Living

Edvard Munch’s muse

/ C.B. Kent / Leave a comment

Trapped in a place where I’m the only one that can hear the screaming. Oh wait, that’s me

I know there are other people out there living in similar situations, with partners who are struggling with their mental health, which in turn causes struggles with your mental health, ad infinitim.

It’s tough to be at the receiving end of the vitriol. Unnecessary, unfounded vitriol. I don’t know what I do to deserve to be treated like I’m the most horrible person in the universe. Yes, my behavior can be frustrating at times. Does that warrant nastiness? Or maybe I’ve just been doing it wrong all these years, maybe my response to frustrating situations should be to double down and be a righteous dick.

I’m trying to think of situations where I’ve been frustrated and just lashed out at the person in front of me. I think it’s been years, and the last person I behaved that way with was someone for whom I lost respect. Maybe that’s what I’m feeling, a loss of respect towards me. I wonder what I did to deserve that. I know there’s resentment, that’s been obvious for a while. I have “power”, so to speak. We are in an imbalance, and it doesn’t help the situation.

I’m just tired of holding the sadness in. So, I’ll be over here screaming into the void.

Dear older parent(s) of an adult single child

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As I write this, my 88 year old mother is doing her second stint (within three weeks) in rehab after a brief hospital stay. I’m a day from getting on a plane (second time in 3 weeks) to Florida to see her.

I’m an only child, mid-40s. The reason I’m writing this letter to you, is that I want to do you a favor. I want to give you something to think about, something that you likely don’t want to think about. And it’s likely something your child doesn’t feel comfortable bringing up when you’re spending time together. Assuming you do that sort of thing.

Here’s the favor: I want you to think about your death. I know you’re thinking, what kind of favor is that? Not to mention, who the hell are you to ask me to think about my death? Please hear me out a moment.

About four years ago my mom’s health suddenly took a turn. Nothing that was expected, nothing that was already under treatment. Mom wasn’t exactly in perfect health, but thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, whatever health conditions she had were manageable.

We were unprepared for this turn, and I was especially unprepared for the aftermath. Mom’s situation then was acute, and I had to make a lot of decisions rather quickly, decisions for which I would rather have had her input while she was coherent. Things like executing a power of attorney, healthcare proxy, will, suddenly became necessary, and I didn’t have time to process any of it, I had to just execute and move on to the next thing.

One of the things your child may face is what to do with you if you’re well enough to leave the hospital but not well enough to return home. Remember that thing you used to say to your child, something along the lines of “there’s no such thing as a free lunch”? There’s no such thing as free long term healthcare. Everything comes at a cost.

Speaking of costs, how are your finances? Have you figured out yet that you’re probably going to live a long time thanks to modern medicine? Sure, you’ll be popping pills galore and your joints will sound like the creaky stairs in a horror film, but you’ll be alive. Here’s a secret I learned: you either have to be filthy rich or dirt poor to get the services you’ll need in your elder years. The folks in the middle, the majority, your options are few and you may be reduced to destitution because your money will run out long before you thought it would. Word of advice: get a lawyer and a financial planner, now. In fact, tell your child to get these people, too.

I’m making some assumptions here. One, you’re young enough to do something about the rest of your life – and if you want control of that, it’s not too late to ensure you get what you need, when you need it. Two, you and your adult child have a relationship. Your adult child likely has a life of their own, and I’ll tell you from personal experience that dropping everything when your parent(s) need/s you isn’t easy. Especially if you live thousands of miles away.

Kudos to you if everything I’ve said here is old news and you’re squared away.  And if by reading this you’re thinking about getting things squared away, great. My job here is done. Good luck to you.

Weathering the storm

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Living in the Northeast, I brace myself for the inevitable every winter. It’s gotten easier over the years; planning and prepping in advance make a huge difference in my ability to cope. Mastering the snowblower doesn’t seem like a big deal but it is when your 3-car driveway is covered in a foot-and-a-half layer of snow. Today’s storm brings me here.

I am, uncomfortably, keenly aware of the isolating feeling a storm creates. There’s no one to make me a cup of tea or pour me a drink when I walk into the house, snow-covered and shivering. It’s worse when the power goes out; sitting in the dark and cold (my next house will have a fireplace) is bearable during the day, but at night, reading by candlelight under a pile of blankets only goes so far. One night like that can be fun. More than that, and all I want to do is sleep to pass the time, and even then, I don’t sleep well or much. I envy my friends living in communities where gathering together is the norm, not the exception.

I think about how privileged I am, to have a solid roof over my head and walls that keep the wind and most of the cold out. I think about my ancestors and how they might have survived brutal conditions. Were they truly of hardier stock? How did the poorest among them survive? Did the poorest, those truly suffering with no support, survive? In the coldest place on earth people choose to live there. Or maybe they don’t have a choice, and they accept, and adapt. Together.

Other people make it easier. As a friend taught me recently, shared pain is lessened; shared joy increased. I would happily plow snow every day for the rest of my life if there was someone on the other side of the door, waiting for me with a cup of tea and a kiss.

 

 

The New Colossus, as told by Donald Trump. Apologies to Emma Lazarus.

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This has been in my head since last night’s debate. Anything in italics is from the original.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

Because he’s a total loser, I tell you.

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Massive, massive limbs, they’re going to be great.

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

Not gates, a wall. A huge wall and Mexico is gonna pay for it.

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Women…you know, it doesn’t really matter what reports write as long as you’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass.

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Speaking of imprisoned, I like people who weren’t captured.

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

That mother, she had nothing to say. She probably, maybe she wasn’t allowed to have anything to say. You tell me.

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

I have seen women manipulate men with just a twitch of their eye — or perhaps another body part.

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

You know, China has bridges that make the George Washington Bridge look like small potatoes.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

We’re going to build a wall, and we’re going to stop it. It’s going to end.

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

My entire life, I’ve watched politicians bragging about how poor they are, how they came from nothing, how poor their parents and grandparents were. And I said to myself, if they can stay so poor for so many generations, maybe this isn’t the kind of person we want to be electing to higher office. How smart can they be? They’re morons.

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

Give me clean, beautiful and healthy air – not the same old climate change (global warming) bullshit! I am tired of hearing this nonsense.

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

People are coming into our country like we have no idea who they are, where they are from, what their feelings about our country is… This is going to be the great Trojan horse of all time.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

But only if they’ve been extremely vetted.

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

I need to see who’s at the door because they could be a Muslim.

A Psalm of Life

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The older gentleman slowly lowered himself to the empty stool to my left. One of the younger women tending the griddle half-turned, her right hand still expertly flipping the pile of hash browns for an order, and gave him a huge grin. “Coffee?” she asked, and he nodded, returning the smile, dentures gleaming.

“You a local?” he asked me. I shook my head. “From Massachusetts.” He proceeded to ask specifically where, and it turned out he used to live a couple of towns over from where I now live. His eyes were probably not as bright as they used to be, but his voice, though a touch gravelly, was clear and resonant.

I turned to the corn muffin that had been placed in front of me, warm and lightly brown from the griddle and slathered with just the right amount of butter. I was about to take a bite when I felt a light tap on my upper arm.

“You see this?” He was holding a drawing of a barn, the lines so clear and precise I thought at first I was looking at a woodcut. “I drew this,” and a gnarled finger pointed to the name written in block letters in the left lower corner. At first I thought he was going to try to sell it to me, but with a slightly shaking hand he put it back to where it apparently lived, propped up on the corner of the counter. I asked him if he was an artist, and he chuckled, “No, I was a mechanical engineer. I picked up a book on how to draw and tried it.” He pointed to other drawings hung up in various places around the diner, his, and a few clearly made by children. I suddenly felt like I was eating at someone’s house for the first time, welcome yet unsure of the customs.

My breakfast of eggs, hash browns and bacon appeared before me and I tucked in. The woman behind the griddle, I think her name was Nancy, asked the gentleman if he wanted something to eat. “Can I make you whatever I want?” she asked mischievously. He declined, but she gently insisted. A lemon poppy-seed muffin was negotiated.

“She is a lovely woman, so charming. You should watch how she works, so fast, and everything comes out just right.” He wasn’t wrong. The tiny cooking area was just big enough for Nancy and the owner of the place, and side-by-side they produced orders, never getting each other’s way.

He tapped me on my arm again and with a smile intoned the following:

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
   Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
   And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
   Was not spoken of the soul.
He laughed and patted me on my arm. I laughed with him, because that’s what you do. His words were familiar but I couldn’t place them.
“That woman, she’s just lovely. And watch how fast she works!” He gestured a fast motion with his hands. There was a pause for a bit. A waitress poured more coffee in mugs that had the diner’s – the owner’s – name.

 

“After the War – I was in the Navy – they discharged me to the bottom of Texas. I said, ‘How am I supposed to get home from here?'” I assumed he meant Galveston but I wasn’t going to interrupt. He proceeded to tell me how he hitchhiked up to New Hampshire, given lifts by good samaritans all the way. One of them was apparently a woman in a Buick convertible. My mind’s eye saw a robin’s-egg-blue car, the woman wearing a kerchief that fluttered in the wind. He never said how long it took.
He turned towards me again.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
   Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem.
He emphasized the word “not” with his finger. When he got to the second verse, I listened more carefully, and wondered if in some small church around the corner he delivered sermons.
Life is real! Life is earnest! 
   And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
   Was not spoken of the soul.
And he laughed and patted me on the arm again. Was he trying to tell me something? As I scooped up the last of my eggs, I realized customers where stopping to say hello to him as they left the diner. They call people like him “fixtures”.
During a pause in orders, Nancy  leaned over the counter and said to him, unprompted,”You know you’re my favorite.” He laughed. A moment later he said, “You should watch how she works, so fast! And what a charming woman. Just lovely.”
There was a small mound of hash browns left on my plate and a few swigs of tepid coffee in my mug. Could I, would I, at an age when all I will remember are the stories but not what I had done the day previously, be a fixture in a place like this?
As I started to gather myself to leave, there was a third delivery of the poem, and just as the others, emphatically sincere. He laughed heartily, as if this were a riddle that I was meant to unravel.
I found the answer later, which like all riddles is always hidden in plain sight. He was a sailor, after all.
Lives of great men all remind us
   We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
   Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
   Seeing, shall take heart again.