tartan plaid
Those shirts would look like doll clothes when compared to my adult son's 6 foot, 180 lb frame.
--A long, thick lock of hair which is my son's and daughter's combined.
--one blue baby bootie with no mate
--one pink baby bootie, also mateless
--Notes exchanged with girl chums during class when we were supposed to be studying
--Report cards: the kids' as well as my own; some were good and some were not so good
--Letters written by my then-fiance...letters which traveled nine thousand miles to reach my hands, all for the modest price of a postage stamp, which was 22 cents at the time
--Journals dating back to when I was thirteen years old
Really, now: how does one put a price on such a motley collection?
And why do we value such sentimental stuff?
Perhaps the word "sentimental", that which evokes emotion, is the answer. The older we get, the more memories and appointments and various account numbers are jammed into our heads. The "old days" are relegated to the dusty convolutions, seldom visited--unless we are reminded of them. Sure, songs and aromas can summon memories, but there's nothing quite like holding an object in the hand--a tangible piece of the past.
My logical, practical side warns me to avoid inhaling deeply. There's no telling what sort of mites or beastly beasties might be scuttling around in the dust.
The emotional side wants to breathe in the scent of oldness--even if it is somewhat disconcerting to realize that events that were once fresh, experienced by a self that was once young, now smell like a second-hand store from the 1920s.
It's poignant, bittersweet, visiting those times and recalling those feelings. Little things--usually involving romance--that once caused me to mope around or cry, now seem silly. I'm almost embarrassed by the self I used to be. She sure did fret over some stuff that strikes me as trivial today.
Motherhood was the turning point. It becomes clear as I forage through mementos collected during the 1980s and 1990s, that my children became the predominant force that governed my life. This was something that would never change.
Why then, have the little objects destined to join the ranks of Sentimental Stuff dwindled to practically nil?
I think I might know.
One, since many documents and most photographs have gone digital, they are now stored...neatly nestled on our computer hard drives.
Somehow, a trunk full of hard drives just isn't the same thing.
The other thing that could be taking place is that my children--now adults with homes, lives and loves of their own--have diverted that nostalgic traffic to beat-up "white trunks" of their own.
At least I hope so.
Connections
5:56 pm -
This weekend, the most amazing event in over 20 years happened.
I located my son's father.
It is a very long story, dating back over 26 years and almost 10,000 miles. It involved not having the chance to tell this person I was pregnant with his child before I left Germany (and the Army). It took place when I was very young, far from home, living in a somewhat hostile environment, and nursing a broken heart. It was complicated by confusion about when I became pregnant, because I had broken up with my then-boyfriend/not-yet husband. He had no sooner asked me to marry him when he decided he'd like to date someone else. I was horrified and livid.
I don't know if it was retaliatory, out of loneliness, or simply because I met someone who was attractive and compassionate, but I started seeing this person while Michael sowed his wild oats.
At the time, the farthest thing from my mind was the notion that the year to follow would be unlike any I’d ever known. By the end of 1981, I would have a child, be married to Michael, living in Georgia, and my second child would have just been conceived.
To say it was a mistake to marry Michael a little over a year later would effectively be wishing my beautiful daughter out of existence, so I can't harbor true regrets.
But I need to back up, because I’ve gotten ahead of myself.
I was surprised to learn I was pregnant one morning in late August, 1980, even though I’d been feeling distinctly different for the previous few weeks.
After I got the news, my mind raced. Almost in a blur, I found myself being examined by a military doctor.
A few weeks later, I would have my orders which allowed me to return home.
It was during my first checkup that I was "large for dates". This meant that the doctor, comparing the measurement of my uterus to the averages for the same gestational age, it was a few centimeters larger, or at least higher up in my pelvis.
This happened not once, but THREE times. In essence, I literally did not have a seventh month of pregnancy. I was advanced right on into month eight, which, if correct, meant that Michael was the baby's father.
I had serious questions about the whole notion, but I was not the doctor.
Things took another interesting turn when my son was born "a month late".
According to the doctors, I was due to deliver sometime between St. Patrick’s Day and March 23.
Sean was born April 20.
My baby was not a month overdue; he was, by my original (and correct) calculations, one day early. By then Michael was very much caught up with becoming a father, and I was living in a state of very mixed emotions. To say it was confusing is an understatement.
Michael was possessive of me. Possessiveness in and of itself isn’t particularly unusual, especially if one takes into account that we were engaged to be married.
Looking back on things I really wasn’t afforded an opportunity to give an extensive amount of thought to my son's paternity, to have some time to figure out who his biological father was. There was no way to conduct any research into this quandary.
I also felt too self-conscious to approach my doctor with—what seemed at the time to be-- very touchy questions about when I got pregnant.
All I knew was that Sean did not fit the description of a postmature baby in any way, and it was a good thing that labor was not induced three weeks earlier.
The information that we take for granted today just wasn’t available to me in 1981. I was in the hospital. There was a birth certificate to be filled out, and I didn't have weeks or even days to think it over. There was Michael, wanting very much to have this child with me, and there was my son, who deserved the chance to have two parents. There was also Bruce, still stationed in Germany, who knew nothing of what was going on.
You see, when the obstetricians, with their calipers and measuring tapes and ultrasound machines started bumping my due date--and consequently the date of conception--further and further back, things went from me telling Michael in no uncertain terms that I did not think he was the father of my unborn child...to telling him that I guess I was mistaken.
Doctors and their tests are not always infallible, however, and compared to the current state of the art, sonograms were not very reliable. Add to that the possibility that maybe this child's head circumference was just a few millimeters larger (which it was), or that perhaps he was lying in an unusual position (which he was) and suddenly all bets are off.
Sure, I heard stories of babies born early but being normal size, or being born late, but having nothing wrong with them, but in the vast majority of those cases, it was actually a matter of bending the truth a little bit to spare embarrassment over speculation that it might have been a "shotgun wedding".
Single parenthood was viewed much differently in 1981.
I found myself going along with what everyone else wanted.
And Michael wanted me to have nothing to do with Bruce, ever again. In fact, he made a few rather derogatory remarks about this person, and claimed that he didn't know whatever happened to him.
In other words, Bruce, for all intents and purposes, simply vanished from the face of the earth.
And this is how things would remain until only a few days ago--26 years and six months, to be exact--after my son was conceived.
During the interim, I married Michael. I became pregnant again almost immediately afterward: Sean was nine months old when I discovered I was pregnant with my daughter.
Unfortunately, with the same speed that event were unfolding, my marriage to Michael began to crumble. I found myself living in a tiny trailer (yes, trailer!) in Hepzibah, Georgia, with a man who was prone to angry outbursts alternating with sullen periods of feeling guilty or worthless. There were days when he simply did not go to work. This is something one cannot do in the military. There’s got to be a legitimate reason, and this needs to be communicated immediately.
The increasing alcohol consumption did nothing to help the situation, and the situation was not a good one.
By the time I was six months pregnant with my daughter, things had gotten to the point where I asked Michaels' commanding officer to please order him to stay in the barracks, and that I would see him in marriage counseling. Otherwise, I needed to be left alone, because the environment was beginning to take its toll on me, and I had an unborn baby to consider.
At first I was hopeful, but after only two counseling sessions, Michael dropped out, leaving me to go there by myself, the only husband-less wife in group therapy. Finally, the therapist sat me down and told me that I was wasting my time by attending alone.
One morning, I received a call from Michael’s company commander. He informed me that he could no longer legally prevent Michael from coming home. He was trying to warn me that my husband was on his way there.
Michael was very irritable when he came storming in. He headed straight for the washing machine and threw open the lid.
"What's this shit?" he boomed.
“It’s called ‘laundry’” I responded, holding my ground.
I could handle the situation. I was not afraid of this man.
What happened next, however, changed the course of events forever.
Michael went into Sean's room, where he lay napping in his crib. He had just turned a year old. Michael awakened Sean, and then, rather than to pick him up and hold him, he began to walk away. Sean started to cry.
Then I heard it: A smacking sound, followed by very, very distressed crying.
I became a lioness.
I practically ran back to Sean’s bedroom. My eyes must have been on fire.
"What the hell was that?" I asked, gritting my teeth.
"I wanted him to quiet down", was Michael's reply.
"So you HIT him?", I nearly screamed.
"I just smacked him on the wrist", he said, a combination of defensiveness and hostility in his voice.
"You do NOT slap or smack a baby to quiet him down", I growled. “What are you thinking? What’s wrong with you?”
Sean was still crying, so I pushed Michael aside to grab up my son.
"That does it!" I told him. "It's over. You keep away from my child and keep away from me!"
At that moment, the subject we never really got around to discussing was out. Up to this point it felt more as if we tiptoed around as if avoiding broken glass.
Now it was audible, and it was palpable. Unfortunately, the circumstances couldn’t have been much worse than those in which the matter was brought out of hiding.
"Yeah? Well you can’t tell me to do that. He's my kid, too!", Michael yelled.
"Oh, no he isn't!" I replied.
There was a moment of silence, and then I turned around and carried Sean to the kitchen, where I prepared a bottle.
Finally, it was spoken, and there was no turning back I'd listened to the assorted little jabs Michael made about Sean, such as, "Isn't it too bad he's got blonde hair and not brown like mine?"
"He's beautiful just the way he is." I told him, feeling very protective of my son just then.
Michael went back and forth from hot to cold, either gushing about Sean's traits, and how they ran in his family...or else he was making comments that suggested that this baby just somehow didn't make the grade.
An undercurrent of tension ran beneath what sometimes sounded like even the most casual comments. This is a very difficult thing to explain, but it is something I sensed in my gut...and my gut is never wrong.
I called an attorney.
I could not get a restraining order to keep Michael awayI was told that I'd have to file for a divorce before I could obtain a restraining order.
I had no money. I was pregnant, at home, caring for a baby, while Michael was driving my car back and forth to the Army base.
In desperation, I phoned my parents at home, and told them what was going on. My father sent a credit card in the mail so that I could purchase gasoline in order to drive home...and home was 2,500 miles away. He also offered to pay to have movers pick up my belongings as well as the baby's, and have them shipped back to my home town.
The day I left is one I cannot forget. Michael brought a friend to the trailer to "witness" the move. As things started making their way to the moving van, I watched, while Michael glared and said nothing. Not once did he ask me to stay. I stopped by a friend’s house to tell her goodbye, and then went back to pick up the last of my things, packing them into the trunk of my car.
As Michael and his friend stood there, I got into the car, started it, and rolled down the window.
"I'm going now", I said.
Nothing.
"I said, I'm going now". This time I spoke a little bit louder.
Silence.
Sean was buckled into his car seat, and I shifted into reverse. As I turned and began to drive away, I glanced into the rear-view mirror.
Michael and his friend were walking up the steps.
Then the door closed.
This weekend, the most amazing event in over 20 years happened.
I located my son's father.
It is a very long story, dating back over 26 years and almost 10,000 miles. It involved not having the chance to tell this person I was pregnant with his child before I left Germany (and the Army). It took place when I was very young, far from home, living in a somewhat hostile environment, and nursing a broken heart. It was complicated by confusion about when I became pregnant, because I had broken up with my then-boyfriend/not-yet husband. He had no sooner asked me to marry him when he decided he'd like to date someone else. I was horrified and livid.
I don't know if it was retaliatory, out of loneliness, or simply because I met someone who was attractive and compassionate, but I started seeing this person while Michael sowed his wild oats.
At the time, the farthest thing from my mind was the notion that the year to follow would be unlike any I’d ever known. By the end of 1981, I would have a child, be married to Michael, living in Georgia, and my second child would have just been conceived.
To say it was a mistake to marry Michael a little over a year later would effectively be wishing my beautiful daughter out of existence, so I can't harbor true regrets.
But I need to back up, because I’ve gotten ahead of myself.
I was surprised to learn I was pregnant one morning in late August, 1980, even though I’d been feeling distinctly different for the previous few weeks.
After I got the news, my mind raced. Almost in a blur, I found myself being examined by a military doctor.
A few weeks later, I would have my orders which allowed me to return home.
It was during my first checkup that I was "large for dates". This meant that the doctor, comparing the measurement of my uterus to the averages for the same gestational age, it was a few centimeters larger, or at least higher up in my pelvis.
This happened not once, but THREE times. In essence, I literally did not have a seventh month of pregnancy. I was advanced right on into month eight, which, if correct, meant that Michael was the baby's father.
I had serious questions about the whole notion, but I was not the doctor.
Things took another interesting turn when my son was born "a month late".
According to the doctors, I was due to deliver sometime between St. Patrick’s Day and March 23.
Sean was born April 20.
My baby was not a month overdue; he was, by my original (and correct) calculations, one day early. By then Michael was very much caught up with becoming a father, and I was living in a state of very mixed emotions. To say it was confusing is an understatement.
Michael was possessive of me. Possessiveness in and of itself isn’t particularly unusual, especially if one takes into account that we were engaged to be married.
Looking back on things I really wasn’t afforded an opportunity to give an extensive amount of thought to my son's paternity, to have some time to figure out who his biological father was. There was no way to conduct any research into this quandary.
I also felt too self-conscious to approach my doctor with—what seemed at the time to be-- very touchy questions about when I got pregnant.
All I knew was that Sean did not fit the description of a postmature baby in any way, and it was a good thing that labor was not induced three weeks earlier.
The information that we take for granted today just wasn’t available to me in 1981. I was in the hospital. There was a birth certificate to be filled out, and I didn't have weeks or even days to think it over. There was Michael, wanting very much to have this child with me, and there was my son, who deserved the chance to have two parents. There was also Bruce, still stationed in Germany, who knew nothing of what was going on.
You see, when the obstetricians, with their calipers and measuring tapes and ultrasound machines started bumping my due date--and consequently the date of conception--further and further back, things went from me telling Michael in no uncertain terms that I did not think he was the father of my unborn child...to telling him that I guess I was mistaken.
Doctors and their tests are not always infallible, however, and compared to the current state of the art, sonograms were not very reliable. Add to that the possibility that maybe this child's head circumference was just a few millimeters larger (which it was), or that perhaps he was lying in an unusual position (which he was) and suddenly all bets are off.
Sure, I heard stories of babies born early but being normal size, or being born late, but having nothing wrong with them, but in the vast majority of those cases, it was actually a matter of bending the truth a little bit to spare embarrassment over speculation that it might have been a "shotgun wedding".
Single parenthood was viewed much differently in 1981.
I found myself going along with what everyone else wanted.
And Michael wanted me to have nothing to do with Bruce, ever again. In fact, he made a few rather derogatory remarks about this person, and claimed that he didn't know whatever happened to him.
In other words, Bruce, for all intents and purposes, simply vanished from the face of the earth.
And this is how things would remain until only a few days ago--26 years and six months, to be exact--after my son was conceived.
During the interim, I married Michael. I became pregnant again almost immediately afterward: Sean was nine months old when I discovered I was pregnant with my daughter.
Unfortunately, with the same speed that event were unfolding, my marriage to Michael began to crumble. I found myself living in a tiny trailer (yes, trailer!) in Hepzibah, Georgia, with a man who was prone to angry outbursts alternating with sullen periods of feeling guilty or worthless. There were days when he simply did not go to work. This is something one cannot do in the military. There’s got to be a legitimate reason, and this needs to be communicated immediately.
The increasing alcohol consumption did nothing to help the situation, and the situation was not a good one.
By the time I was six months pregnant with my daughter, things had gotten to the point where I asked Michaels' commanding officer to please order him to stay in the barracks, and that I would see him in marriage counseling. Otherwise, I needed to be left alone, because the environment was beginning to take its toll on me, and I had an unborn baby to consider.
At first I was hopeful, but after only two counseling sessions, Michael dropped out, leaving me to go there by myself, the only husband-less wife in group therapy. Finally, the therapist sat me down and told me that I was wasting my time by attending alone.
One morning, I received a call from Michael’s company commander. He informed me that he could no longer legally prevent Michael from coming home. He was trying to warn me that my husband was on his way there.
Michael was very irritable when he came storming in. He headed straight for the washing machine and threw open the lid.
"What's this shit?" he boomed.
“It’s called ‘laundry’” I responded, holding my ground.
I could handle the situation. I was not afraid of this man.
What happened next, however, changed the course of events forever.
Michael went into Sean's room, where he lay napping in his crib. He had just turned a year old. Michael awakened Sean, and then, rather than to pick him up and hold him, he began to walk away. Sean started to cry.
Then I heard it: A smacking sound, followed by very, very distressed crying.
I became a lioness.
I practically ran back to Sean’s bedroom. My eyes must have been on fire.
"What the hell was that?" I asked, gritting my teeth.
"I wanted him to quiet down", was Michael's reply.
"So you HIT him?", I nearly screamed.
"I just smacked him on the wrist", he said, a combination of defensiveness and hostility in his voice.
"You do NOT slap or smack a baby to quiet him down", I growled. “What are you thinking? What’s wrong with you?”
Sean was still crying, so I pushed Michael aside to grab up my son.
"That does it!" I told him. "It's over. You keep away from my child and keep away from me!"
At that moment, the subject we never really got around to discussing was out. Up to this point it felt more as if we tiptoed around as if avoiding broken glass.
Now it was audible, and it was palpable. Unfortunately, the circumstances couldn’t have been much worse than those in which the matter was brought out of hiding.
"Yeah? Well you can’t tell me to do that. He's my kid, too!", Michael yelled.
"Oh, no he isn't!" I replied.
There was a moment of silence, and then I turned around and carried Sean to the kitchen, where I prepared a bottle.
Finally, it was spoken, and there was no turning back I'd listened to the assorted little jabs Michael made about Sean, such as, "Isn't it too bad he's got blonde hair and not brown like mine?"
"He's beautiful just the way he is." I told him, feeling very protective of my son just then.
Michael went back and forth from hot to cold, either gushing about Sean's traits, and how they ran in his family...or else he was making comments that suggested that this baby just somehow didn't make the grade.
An undercurrent of tension ran beneath what sometimes sounded like even the most casual comments. This is a very difficult thing to explain, but it is something I sensed in my gut...and my gut is never wrong.
I called an attorney.
I could not get a restraining order to keep Michael awayI was told that I'd have to file for a divorce before I could obtain a restraining order.
I had no money. I was pregnant, at home, caring for a baby, while Michael was driving my car back and forth to the Army base.
In desperation, I phoned my parents at home, and told them what was going on. My father sent a credit card in the mail so that I could purchase gasoline in order to drive home...and home was 2,500 miles away. He also offered to pay to have movers pick up my belongings as well as the baby's, and have them shipped back to my home town.
The day I left is one I cannot forget. Michael brought a friend to the trailer to "witness" the move. As things started making their way to the moving van, I watched, while Michael glared and said nothing. Not once did he ask me to stay. I stopped by a friend’s house to tell her goodbye, and then went back to pick up the last of my things, packing them into the trunk of my car.
As Michael and his friend stood there, I got into the car, started it, and rolled down the window.
"I'm going now", I said.
Nothing.
"I said, I'm going now". This time I spoke a little bit louder.
Silence.
Sean was buckled into his car seat, and I shifted into reverse. As I turned and began to drive away, I glanced into the rear-view mirror.
Michael and his friend were walking up the steps.
Then the door closed.
Private Bitterness
3:35 pm
I wonder how long it will take to purge this fucking resentment toward Duane?
So many, many disappointing things happened during my stay in California...in many ways, I was practically betrayed, both at home and at work. I guess the main difference between the home and work is that at least the work part was pretty straightforward. It doesn't trouble me now.
However, in the case of Duane, the letdown is the biggest I've ever known. I literally wasted four years of my life on him. I have nothing but disappointment and alienation to show for it. Even after I moved back home to Portland, the shit continued. There is/was something devious about this guy. On the outside he appeared to be noncommittal--at times, apathetic. He passed himself off as a "nice guy"...someone who, in his own words, "took the high road".
Yet he sabotaged everything about us.
The real trouble started two months before I moved to California. I discovered that Duane was utterly devoid of empathy (a discussion in itself). He didn't understand--nor did he care--why I was experiencing anxiety as the moving date approached. In fact, the only thing he expressed was disapproval in response to my feelings (or at least the expression of such).
Thus began a downward spiraling situation. I should never have moved to California. What I thought was the best relationship of my life became the most damaging. For what it's worth, I have experience with traumatic hook-ups. However, none of them screwed ME up like the relationship I had with Duane.
Why didn't I follow my brain? Why did I put on the blinders, rationalizing every warning my friends, family and colleagues expressed? How could I have ever allowed myself to settle for a man who brought to the table more baggage than a large airport?
The never-ending divorce. The vindictive not-quite-ex-wife, her lying, her attempts to undermine a relationship that was already struggling? But you see, Duane was dismissive of that, too. All of the pot-shots, all of the drama and chaos and hatred she made damned sure would infiltrate and pollute Life with Duane...huh...he simply brushed it aside. His so-called reasoning was that Jeanne didn't really mean it, so it shouldn't bother me. In fact, there were many times he went as far as to become so defensive that he would tell me that it was "none of (my) business".
Then there were the expectations this man had as it pertained to Alex. Let me say for the record that my relationship with the boy did not get off to a good start. I don't think I even have to state the obvious...that is, why it did start off so badly.
However, as time went on, Alex and I DID develop a rapport. By the time I moved back to Oregon, it is a huge understatement to say that I liked Alex far better than I liked Duane. I always knew that he and I would get along wonderfully once he reached adolescence...because this would mark the period of real understanding and appreciation of people...not by what they're SUPPOSED to feel, but based, instead, on actions over words.
But that was doomed.
The truth is, the only peaceful and happy times I had during the all of 2004 and 2005 happened when Duane was gone. There was an awful, stifling tension that drove me away. I felt that since I had nowhere to go geographically, the only place I could escape was within myself. I grew very depressed, practically to the point of psychosis. As a matter of fact, I think I actually had some truly psychotic moments during our fights...because he was more of a robot than a human. I was going nuts.
My zest for life evaporated. I enjoyed teaching. It became the only thing that fulfilled me. I barely ate. My sleep was screwed up. I felt sick a lot. Although not consciously aware of it at the time, I didn't even want Duane to touch me.
Duane expected sex.
Don't get me wrong, here. A physical relationship is pretty okay to entertain expectations of, given the relationship is otherwise doing well. Hell, for that matter, there are lots of people who can't stand one another and the only reason they stay together is of hot sex.
The latter was not the case when it came to Duane and me.
His understanding of cause and effect was so deranged that it only made the problem worse. I was completely miserable. Here I was with a man who wasn't really committed. He was lazy. He was the laziest man I ever met. At first I confused laziness for having a "laid-back" personality. It took a while to figure out, but eventually I did come to realize what should have been obvious from the very beginning.
Things finally reached critical mass and it became abundantly clear I needed to move out. What began as a reaction to a nasty quarrel (I told Duane I was leaving him) became something else (I didn't change my mind, even after the dust settled).
Duane does not handle rejection well. This, combined with his absence of empathy--well, it ensured a troubling and destructive aftermath.
And yet, after all of that ugliness, I sincerely wanted to remain friends. I have always had a "never say never" philosophy regarding *MOST* relationships. Duane's rancid hostility made friendship absolutely impossible in the first few months following my move-out.
I dated a man briefly. He was a nice person. Handsome. Silly. Emotional. The latter was probably what I thirsted for most of all. It turned out that handsome, silly and emotional alone aren't the recipe for anything enduring. I learned that Mike was still married! He claimed that he was planning to leave his wife, that she kinda-sorta knew about his extramarital relationships (I was not his first, nor would I be his last). Ultimately I broke things off with him. Things were going to end regardless of who did the ending, and since I was the one with enough perspective to know where things were heading, I was the "off-cutter".
Mike and I began to have a pretty intense romantic involvement during the six or so weeks we spent together. I discovered that I was, in fact, able to respond to sexual advances if a man was able to really express feelings, who was capable of more than two facial expressions, whose voice had many inflections. Call me picky, but those are but two must-haves if there's going to be real chemistry. Chemistry alone, however, won't carry things in the long run. There has to be a commonality regarding values.
So, knowing this, why did I ever become physically involved with Mike then? One, I wasn't quite aware of the truths mentioned above until after I left Duane. Additionally, I think I was "running on the fumes" of the Duane and me from days long past...a time when he was cute and expressive, who hadn't yet fossilized. I imagined that under that inanimate exterior of the older Duane was the guy from many years ago. I used to close my eyes and imagine that, and get close to it. It was that essence of the early Duane that drew me in, that made me want to touch and be touched.
However, there finally came a time when I realized that that person I yearned for simply did not exist anymore. Perhaps he never did; things look different through the eyes of a young girl, and the passage of many years has a way of casting a diffused light over a lot of events, adding highlights where there may have been none.
It's quite sad, because for more than twenty years, I had good memories of my brief time with that younger Duane. Of course that was before he told me that he wasn't even happy back then. Duane managed to destroy even the old memories.
And yet, believe it or not, I STILL wanted to remain friends with Duane, even after I moved back home to Oregon. As it turns out, Duane was amusing himself by looking for reasons to "understand" why our sexual relationship died. Never mind the hours I spent trying to explain it, trying to understand it myself. Duane had to find more sinister reasons. Blame HAD to be assigned.
A month after I moved back to Portland, I received a vitriolic email from Duane. He tried to slaughter me with words. He managed to outdo the authoritarian, judgmental Duane of 2004 and 2005.
I was staggered by such an out-of-the-blue, unprovoked attack.
Duane called me some really choice things, accusing me of using him, being a "fucking liar"...of "fucking Mike"...attempting to belittle me by stating that Mike "dumped" me...the list goes on, and it's a long one.
I was sickened by the hatred and blame that Duane hurled my way. His words and accusations decimated every last warm sentiment I held as it related to him, to us.
He didn't express such things in moments of passion. He turned out to be a calculating, almost evil presence. More than once I found myself thinking, "What he cannot have, he must destroy."
I know it sounds as if I believe that Duane was the only one who behaved badly. I know this isn't so. I know what I've said and done that was nasty and wrong.
However, I can stand myself, because the woman inside of me has compassion.
It's amazing how far that can go.
I wonder how long it will take to purge this fucking resentment toward Duane?
So many, many disappointing things happened during my stay in California...in many ways, I was practically betrayed, both at home and at work. I guess the main difference between the home and work is that at least the work part was pretty straightforward. It doesn't trouble me now.
However, in the case of Duane, the letdown is the biggest I've ever known. I literally wasted four years of my life on him. I have nothing but disappointment and alienation to show for it. Even after I moved back home to Portland, the shit continued. There is/was something devious about this guy. On the outside he appeared to be noncommittal--at times, apathetic. He passed himself off as a "nice guy"...someone who, in his own words, "took the high road".
Yet he sabotaged everything about us.
The real trouble started two months before I moved to California. I discovered that Duane was utterly devoid of empathy (a discussion in itself). He didn't understand--nor did he care--why I was experiencing anxiety as the moving date approached. In fact, the only thing he expressed was disapproval in response to my feelings (or at least the expression of such).
Thus began a downward spiraling situation. I should never have moved to California. What I thought was the best relationship of my life became the most damaging. For what it's worth, I have experience with traumatic hook-ups. However, none of them screwed ME up like the relationship I had with Duane.
Why didn't I follow my brain? Why did I put on the blinders, rationalizing every warning my friends, family and colleagues expressed? How could I have ever allowed myself to settle for a man who brought to the table more baggage than a large airport?
The never-ending divorce. The vindictive not-quite-ex-wife, her lying, her attempts to undermine a relationship that was already struggling? But you see, Duane was dismissive of that, too. All of the pot-shots, all of the drama and chaos and hatred she made damned sure would infiltrate and pollute Life with Duane...huh...he simply brushed it aside. His so-called reasoning was that Jeanne didn't really mean it, so it shouldn't bother me. In fact, there were many times he went as far as to become so defensive that he would tell me that it was "none of (my) business".
Then there were the expectations this man had as it pertained to Alex. Let me say for the record that my relationship with the boy did not get off to a good start. I don't think I even have to state the obvious...that is, why it did start off so badly.
However, as time went on, Alex and I DID develop a rapport. By the time I moved back to Oregon, it is a huge understatement to say that I liked Alex far better than I liked Duane. I always knew that he and I would get along wonderfully once he reached adolescence...because this would mark the period of real understanding and appreciation of people...not by what they're SUPPOSED to feel, but based, instead, on actions over words.
But that was doomed.
The truth is, the only peaceful and happy times I had during the all of 2004 and 2005 happened when Duane was gone. There was an awful, stifling tension that drove me away. I felt that since I had nowhere to go geographically, the only place I could escape was within myself. I grew very depressed, practically to the point of psychosis. As a matter of fact, I think I actually had some truly psychotic moments during our fights...because he was more of a robot than a human. I was going nuts.
My zest for life evaporated. I enjoyed teaching. It became the only thing that fulfilled me. I barely ate. My sleep was screwed up. I felt sick a lot. Although not consciously aware of it at the time, I didn't even want Duane to touch me.
Duane expected sex.
Don't get me wrong, here. A physical relationship is pretty okay to entertain expectations of, given the relationship is otherwise doing well. Hell, for that matter, there are lots of people who can't stand one another and the only reason they stay together is of hot sex.
The latter was not the case when it came to Duane and me.
His understanding of cause and effect was so deranged that it only made the problem worse. I was completely miserable. Here I was with a man who wasn't really committed. He was lazy. He was the laziest man I ever met. At first I confused laziness for having a "laid-back" personality. It took a while to figure out, but eventually I did come to realize what should have been obvious from the very beginning.
Things finally reached critical mass and it became abundantly clear I needed to move out. What began as a reaction to a nasty quarrel (I told Duane I was leaving him) became something else (I didn't change my mind, even after the dust settled).
Duane does not handle rejection well. This, combined with his absence of empathy--well, it ensured a troubling and destructive aftermath.
And yet, after all of that ugliness, I sincerely wanted to remain friends. I have always had a "never say never" philosophy regarding *MOST* relationships. Duane's rancid hostility made friendship absolutely impossible in the first few months following my move-out.
I dated a man briefly. He was a nice person. Handsome. Silly. Emotional. The latter was probably what I thirsted for most of all. It turned out that handsome, silly and emotional alone aren't the recipe for anything enduring. I learned that Mike was still married! He claimed that he was planning to leave his wife, that she kinda-sorta knew about his extramarital relationships (I was not his first, nor would I be his last). Ultimately I broke things off with him. Things were going to end regardless of who did the ending, and since I was the one with enough perspective to know where things were heading, I was the "off-cutter".
Mike and I began to have a pretty intense romantic involvement during the six or so weeks we spent together. I discovered that I was, in fact, able to respond to sexual advances if a man was able to really express feelings, who was capable of more than two facial expressions, whose voice had many inflections. Call me picky, but those are but two must-haves if there's going to be real chemistry. Chemistry alone, however, won't carry things in the long run. There has to be a commonality regarding values.
So, knowing this, why did I ever become physically involved with Mike then? One, I wasn't quite aware of the truths mentioned above until after I left Duane. Additionally, I think I was "running on the fumes" of the Duane and me from days long past...a time when he was cute and expressive, who hadn't yet fossilized. I imagined that under that inanimate exterior of the older Duane was the guy from many years ago. I used to close my eyes and imagine that, and get close to it. It was that essence of the early Duane that drew me in, that made me want to touch and be touched.
However, there finally came a time when I realized that that person I yearned for simply did not exist anymore. Perhaps he never did; things look different through the eyes of a young girl, and the passage of many years has a way of casting a diffused light over a lot of events, adding highlights where there may have been none.
It's quite sad, because for more than twenty years, I had good memories of my brief time with that younger Duane. Of course that was before he told me that he wasn't even happy back then. Duane managed to destroy even the old memories.
And yet, believe it or not, I STILL wanted to remain friends with Duane, even after I moved back home to Oregon. As it turns out, Duane was amusing himself by looking for reasons to "understand" why our sexual relationship died. Never mind the hours I spent trying to explain it, trying to understand it myself. Duane had to find more sinister reasons. Blame HAD to be assigned.
A month after I moved back to Portland, I received a vitriolic email from Duane. He tried to slaughter me with words. He managed to outdo the authoritarian, judgmental Duane of 2004 and 2005.
I was staggered by such an out-of-the-blue, unprovoked attack.
Duane called me some really choice things, accusing me of using him, being a "fucking liar"...of "fucking Mike"...attempting to belittle me by stating that Mike "dumped" me...the list goes on, and it's a long one.
I was sickened by the hatred and blame that Duane hurled my way. His words and accusations decimated every last warm sentiment I held as it related to him, to us.
He didn't express such things in moments of passion. He turned out to be a calculating, almost evil presence. More than once I found myself thinking, "What he cannot have, he must destroy."
I know it sounds as if I believe that Duane was the only one who behaved badly. I know this isn't so. I know what I've said and done that was nasty and wrong.
However, I can stand myself, because the woman inside of me has compassion.
It's amazing how far that can go.
In other news....
7:50 am -
Sean finally talked to his father yesterday. I got a letter from Tammy, letting me know.
Everyone is ecstatic about this. It was January 9 of this year that I finally located Bruce, and we all wrote a great deal back and forth. Bruce and I must have spent five hours on the phone as well. His wife and I have become pen pals. But Sean was very reluctant to talk. He spent 26 years not having a father, so it took some time for him to get used to the idea.
I guess the conversation went really well. Tammy wants me to call her so she can thank me in person. Thank ME?? Okay, well maybe for bringing them together (Sean and his dad, that is), and not for any devious reasons. I have to thank Tammy for being such a great lady, and I also want to thank Bruce for completely accepting Sean--not doubting my word for even a second...about the son he had and never knew about.
This is a wonderful way to start the day, start the week.
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Sunday, May 6th, 2007
Sean finally talked to his father yesterday. I got a letter from Tammy, letting me know.
Everyone is ecstatic about this. It was January 9 of this year that I finally located Bruce, and we all wrote a great deal back and forth. Bruce and I must have spent five hours on the phone as well. His wife and I have become pen pals. But Sean was very reluctant to talk. He spent 26 years not having a father, so it took some time for him to get used to the idea.
I guess the conversation went really well. Tammy wants me to call her so she can thank me in person. Thank ME?? Okay, well maybe for bringing them together (Sean and his dad, that is), and not for any devious reasons. I have to thank Tammy for being such a great lady, and I also want to thank Bruce for completely accepting Sean--not doubting my word for even a second...about the son he had and never knew about.
This is a wonderful way to start the day, start the week.
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Sunday, May 6th, 2007
Time, space and fate.
Sunday, June 24th, 2007 2:54 pm -
Shit, do I ever come up with some weird stream-of-consciousness stuff. Okay, not really so much weird...just paradoxical.
Sean goes to see his dad in less than three weeks; Nichelle is flying down with him. The whole family will be there (or as many as can be there, anyway).
I find myself thinking way back to 1980...to what could almost qualify as a "chance encounter"....(funny, how insignificant those two words look, almost like bumping into someone at the supermarket, and saying "excuse me". Maybe not even looking up from the Brawny paper towels {if you can afford them} and the rib-eye steaks {ditto}).
Well, the point I am trying to make (naw, I was only leading up to it, really), is how we have no idea how important someone is going to figure into our lives when we first stumble upon one another. Eh, I 'm not talking about falling in love. That's too common, too...pedestrian. EVERYONE thinks his or her love is "one of a kind", because love just can't be that ordinary, can it?
I grew up in Southern California; so did Bruce. We didn't meet there. I went through basic training at Fort Gordon, Georgia, and Bruce did, as well. Nope, didn't meet there, either. Nine thousand miles from home, that's where it happened. That's what's interesting. The distance. I met Bruce in Germany, during the fallout after Michael and I broke up...and it was a temporary breakup at that.
Back home I flew, and it was in Southern California where Sean was born, and it was in Southern California where Sean spent the first 17 years of his life, and it was Southern California where Bruce returned in 1983; it's where he still lives.
It wasn't until I was living 700 miles from there that we finally got in touch.
What about time?
I found out I was pregnant while still in Germany, but due to some errors on the part of the medical team caring for me at the time, I wasn't sure if the child was Bruce's. It was a lot easier to buy into the doctors' belief that I was an entire month farther along than I really was, because that made Michael the father and it was Michael I wanted to marry, to have babies with, to travel the distance with, in both space and time.
Of course, I didn't come to grips with Sean's paternity until after I'd already left Germany; at the time, it wasn't what I would have considered to be an especially pleasant thought. It fucked everything up...well, not where it came to loving my son. The only thing that put a temporary ding in that area was Age 13. (shudder)
Yeah, so what then? How long did it take to arrive at the true conclusion? Back when I was pregnant, it seemed like forever. Sean had to be born a whole month beyond my "offcial" due date. (Trust me, when you're thinking you're not going days or a week past that magic day, but an entire lunar month, it's a white-knuckle situation.)
It would be nearly 13 years before I would sit down with Sean and discuss Reality with him. I wasn't trying to hide the truth. Perhaps very early on, I avoided acknowledging it; I will never go so far as to say I would have been ashamed by the truth. I will say that I was afraid of it. I was afraid of rejection. Bruce was only eighteen years old. What guy of that age wants to be a dad? Bruce didn't. I know, because I recall (vaguely) asking him in a somewhat roundabout way. I wasn't even certain that I was pregnant yet; I suspected it, but I didn't know, and until a woman's pregnancy is confirmed, she is wise to keep her mouth shut, and that's what I did.
Back to rejection: I didn't want to have my pregnancy rejected (a pregnancy, by the way, which, if one examines it, was only "mine" alone, because of that fear of rejection). I didn't want Bruce telling me to "get rid of it". Granted, at the time, Sean would have been scant more than a grain of rice, a little red smidgen of future humanity, unseen, unnamed, gender unknown. In spite of his being a baby more in an abstract sense (odd to think of Sean as an embryo)...my baby was a my child nonetheless. The thought of my child being pushed away by his own father was more than I could bear to imagine.
Sure, I would have been pushed away as well, but eh, that in itself would not have devastated me. I suppose that's fairly obvious, since I already stated that I loved Michael. (See what you caused, Mr. Simons? Had you kept your fucking hands to yourself...well, never mind that...Sean as I know him, wouldn't have happened. I most likely wouldn't have even become pregnant at all.) Hell, now that I think of it, actually, I owe you a debt of gratitude there, Mike. I am not being sarcastic, either. I had a wonderful son, and later, I bore a beautiful baby girl, and you did father her.)
In any event, what I am trying to convey here, is that The Truth would have found me rejected by Bruce (and again, I say, that alone is no biggie), and Sean being rejected by Bruce. Moreover, I would have been rejected by Micheal, and ditto for Sean. Well, perhaps not right off. I believe Michael would have wanted to marry me regardless, and he would have wanted to be a father to the baby as well. Whether or not he would have kept that commitment across the span of 9,000 miles and a year apart is another matter altogether. Eventually Michael did know Sean was not his biological son, but it was a situation that didn't change things much...at first. Shit, now that I think of it, Michael hasn't treated Amanda with a measurable amount of consideration, so perhaps, in the long run, it didn't really change things at all. Not for Michael, anyway.
I mean, hell, we are divorced. I haven't seen him face to face in over 15 years. Sean and Amanda, as they are now, and really no more than a notion to Michael. My children, on the other hand, are the world to me. They are life itself.
So, Sean took 9,000 miles to conceive, and for Bruce, he took 26 years to find out about.
At the time he and I were involved, neither of us could have ever imagined the importance of it all, the sort of impact our brief encounter would have on so many lives (the most important being Sean's...his life depended
on it). It almost brings a rueful smile to my face to think of Bruce's reaction to what it all would have meant if he'd known then what he knows now. I suppose he would have executed an about-face and run like hell.
Of course, it is the "then-Bruce" I speak of. The "now-Bruce" is considerably wiser, and he's a consummate dad. I feel certain that he would not wish his son away. My God, going by his initial reaction alone, it would have broken his heart to lose Sean forever.
This is where the "weird" comes in. (Or a not-quite paradox.) Actually, it would have been more of a limiting factor, as it were.
Had I the power of clairvoyance, I could have said something cryptic like, "Well Bruce, I'll see you in 26 years." (Or talk, anyway.) Okay then, it is a paradox, because if he'd asked what that meant, I would have told him he'd just fathered a son he wouldn't meet for over two decades...but knowing what I do about Bruce now, he would never have allowed 26 years to pass without being a dad to his firstborn child. First to be born, last to be discovered,
By the grace of God, I found my son's father. After so many, many years of speculation and twinges of sadness, Bruce has been located, and he has finally, finally connected with his son. Of course, this connection certainly doesn't put an end to speculation and sadness; it only shifts them in a different direction. So many birthdays missed, milestones unwitnessed, participation that never got to happen, pride that was never shared. That part is profoundly tragic. Nevertheless, it is not wholly heartbreaking; there is still the future, and Bruce and Sean have accepted one another, and they are looking forward to making up for at least a little bit of that lost time.
Besides, to look at things another way, I feel quite certain that having the truth evade us both was the only way that permitted our other children to be allowed into this world. Would I have had Amanda otherwise? I'm certain things would have happened differently. It only would have taken a small change in the way events unfolded to have missed her completely, regardless of my son's paternity.
On Bruce's end, the distraction of becoming a teenage father would probably have caused him to be at a different place at a different time, and he might never have gotten to meet Tammy. NO! I am not saying he and I would have ended up together. I know it wouldn't have happened. However, just a tiny tweak in time would have wiped Bruce's other three children from the record as well.
It kind of makes one believe in the possibility of "fate".
In one sense, I guess I did, in fact, tell Bruce we'd be in touch in 26 years.
In our case, it just happens to be that it's 26 years of looking back.
Shit, do I ever come up with some weird stream-of-consciousness stuff. Okay, not really so much weird...just paradoxical.
Sean goes to see his dad in less than three weeks; Nichelle is flying down with him. The whole family will be there (or as many as can be there, anyway).
I find myself thinking way back to 1980...to what could almost qualify as a "chance encounter"....(funny, how insignificant those two words look, almost like bumping into someone at the supermarket, and saying "excuse me". Maybe not even looking up from the Brawny paper towels {if you can afford them} and the rib-eye steaks {ditto}).
Well, the point I am trying to make (naw, I was only leading up to it, really), is how we have no idea how important someone is going to figure into our lives when we first stumble upon one another. Eh, I 'm not talking about falling in love. That's too common, too...pedestrian. EVERYONE thinks his or her love is "one of a kind", because love just can't be that ordinary, can it?
I grew up in Southern California; so did Bruce. We didn't meet there. I went through basic training at Fort Gordon, Georgia, and Bruce did, as well. Nope, didn't meet there, either. Nine thousand miles from home, that's where it happened. That's what's interesting. The distance. I met Bruce in Germany, during the fallout after Michael and I broke up...and it was a temporary breakup at that.
Back home I flew, and it was in Southern California where Sean was born, and it was in Southern California where Sean spent the first 17 years of his life, and it was Southern California where Bruce returned in 1983; it's where he still lives.
It wasn't until I was living 700 miles from there that we finally got in touch.
What about time?
I found out I was pregnant while still in Germany, but due to some errors on the part of the medical team caring for me at the time, I wasn't sure if the child was Bruce's. It was a lot easier to buy into the doctors' belief that I was an entire month farther along than I really was, because that made Michael the father and it was Michael I wanted to marry, to have babies with, to travel the distance with, in both space and time.
Of course, I didn't come to grips with Sean's paternity until after I'd already left Germany; at the time, it wasn't what I would have considered to be an especially pleasant thought. It fucked everything up...well, not where it came to loving my son. The only thing that put a temporary ding in that area was Age 13. (shudder)
Yeah, so what then? How long did it take to arrive at the true conclusion? Back when I was pregnant, it seemed like forever. Sean had to be born a whole month beyond my "offcial" due date. (Trust me, when you're thinking you're not going days or a week past that magic day, but an entire lunar month, it's a white-knuckle situation.)
It would be nearly 13 years before I would sit down with Sean and discuss Reality with him. I wasn't trying to hide the truth. Perhaps very early on, I avoided acknowledging it; I will never go so far as to say I would have been ashamed by the truth. I will say that I was afraid of it. I was afraid of rejection. Bruce was only eighteen years old. What guy of that age wants to be a dad? Bruce didn't. I know, because I recall (vaguely) asking him in a somewhat roundabout way. I wasn't even certain that I was pregnant yet; I suspected it, but I didn't know, and until a woman's pregnancy is confirmed, she is wise to keep her mouth shut, and that's what I did.
Back to rejection: I didn't want to have my pregnancy rejected (a pregnancy, by the way, which, if one examines it, was only "mine" alone, because of that fear of rejection). I didn't want Bruce telling me to "get rid of it". Granted, at the time, Sean would have been scant more than a grain of rice, a little red smidgen of future humanity, unseen, unnamed, gender unknown. In spite of his being a baby more in an abstract sense (odd to think of Sean as an embryo)...my baby was a my child nonetheless. The thought of my child being pushed away by his own father was more than I could bear to imagine.
Sure, I would have been pushed away as well, but eh, that in itself would not have devastated me. I suppose that's fairly obvious, since I already stated that I loved Michael. (See what you caused, Mr. Simons? Had you kept your fucking hands to yourself...well, never mind that...Sean as I know him, wouldn't have happened. I most likely wouldn't have even become pregnant at all.) Hell, now that I think of it, actually, I owe you a debt of gratitude there, Mike. I am not being sarcastic, either. I had a wonderful son, and later, I bore a beautiful baby girl, and you did father her.)
In any event, what I am trying to convey here, is that The Truth would have found me rejected by Bruce (and again, I say, that alone is no biggie), and Sean being rejected by Bruce. Moreover, I would have been rejected by Micheal, and ditto for Sean. Well, perhaps not right off. I believe Michael would have wanted to marry me regardless, and he would have wanted to be a father to the baby as well. Whether or not he would have kept that commitment across the span of 9,000 miles and a year apart is another matter altogether. Eventually Michael did know Sean was not his biological son, but it was a situation that didn't change things much...at first. Shit, now that I think of it, Michael hasn't treated Amanda with a measurable amount of consideration, so perhaps, in the long run, it didn't really change things at all. Not for Michael, anyway.
I mean, hell, we are divorced. I haven't seen him face to face in over 15 years. Sean and Amanda, as they are now, and really no more than a notion to Michael. My children, on the other hand, are the world to me. They are life itself.
So, Sean took 9,000 miles to conceive, and for Bruce, he took 26 years to find out about.
At the time he and I were involved, neither of us could have ever imagined the importance of it all, the sort of impact our brief encounter would have on so many lives (the most important being Sean's...his life depended
on it). It almost brings a rueful smile to my face to think of Bruce's reaction to what it all would have meant if he'd known then what he knows now. I suppose he would have executed an about-face and run like hell.
Of course, it is the "then-Bruce" I speak of. The "now-Bruce" is considerably wiser, and he's a consummate dad. I feel certain that he would not wish his son away. My God, going by his initial reaction alone, it would have broken his heart to lose Sean forever.
This is where the "weird" comes in. (Or a not-quite paradox.) Actually, it would have been more of a limiting factor, as it were.
Had I the power of clairvoyance, I could have said something cryptic like, "Well Bruce, I'll see you in 26 years." (Or talk, anyway.) Okay then, it is a paradox, because if he'd asked what that meant, I would have told him he'd just fathered a son he wouldn't meet for over two decades...but knowing what I do about Bruce now, he would never have allowed 26 years to pass without being a dad to his firstborn child. First to be born, last to be discovered,
By the grace of God, I found my son's father. After so many, many years of speculation and twinges of sadness, Bruce has been located, and he has finally, finally connected with his son. Of course, this connection certainly doesn't put an end to speculation and sadness; it only shifts them in a different direction. So many birthdays missed, milestones unwitnessed, participation that never got to happen, pride that was never shared. That part is profoundly tragic. Nevertheless, it is not wholly heartbreaking; there is still the future, and Bruce and Sean have accepted one another, and they are looking forward to making up for at least a little bit of that lost time.
Besides, to look at things another way, I feel quite certain that having the truth evade us both was the only way that permitted our other children to be allowed into this world. Would I have had Amanda otherwise? I'm certain things would have happened differently. It only would have taken a small change in the way events unfolded to have missed her completely, regardless of my son's paternity.
On Bruce's end, the distraction of becoming a teenage father would probably have caused him to be at a different place at a different time, and he might never have gotten to meet Tammy. NO! I am not saying he and I would have ended up together. I know it wouldn't have happened. However, just a tiny tweak in time would have wiped Bruce's other three children from the record as well.
It kind of makes one believe in the possibility of "fate".
In one sense, I guess I did, in fact, tell Bruce we'd be in touch in 26 years.
In our case, it just happens to be that it's 26 years of looking back.
involuntary flashes
12:37 pm
Some song I heard today reminded me of 2004 and what's-his-name. Yuck. The saving grace of the memory is that he was out of town at the time, which I really did enjoy.
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Monday, May 7th, 2007
Some song I heard today reminded me of 2004 and what's-his-name. Yuck. The saving grace of the memory is that he was out of town at the time, which I really did enjoy.
(comment on this)
Monday, May 7th, 2007
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