Tag: death

Friday’s Theme Music

It’s up to 59 F outside. But the buttery morning sunshine delivered at 6:44 is now smoked over. Our lovely sky has rocketed relatively healthy lime green 48 on the air quality scale to 197. The high temperature today will be 103 F. Sunset, 7:31 PM.

Today is Friday, September 9, 2022. I’m waiting to begin my travel home. Tucker volunteered to inspect the bag and floofervise the process. On the other end of phones and texts, my youngest sister is reporting on Mom. Hospitalized for COVID complications and an appendix first thought ruptured but then found perforated, Mom has a lot of issues. A pacemaker was installed a few years ago. A diet of Kools and Salem cigarettes has left her with COPD and emphysema. The physicians discovered that she punctured one of her lung’s lobes. She’s also retaining fluid. Her O2 levels keep dropping to 70 or lower. Without much surprise to me, this 87-year-old woman has declared, “Enough. I’m tired. I’m done.”

My older sister has just arrived there from Atlanta. Another sister can’t attend because she’s COVID positive. The fourth sister is on her way back to the hospital. So is Mom’s partner. I won’t get there until tomorrow. The time, drama, and decisions give me a lot to think about.

The Neurons have a song by The Who circulating in the morning mental music stream. Released in 1971, “Gettin’ in Tune” has often been a standby song for me when I’m reflecting on choices and getting ready to travel. I understand why The Neurons have posted it.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, etc. I’ve had coffee. Might have more. Here is the music. Hope your Friday is a good one.

Cheers

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Thursday’s Wandering Thought

As news about his mother’s declining condition was received, he thought for a while and then, teary-eyed, told her with his mind across time and space, “Well, Mom, I’m good with whatever you decide to do. You’ve known pain and sickness for so many years. If you decide you’re done, I understand.”

She would be missed, though. Strong, intelligent, and vital, she was his favorite mother. Probably always would be.

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Making Sense

We received the official report about what happened to our friend, who was killed last month.

Mike was at the Senior Center, loading supplies into the back of his Subaru for his Food & Friends delivery route when the accident took place. First stories had us believing that a young man in a large pickup came blasting down the short, narrow road. Mike’s car was not touched at all, so that story baffled us. Next, we heard that a senior male was driving down the road, saw Mike, meant to step on the brake but instead pressed the gas. That was closer to the truth.

The whole story was that a senior man was backing up his truck to pick up his Food & Friends supplies. He’d gone up on the curb and pulled forward to try again. Intent on staying off the curb, he didn’t see Mike until the last minute. When he did, he panicked and pressed the gas instead of the brake, trapping Mike between the two vehicles’ rear bumpers.

Mike’s legs were crushed, his femoral arteries and veins severed. He bled out in less than a minute. Even though we now have all the facts, we still struggle to make sense of his death.

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Monday’s Theme Music

Another milestone reached, because it’s another ‘t’ day. Yes, it’s today, April 4, 2022, a Monday, a new start to a new week, if you’re one of those who think of Monday as the first day of the week. I do, at least for today.

It’s rainy and chilly outside. Poured hard earlier, drumming on the roof and the vents, transporting us to a rock concert drum solo. Nice being inside, safe and warm, listening to the rain. I wish everyone in the world had such simple luxury, shelter, and security.

The theoretical sunrise, theoretical because the clouds were saying, “Nope, not this morning, no sunshine for you, Ashland,” was at 6:49 this morning while sunset, if we see it, will be at 7:40 PM. It’s now 42 degrees F. We might see 50 today.

Today’s song comes out of reflections for the cat who passed away last month. I miss him and his energy still fills the house while his memory is sharp in our minds, but, you know, he was enduring heavy pain and discomfort by the end. You know how it is; you miss them but you’re happy they’re free of their disease’s chains. You promise to meet up again sometime, somewhere, and wonder, can that be true? Is that possible?

So, it’s mixed emotions with which his passing is viewed. Hearing that, the sleepy neurons were like, “What? Mixed Emotions. Rolling Stones. 1989. Here we go.” I answered, no, no, I wasn’t asking for that to be played.

Well, here we are. The neurons won.

The song has a nice guitar-driven throwback for the Stones. It could easily be from the late sixties or early seventies instead of the late eighties. They were, are, an enduring band.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, etc. We’ve made plans for our next booster this week. Take care of yourself. Now, the neurons are demanded they be paid in coffee for their work, so I’m a mission to the kitchen. Here’s the tune. Cheers

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The Joseph Cotten Dream

Yes, it was another military dream, this one featuring a chief master sergeant (E9) named Cotten who looked just like the late actor, Joseph Cotten.

It started with recovery from military action where several of my people had been killed. I was angry about it because I felt that a planning fuckup was to blame. We were in retreat and recovery mode, filling up a large hangar at night. As people sat in folding mental chairs, some young officer came in shouting about it being fine, not to worry, everything went well. His announcement infuriated me. I snapped, “It’s not fucking fine, sir, it’s not fine when some of my people are dead.”

He responded by circling around me, pointing a finger and demanding to know what I said as everyone else stopped to watch and listen. I repeated it all. Still walking and pointing a finger at me, he warned, “You better check your attitude, the general won’t like that.”

I replied, “I don’t give a shit what the general likes, sir.”

Chief Cotten came over to calm me and the rest down. Yeah, soothing words and a smarmy attitude were employed, which I wasn’t in the mood to swallow. He suggested we have a cuppa coffee and a chat, verifying my name, then trying to flatter me into being more reasonable, telling me, “I’ve heard of you, you have a big rep. Everyone is expecting a lot from you.” I walked away from him, pissing him off, but I was beyond caring.

In a dream shift, I was sitting at a table when several young officers came in, offering me burgers. The burgers were leftovers from somewhere, but they thought I probably hadn’t eaten and would like them. I was pleased and grateful they thought of me and ate the big ol’ burgers with a grin, enjoying every bite.

Another dream shift found us preparing for an exercise. I was late in arriving but queued up in the long, single-file line. Chief Cotten joined me, asking me how I was doing, giving me a cuppa coffee to drink while I waited my turn. Like everyone else, I was in my woodland camoes, but I realize everyone else seemed to have mobility bags and helmets. I had neither. Getting rid of the coffee and leaving the line, I went around asking questions about what was going on and why I wasn’t given a mob bag. No one could answer but another senior NCO suggested that I just take what I needed.

Still cranky, I found a mob bag but when I opened it, there was a thin pink bedspread inside, like the one that used to be on my mother’s guest bed. What the fuck, I thought, which was where the dream ended.

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The One Who Left

I shall miss his morning greetings

Rubbing his head against me

As I sit on the toilet

Or sitting at my feet and providing me his views

As I make my first cup of coffee

His visits with me as I’m pulling weeds and cutting the grass

Answering his call as he requested the door be opened for his egress

And ingress

And egress

And ingress

It won’t be the same

Being able to move without a large black haus pantera

Lying at my feet as I type

I’ll forever see him fleeing for safety

Moving his big body on his tiny feet

Whenever someone knocked on the door

Or people started talking on Zoom

I’ll always feel special

That he chose to spend his time with me

Permitting me to pet his head and scratch his ears

Without him scratching my hand

Letting me feed him bits of my sandwiches

Pieces of my chicken

Or indulging him with tuna

He made it all a challenge

With his fierce and independent manner

A challenge I would accept again and again

To see that sweet black face

Triangular with triangle ears

And black and white whiskers

Looking up at me and saying,

“Meow.”

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

Today is Wednesday, March 23, 2022. I’m still processing my friend’s death yesterday, Mike. It’s remote and abstract to me at this point, astonishing and bewildering. My neurons follow paths for what it must be like in Ukraine as people lose their friends and loved ones suddenly to gunfire and explosion. That life is so treasured to us, that people’s deaths leave such gaping holes, that we work so hard on medicine and health, exercising and dieting to prevent sickness and death, and then that humans kill one another for bizarre fucking reasons when other avenues of co-existence are available, renders me to sighs and head shaking.

A faded azure sky embraces the sun. Full spring is in effect. Sunrise came at 7:09 AM and sunset will take at 7:26 PM. It’s 56 degrees F right now, on its way to a 68 F high. Should be a lovely day.

My beer group is meeting tonight. Mike was a large part of that. Plans had been made for me to hand off a book that was loaned to me, giving it to Mike because he was visiting with the book’s owner. Now, change.

Meanwhile sick cat steadily declines. Eating is next to impossible for him due to tumors. I have the back door open, and he made his way out to sit in the sunshine on the patio. Papi has made a solid recovery. I had the door open yesterday afternoon, and that boy galloped in and out, tail up, playing hide and seek with me. Tucker is solidly recovered, too, reclaiming his space on the bed by my head last night, talking to me this morning about his food and drink requirements, and eating with gusto.

My cheeky neurons are playing Del Shannon’s “Runaway” from 1961 in the morning mental music stream. I was five when it came out, but it was a big hit and part of the AM rock and roll rotation for years.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax.

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While I Was Away

I was out shopping with my wife, enjoying a fresh spring day. We’d been tight about going out during the pandemic. She is compromised with RA, so she worries, and I worry.

While I was shopping, I thought often at my sick cats at home, hoping they were okay, processing sticker shock and dismay at the most recent men fashion trends, especially in shoes.

I returned home. Both cats were alive and okay (relatively). My voice mail notified me of messages. The first few sounded shaken and just asked to receive a call back, no subject given. They arrived hours ago.

The third one got explicit. Word had gone out. ‘Mike’ had been hit by a truck and killed. No confirmation of which Mike. There are three in our group of friends.

Further messages and emails clarified: a friend of mine named Mike was hit by a truck and killed while delivering food to senior citizens. Eighty-five years old himself, he stayed busy, volunteering at numerous places, always helping others, or traveling to museums and art exhibitions around the country. He’d been a mainstay in our beer group and was the driving force behind the donations collected from the beer drinkers to fund STEM efforts in local at-risk, low-income schools, and for the regional high school robotics program. He leaves behind a wife who was also busy as a volunteer, and a huge gap in our community.

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