Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
He and his friend exchanged hellos. The follow up to his friend, “How you doing today?”
The other boomed a laugh. “Great. I can walk today.”
As both laughed, he said to his friend, “It’s interesting how your standards and goals change as you age, isn’t it?”
When he did chores at home, he always challenged himself with time limits. Vacuum the floors or wax the furniture by such and such time. What will you give me if I do, his neurons always answered, as he rushed about, intent on his artificial goals.
Other people would probably find it silly, maybe childish, making these fake goals, but these small goals helped prop up the day’s structure and keep time from getting away from him. It worked for him, so what did he care what they cared?
It’s not like anyone knew.
A patch to wake up
A patch to fall sleep
A patch to help you pay attention
A patch to take a drink.
A patch to kill your dreams
A patch to keep you sane
A patch to make you eat
A patch to dull your brain.
A patch to calm your nerves
A patch to stay alive
A patch to keep you breathing
And then a patch to die.
The winds brought in some news. A friend, Carol, was to meet another for lunch and whatever. Carol, known by habit and character to be punctual, didn’t show. The jilted date went to Carol’s house to learn why. The front door was unlocked, the television was on, and there was Carol, dressed and seated in front of the telly, all ready to go, already gone.
She was always fun at the annual Oscars Party, held at Judy’s house each year. The pandemic put a stop to that nonsense. Carol was also known as an enthusiastic reader and one ready for a small glass of white, and a refill. She was tidy and neat, never a hair out of place, always in stylish shoes, fast with a quip, ready to talk politics and the latest on the war, economy, or technology. She is, of course, irreplaceable, as they all are. News of her passing is going through the community like a high-speed boat.
All agree, we’ll certainly miss Carol. At least, the consensus says, she went out the best way, dressed and ready to go, with little apparent bother, and no long good-byes. She never was one for long good-byes.
Early dark thirty. Far before the sun’s scheduled arrival after seven. I’m waiting for my sister to pick me up and convey me to the airport. I’m always depending on my family and their kindness. She is one of the best.
It’s Tuesday, October, 11, 2022, exactly, without planning, one month since my arrival in Pittsburgh. Mom was in the hospital when I arrived, fighting COVID as it attacked her heart, lungs, and everything else it could lash out at. Nurses told my sisters it was very possible that Mom may not survive. It was one of the worst COVID cases they’d seen since the pandemic’s start for that hospital staff. Besides COVID and fluid in her heart and lungs, her appendix had a perforation and was pouring poisonous material into her body. Her pacemaker was only functioning at 20%. Things looked ugly.
She fought back and came out of it. Now she’s home, recovering, rehabbing, and I’m going home. She is struggling with bouncing blood pressure with a diastolic dropping below 100 too often. She’s on meds to promote good blood flow, keep her blood pressure at a healthy level by lowering it because of what she endured in the hospital, when it was skyrocketing. Now they’re backing those meds off, readjusting them, but her blood pressure is erratic. That’s a concern.
Other than that, she’s recovering her strength and balance, eating well, and so on.
My work here isn’t done but life dictates other needs, so, here I go, back across the country, back home.
It’s a travel day, in the car for thirty minutes, airport for two hours, aircraft for five plus, another hour in another airport, another two hours in a second aircraft, then in a car to reach home, an eleven-hour trip. That’s much better than the pioneers, and not as hazardous.
I feel like a little bit of a basketcase dealing with Mom as I hear her tell me one thing and bend her words so it doesn’t seem as bad when she’s dealing with her medicos and my sisters. Irritating as hell to be honest; makes me feel like an unreliable witness. But alas, these things are not within my control, so I let them go like the air from my lungs.
However, The Neurons jumped all over those feelings, dumping “Basketcase” by Green Day into the morning mental music stream (trademark pending – not really, but it feels like it should be added). So here we go.
My ride is here. Stay pos and test neg. I’ll try to do the same. Here we go. I’ll have coffee at the airport, thanks. Cheers
He recalled the mother of his youth. She was always reading. Michner, Robbins, Jong, paperbacks purchased at drugstores. Movies fascinated her. She always recommended actors, directors, movies.
Now, she doesn’t have time to read. Hasn’t in years. She’d moved from fiction to true crime to nothing. She doesn’t like movies, she says. She wants drama and none of them provide it. Time is spent watching MSNBC, or shows like Doctor Pimple Popper, My Feet Are Killing Me, and Dateline.
It’s not surprising. Everyone changes. He thinks about the episodes, powers, and energies that shaped and reshaped her, rising to a comparison with the planet, and how unseen events work together to reshape the world.
Another friend has passed away. He beat cancer four years ago. Earlier this year, he said it had returned. Last time I saw him, he looked wan, gaunt, tired. He had beautiful brown eyes which glint with humor, mischief, and intelligence. All were absent that last time that I saw him. He didn’t speak much. He told us he was going to a family reunion in Europe. On his return two months ago, he told us that he was withdrawing from our weekly beer group meetup. I had a bad feeling.
But I’m not here to grieve. Grieving has worn me down. Death, sickness, and illness are all regular segments in the great cycle of life. Better instead to celebrate the friendships and love of these people who complete the circle and go on. We don’t know what they go on to. I just know what he’s left behind. I’m pleased that he took time to be a friend and join me to tip back a beer once a week and talk politics, philosophy, science, art, pop culture, music, and literature. He’d tell me about his life and his travels, how much he loved his father and sisters, what he and his daughter do as traditions, how proud he was of her.
I cherish those days and will as long as I can. And I will celebrate that such a person lived. My face still hurts with feelings of loss and tears sully my vision, but that’s me wallowing in self-pity that I lost such a friend. No more, no more. I will celebrate the human I knew and how he made me laugh, think, and wonder. And sometimes I’ll raise a beer and have a drink, and smile, as if he’s still there.
She would have been called a troubled teenager. Drinking too much, dropping out of school, becoming pregnant, marrying before she was seventeen, her life had taken turns that we didn’t expect from such an intelligent and charming person.
Two divorces, two children, and forty-five years later, she acquired her GED, graduated college with a B.S., runs a family business, is a grandmother of three, and is also a professional. She’s the one we turn to for help. She’s strong, stable, and reliable, the person we thought she would be before she became a troubled teen.
Michael Seidel, writer 