Tag: relationships

Mundaz Wandering Thoughts

Well, Steve died. 85 years old. Diagnosed with cancer in his liver, kidneys, and lungs, his decline was a full slide down a steep hill. Just a few months ago, we were laughing, talking, enjoying drinks and music at a lake in the late afternoon sun. The question before us is, did he use the cocktail? This is Oregon where we have right to death laws. Steve had requested a cocktail to end his life and planned to use it. Laws control when the cocktail can be used. His wife was just requesting the cocktail last week, so we suspect that Steve died on his own yesterday, September 21, 2025.

I support the right to death, BTW. I’ve witnessed too many people growing feeble and drained by their disease to wish that on others. Many people can no longer probably communicate as they hang on by their skins. Sickness, pain, disease, and medication twist and torture their personalities into new folds. By the time of their death, they’re barely the person they used to be. But I also understand and respect others’ needs and desires to hold on as long as they can. Dying and death are complicated matters.

The thing about Steve is that we only knew each other for about three years. Our rapport was immediate. Our wives were good friends and we all became good friends, socializing multiple times at plays, concerts, and dinners. It just seemed like he and I knew each other forever.

Meanwhile, sis reports Mom has moved into her new room. Except Mom’s clothes are still upstairs. That’s a major matter. Although Mom tends to wear a series of night clothes and casual active wear these days, her closet was rigidly organized by season, color, and fabric. Tough transition for her, to cull the threads to current needs only.

This growing old, though. Coping. It’s tough. I’m at the coffee shop thinking and typing. A casual friend of two decades comes by. She uses two canes now to get around but her smile remains as bright as sunshine off snow brilliant.

All just thoughts to help me sort matters, matters which I’ll probably continue sorting until I do my own self-checkout. I won’t even try to predict when that’ll come. From what I’ve seen, change can be sudden and complete. Then again, some demises are a long trip into night.

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Mundaz Wandering Thoughts

I’ve often stated that I write to help me understand what I think. Writing is a process that forces me to slot things into a more coherent order. That process helps me dig up what’s really bugging me below the surface of my reactions.

I spent time yesterday walking and then writing myself a letter. It was almost like meditating for me, with surprising results. Turned out that I was angrier, more frustrated, and more depressed than I realized. Baring it all to myself helped me shed those things and reinvigorate myself. Some of the anger was irrational, railing at life for the afflictions happening to friends and family. Some, on a deeper level, were revelations to myself about how I perceived others and my relationships with them.

But once again, writing came through for me. I’m happy with the outcome. Purging my psyche of that anger and depression lifted my spirits and restored my energy levels.

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Sundaz Theme Music

Sunda, September 7, 2025, arrives, cool, dry, smoky. I’m not sure where the smoke comes from. 65 F, today’s high will pluck 80 F. Rain ended up dominating our road trip to Crater Lake National Park yesterday. The weather added a dramatic element.

Our guests left this morning. They’re on the road to Carmel, CA. We had a good time with them. They seemed to enjoy our company and area. Hope they have safe travels.

Meanwhile, there’s been an ongoing saga. Don’t know what I revealed here. Last Wenzda was our recurring beer meeting. One member, Andy, is a retired doctor. Not sure of his age, but I think he’s a little older than me. Part of his issues required a shunt in his brain to reduce pressure. That helped and he seemed to be recovering. Suddenly, there’s a step backward. He later related that he’d fallen in the street in front of his house earlier that day. A passing driver saw, stopped, helped. But Andy was in pain, putting at 9 of 10. Said, “I think I may have fractured my hip.”

Well, one member volunteered to transport him to the hospital, where, yes, this weekend, Andy had surgery for his fractured hip and is in the hospital. Various friends have been visiting him, and I’ll do that today.

On the family front, the siblings went together to buy Mom a new smart TV for her new bedroom. It seems that her other television has been stuck on ‘the western channel’, according to sis. Mom and her BF, Frank, have bought twin beds for the new bedroom so they can both sleep in there. That way, there’s no calling around at night for him to get there to help her. Mom celebrates her 90 BD next month.

In the Texas side of the family, I returned from being out where none of us had cellphone service to find a message from Dad’s wife. Dad had fallen in the kitchen, fracturing his pelvis and hip socket. He was hospitalized with pneumonia. Now, the text says, “He’s out of hospice.” It seems like it’s a dire situation for them. I called, got VM, left a message. A new text says that a nurse got him out of bed and standing, with help from pain pills. His wife asked me to give him a call after the Steelers game is over, which I’ll do. Dad is due to celebrate his 93rd BD next month.

Politically, I read last night that Speaker Johnson should be writing novels. That’s what I took, as Johnson demonstrated some amazing creativity. Effectually reaching up his ass, Johnson pulled out more cover for Trump with a claim Trump was an FBI informant about Epstein’s activities. This is so wildly out of nowhere that it’s been immediately and relentlessly mocked. Apparently, too, that paragon of justice and concern — that would be the Offal Office mango leech — was so concerned about Epstein’s activities that he voluntarily became an informant. Who out there is going to believe this? Does Speaker Johnson even believe what he’s saying? If he does, what sort of meds is Johnson on?

Johnson’s additions just layer the Epstein files with a byzantine plot. Trump claims the Epstein file is a hoax. Before that, TACO — and we need to label him that, TACO, Trump Always Chickening Out — promised to release the Epstein files during his presidential election campaign, but has since chickened out from doing that. Trump frequently blows his top when others ask questions or make references to the files. Trump has been documented as an Epstein friend for a long time before the shit hit the fan. Now he was really an FBI informant. Man, the crazy gets too cra-cra.

All these matters have brought together an Eagles song. The Neurons heard me mutter to myself, sometimes with a sigh, sometimes with a GRRRR, time will tell. The Neurons immediately jumped up with “The Long Run” by the Eagles. Yeah, I’m singing “Who is going to make it, we’ll find out,” but I’m also singing, “What’s really going on, we’ll find out in the long run.”

There are things to do and write. Coffee is flowing through the body, making connections as needed. Hope peace and grace connects with you today. Here we go. Cheers

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The Optimist

My wife exercises three mornings a week at the local Y. I’m typically abed, reviewing dreams, when she leaves. She normally comes by to say good-bye. I generally wave a foot or hand in acknowledgement.

Well, today, I was buried in sleep and didn’t respond to her. I got up and did all my usual things. As I finished dressing, I heard her arrive home. I didn’t go out and say hello, as I had something going on in my head.

Coming down the hall, she called, “Where are you?”

I didn’t answer but I walked around to meet her. She said with real relief, “Oh, thank God. I saw your car in the garage. Then I didn’t see or hear you anywhere. You didn’t give me a wave when I left this morning. I thought, oh, no, he died and I didn’t notice.”

We laughed but I had to note, “You are such an optimist.”

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Wenzdaz Wandering Thoughts

I’ve been hearing a little voice in my head. Well, there are actually a few. I live by a committee of voices in my head. Some are writing advisors, editors, and muses. Others are DIY budgeteers. Several more very vocal citizens and progressives are in there, often spitting mad with exasperation and disgust as the Trump wrecking ball obliterates democracy, decency, and morality in the United States. Besides them and voices of memory who like to bring up things I have done and enjoyed, I also have a couple health consultant voices, a few therapists and exercise coaches, and relationship advisors. On the whole, they’re mostly civilized, respecting the other voices, only speaking up when the others are quiet.

One thing I’ve learned from all of these is not to ignore them. As time has threaded past, I’ve repeatedly been re-educated that the little voices often know a lot more than me about what’s going on and what I should do. When I ignore them, things will go bad, as they predict. Naturally, they then say, “I told you so. You should’ve listened.”

So I’m vowing to them again, “Okay, I’m listening.”

Naturally, one snidely replied, “Sure.”

The voices are a lot like me.

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Fridaz Wandering Thoughts

Dad and I spoke for almost an hour today. The conversation energized me, boosting my mood into a happier place. On the surface, a high percentage can be attributed to relief: Dad was home. No greater problems were found during his latest hospital visit, and it was a short one. He and his wife were both friendly, engaging, and happy on their end. Undoubtably this fed me and my spirits.

I also insist, though, that some of this came from just speaking with Dad. He and I are familiars. We mock and respect one another. He’s one of the few people I sense I can really spill myself to regarding what’s going on, whether it’s politics, writing, relationships with my wife, Mom, and sisters, or my DIY projects.

We’ve not always been like these. It’s been a long evolution. I’m glad we made it here, though. It’s taken time. We followed a torturous path. But here we are.

Finally.

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Munda’s Wandering Thoughts

We were at the store to buy supplies for my wife. I was bagging as she was paying. The whole thing was less than $20. She was going through her, taking things out and mumbling how hard it is to find things in her purse, a familiar song. I dove a hand into my pocket and whipped out a twenty.

My wife said, “It worked.”

“What?”

“I was hoping that if I took too long to get my money out, you’d pay.”

“I thought it was all our money,” I said.

She laughed. “Not when it’s in my purse.”

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The Mom Saga

The Mom Saga has resumed.

In the last episode, Mom, 89, was released from the hospital and returned home. Her pain was sourced in her sciatica nerve, which kept her from walking. Everyone realized her pain relief came from steroid shots and now she’s on a recurring program for steroid shots.

Meanwhile, her 95-yo live-in BF, Frank, half-blind and half-deaf, was experiencing dizzy spells. Mom and Frank have separate rooms. He was unable to help Mom, and she was found helpless in bed in piss-soaked clothes and bedding after nobody heard anything from her for a couple days, which precipitated the hospital stay. We’ve been trying to years to convince Mom and Frank to move into assisted living. Mom wanted to but Frank refused because he didn’t want to pay rent. Last week they were close to deciding to move when Mom announced she wasn’t going to move with Frank to live with him until he apologized to her for lying. The cited lie: Frank had lunch with his daughter while Mom could not walk. It gets complicated from there.  

We pick up the story with Mom back in her 1940s era three-story home with its steep, narrow steps.

Sister: Mom’s power went out last night and she was stuck in her room. As you know, she might as well be in a brick pizza over.

Editing note: The temp where Mom lives in Penn Hills hit 95 F yesterday. Mom has air-conditioning window units in her living room and bedroom, and that’s it. Her bedroom faces west.

Sister: We’re going on vacation this week. We’ve been planning this for months. We’ll be gone a week.

Editing note: ‘We’ in this context are the two sisters, husbands and SOs, and their immediate families.

Sister: Frank’s daughter, Karen, called this morning. She said, “We’re bringing Dad over to my house this week so he can rest. His doctor is worried about Dad’s heart and wants him to take it easy for a week. He’ll be wearing a heart monitor. So Dad won’t be staying at your Mom’s and won’t be able to help her.”

Sister: I proposed to Mom that she come and stay at my house while I’m away. It’s one level and air-conditioned.

Editing note: My sister’s house is a nice suburban ranch about fifteen years old, 1800 square feet, built after a fire destroyed her previous home.

Sister: We hired Marc to come and feed Cheesecake twice a day. Marc usually stays a while, has a cup of coffee and sits on the back porch.

Editing note: Cheesecake is sis’s cat.

Sister: We asked him if he would mind cooking a meal for Mom in the evening, filing her water glass in the morning, and making her a cup of decaf.

Editing note: Mom’s practice is to fill a 40 ounce plastic cup with warm water every morning and drink from it through a straw throughout the day. She likes a cup of warm decaf with hazelnut and almond milk in equal measure for breakfast, which is half a bagel with cream cheese. Her suppers vary. She loves KFC.

Sister: I also asked Jessica if she can check on Mom and I asked Sharon if she would mind coming by.

Editing note: Jessica is sis’s oldest daughter. Sharon is another sister. Sharon, two years younger than me, still works. She has a complicated relationship with Mom.

Sister: Sharon says she will be away over the weekend and beginning of next week.

Sister: I just talked to Jessica. She just pretty much straight out said, “I have a relationship with grandma and I’m going to be very busy. You know we have very little time. I of course can find it in my heart to come over there if need be,” but she doesn’t feel obligated.

Editing note: Jessica also has a complicated relationship with Mom. She also has three sons. The oldest is fourteen and their ages descend in two year steps.

That’s where the Mom Saga stands for the day. Tune in tomorrow for more exciting updates in The Mom Saga.

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The Parents Dream

I dreamed of my mother and father last night. Both are still alive. They ceased being a couple by 1961. Both have gone on to several other marriages and long-term relationships.

I’m not surprised that I dreamed about them. It’s Memorial Day weekend. Mom loves the holidays. If little else often worked out right, the holidays usually did. The food was sensational. Mom’s speciaities above everything else is fried chicken and potato salad. These foods figured prominently in the warm weather holidays of Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Labor Day. These were always large family affairs featuring picnics or cook-outs.

On the flip side, I only recall one Christmas with Dad. None of the rest. He and I get along pretty well. That’s not the issue. The issue was once he was away, I had to chose between Mom and Dad, and Mom had better food.

Back to the dream. In it, I was an adult. My two sisters who shared Mom and Dad as their biological parents were present, along with Mom and Dad. I was an adult, and Mom and Dad were the standard parents familiar to me from when I was eighteen to when I was sixty. Then they changed, bodies breaking down, in the old people they now are, restricted in their activities, dealing with medical issues, like, all the time.

But in the dream, we five were together as adults. Something had happened, some disaster, that forced us together. The dream didn’t give that info. So Mom and my sisters were moving into the place that I had shared with Dad in the dream, but not in real life. This was a small, wood-paneled dump. Tiny, cramped kitchen with dim lights. Old white refrigerator. Microwave on a fake wood stand. Tiny formica gray and silver table with four chairs. One of the ‘old-fashioned’ answering machines with microtapes.

And there were notes. This was part of some complex, which had a pool and a clubhouse. Dad had a stack of notes. This was familiar to me in the dream but not anything he’d ever done in real life. It was his handwriting, though. These were codes and bank account numbers, phone numbers for different people and organizations. I’d glanced through them on arrival.

In the dream, Mom, walking around in a fake fur coat, said, “Jim, we need the access code. Can you give it to us?”

I took some digs at Mom. I’d seen her snooping; Mom was always and forever a secret, furtive snoop, a trait which my oldest sister developed. After that dream, I saw that connection very clearly. Mom used to do things in secret and tell us children, “Don’t tell anyone.”

So, in the dream, I chuckled and asked Mom, “You didn’t find it when you were snooping around.”

Mom issued the standard warning with her eyes and mouth that said, ‘Quiet, don’t talk about that.’ Dad was his typical tight-lipped and silent individual, dismayed by what transpired around him.

I went on to Mom, “Oh, come on, Mom. We all know how you snoop and I say you doing it while Dad was in the other room.” Then I went on to Dad, “What’s the code, Dad? Is it 03? I saw that written down over there. I also saw 258. Is it one of them?”

Dad eventually revealed the code, which I don’t remember. That’s when the dream fades out on me. But it opened my eyes about my parents as I reviewed the dream later.

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Fleece Me Up,Scottie

My oldest item on me would usually be my underwear or socks. My wife shamed me into buying new underwear.

“What would your mother say about this?” My wife was holding up a pair of my boxers.

“I always wear clean underwear,” I answered. “That’s all Mom worried about.”

My wife put fingers through holes. “She wouldn’t be bothered by these holes?”

“It’s enough material. Come on, it’s underwear.”

After pressure like that, I examined my undies with a more critical eye. Sure the elastic wouldn’t hold them up any longer. And parts of them were as sheer as honeymoon negligee. Yes, my wife had a point. The underwear was purchased before we moved here. That was in 2005. I think I had them before we moved to Half Moon Bay, in 1999. So new boxers were purchased. It wasn’t easy. Materials have changed, etc. That’s a whole different tale.

As for my socks, I now wear *shudder* compression socks. Every friggin’ day. They are not old.

We come at last to the oldest thing on me: my gray pullover fleece. It’s a quarter zip. I purchased it for $20 in May of 2001 at the Stanford Shopping Center. I know these details because Mom was visiting and I was starting a new job at another startup, Internet Security Systems.

My wife and I had been married over 25 years then. Mom had never visited us at any of our homes. True, she lived in Pittsburgh, PA, and we’d never lived closer than 300 miles. That was with our first duty assignment at Wright-Patterson AFB, just outside of Dayton, Ohio. For eight of those years of marriage, we were outside of the United States. And on three more years, I was alone overseas.

So, I bought a ticket for Mom, and she was there. She took a photo of our black cat, a long-haired rescue we’d named Sammy. Sammy had been left behind on military base housing. We took him in and discovered that he was a beautiful, sweet, intelligent kitty. Mom happened to take a photo of him while he was on the patio enjoying sunshine. She spent a week with us and then went home. Two days later, we rushed Sammy to the vet, where he died, cause unknown. I was wearing my gray fleece that day.

That big old cat loved that fleece. He liked to climb inside it while I was wearing it. Nestling against my belly and completely out of sight, he’d purr himself to sleep. Then he’d start snoring. My wife always laughed because it was like my belly was snoring. In an aside, a few years later, we moved again. Another rescue cat joined our household. Like Sammy, she liked crawling up under the fleece, curling up against me to nap inside my garment, while it was on me. I think Sammy would have approved.

I always remember Sammy when I don this old fleece. Even if it’s for doing yard work, as it was today. And when I do, I always smile.

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