Heptadecagon

I am so tired, I want to curl up with my feline friends and take a nap. A nap to last the rest of the summer. Or as my good friend says, "Can we just turn the page?" Wouldn't being able to turn the page and see what happens be an incredibly enticing (and scary) thing to do? But we can't. And I can't curl up with my kitties. Instead, I'll post some pictures and stare longingly at their cuteness.

Setting: Sunday, June 28, 2015. Master bathroom, 6:35 p.m. Melina sits on the tile floor, rummaging through the linen cabinet while I sprinkle baking soda on the walls of the tub and shower. Melina: Hey Mom! Why do we have these rings in here? Me: The butterfly rings? Melina: Yes. Me:  Oh. Those are from when we celebrated Grandma's birthday. I put them in that box to bring home, and I forgot about them. Melina: Looks like there are three of them. Me: Yep. Melina: [Wistful smile on her face.] Sometimes, I wish I had three hands.

I complain quite often about how hard writing is. I won't go into those complaints here. Instead, I'd like to say that every once in a while, the writing life extends a gift. No, I don't have an agent hot on my heels, nor do I have another writing/editing gig waiting in the wings. But I do have a good friend who made a simple (yet completely brilliant) comment about one of my books that could change everything. Now, if only I could find the time to make those edits...

I'm up to my armpits in paint here--two bedrooms down, none to go (and pictures to come, of course)--and at 8:06 p.m., I finally sit down for a break. I'm tired. I smell like paint. And the hairs on my arms are sticking together thanks to said paint. I need a laugh, which of course comes from a predictable place: a photo. And not just any photo, but one found on the internet. A photo that shows Michael Jackson dancing in the sky. Photo from Pix11 and found here . Yes, to some people, the clouds inside the red circle look like Michael Jackson doing the moon walk. I can't say that I agree with them. Can you see it?

Warning: This might just be my most inappropriate blog post yet. (I'm sure you can tell by the red, bold, italicized words right?) So that means no kids should be reading this. (Ahem, Zoe and Talia.) That also means that many of you might be turned off by the language used in this blog post. They're just words, you know? And I've given you fair warning. I try so hard NOT to be crude when it comes to expletives. ( Sweet bacon crackers , anyone? Or my favorite exclamations ?) I usually keep my mouth in check, mostly for the sake of the children. But this summer? Well, things have changed. My life has been caught in a cycle of lather, rinse, repeat unlike any other I've experienced before, and my penchant for foul language has bubbled to the surface and stayed there. Over the past month or so, I've started cataloging scenes for a story of these not-so-lazy, curse-infused summer days in my head. So far, the most germane title I've come up with is That Fucking Su

I woke up to this the other day: I think I'm the only one who would reply NO to such an invitation. Therefore, I have no plans to bother answering. (In the few minutes it took me to alter the screen shot, a couple more YES responses popped up. By the end of the day, most people tagged in the post had replied in the affirmative.)

Today I thought about cracking open an alcoholic beverage before noon. BEFORE NOON! I'm not a drinker, so you know what kind of day I'm having. But I don't feel like complaining, so I'm only going to say this:

The clear moments of lucidity remind me of who she used to be. In those moments, she usually expresses her anger. Anger at us for being involved in her life at all. Anger for coming in and taking over. Anger at stating the obvious: there's a problem. Anger for pushing a condition into her face that can, on good days, force her to remember that she's in denial. "I don't know why you have all this...stuff...that talks about memory loss," she'll say. She forgets that she printed the information out years ago, that she's been collecting stacks, possibly reams of articles, hoarding them in a box, away from friends and family. She's been aware of the problem for more time than we ever knew, it seems. It's a shame she never had the fortitude to see a doctor, get examined, allow someone to prescribe medicine. Perhaps then, where were are now would be someplace different. But she didn't get any help and we aren't in a different place, and I a

Of course I didn't make this up. I found it here .

Here we are, almost one month into the kids' summer, and vacation hasn't really started. Sure, we've spent some time in the upper part of lower Michigan, but as for lazy summer days, we haven't really experienced those yet. For those of you who've been following the blog, you know the last month has been full of familial unrest. In short, we're trying to help my parents get to a good place, which probably involves moving them from a home that could be a deathtrap. But as older parents are wont to do, they're not listening to my sisters and me. It's amazing how well they are resisting us. I'm not here to lament that situation. I've done enough complaining via text to my sisters. We've snorted and chuckled through the pain and agony of dealing with doctors, nurses, nurse practitioners, pharmacists, and any other medical professional we've come across. Some people have been a dream to work with, and others, well, let's just say that I&

Here's the view from dinner last night. That's the parking lot, by the way... (Sorry for the screen grid. Doesn't make for the best picture, but I think you get my drift. Ha!)

Does anyone besides me remember these lovely candies? A whole box full of them... The box we bought. And of course, I had to let my kids try these awful candy cigarettes. It didn't take long for any of them to get the right grip on the sugar stick. Seems like something every kid can do, no matter if they've seen someone smoking or not. I hope it's the only cigarette I ever see in these kids' mouths.

With all the kids getting up there in age (like 13 is old, right?), the words that come out of their mouths lack the innocence that they used to have. But yesterday, we heard something we haven't in a while. "Mom," Melina said. "How old were you when electricity was discovered?" Yeah. Leave it to the littlest in the house to remind me how old or not I might be. But I'm glad she said it, for it could be a while until we hear something like this again.

A year ago this week, a literary agent requested a partial manuscript from me. Obviously, the same literary agent did not go beyond the partial manuscript, or I'd most likely be talking about when my book would be published rather than if my book will ever be published. I remember the fluttering of my heart in my chest as I read the agent's emails and the devastation I felt when I learned that she did not want to represent me. I also remember thinking, that's okay. I'll find someone else. After all, it only takes one. But a year has gone by, I haven't found an agent, and furthermore, any more querying for an agent is on hold. Which gets me thinking about the book (okay, let's be honest, book s ) I'd like to publish. When I'm back in the swing of things, should I pick up where I left off and continue to query? Or should I simply self-publish the damn stories and move on? I can't quite say at this point, but I'll at least think about the differen

Forty-seven years today, he thinks, as he looks into her face. The same face he's seen almost every day since 1968, and yet, a face so unlike what he's used to. He always thought they'd see 50 years together. And while he thinks this still may be the case--that he and she both might be alive three years down the road--he realizes that she might never remember the milestone. The day will pass like most others do now, with a simple celebration that lasts for just a moment, and then within an instant, is gone. The information is fleeting, diaphanous, ephemeral, much like the bubbles that she blows with her grandchildren. It never even makes it to the storage tank of her brain, which is overwhelmed and overstimulated, unable to make new memories and sometimes even unable to cull information she's known forever. Will she even know me , he wonders, when we've made it to 50 years? It's a thought he chooses not to dwell on. Instead, he turns on the CD player, turns

I talked a little bit yesterday about putting my life on hold. The concept made me really think about all the things I've put on hold for the summer. I'm not trying to whine here, I'm just putting the whole situation into perspective. Because I won't be accomplishing much this summer, besides making sure my folks are okay. And that's all right. I hope my kids would do the same for me. But here's the list of what I won't accomplish this summer: Querying for After We've Fallen or Beyond the Trees Finishing up Hunting for Lilacs Critiquing for my writing group (I actually told them I'd likely be off for the summer) Painting the girls' room or Melina's room Cleaning out the basement Weeding my landscaping Setting up my class for the fall (we switched online capabilities and I need to upload files) Traveling to see friends Reading a book for book club (sorry, ladies, I'm out for at least the summer) I could go on, but I don'

The day of my dissertation defense, I was a mess. I felt under prepared and feared that the talk would not go well. I also knew--I just knew--that I'd answer every question from the audience incorrectly and that afterward, when my committee grilled me on everything and anything dystrophy-related, I'd cave and the committee members would see me for the sham that I was. I have no idea what the committee really thought of me. All I know is that, in the end, they decided I'd done enough to pass. I've said this before, but what I really think they wanted to do was just get me out of school. I had a ton of data and twin nine-month-old girls at home. Shoo-fly, they said. And I flew. I think back to those days now because in order for me to even finish my degree, I had to move in with my parents for eight weeks. Yes, I moved back home for an eight-week span, during which time I'd furiously write behind a curtain so that the girls didn't think I was there. I'd pop

Dear Dad, I wrote to you at the end of last month--May 26 to be exact--and here we are, only 15 days later, and I find myself writing to you again. I'm amazed by how swiftly two weeks have gone by and how quickly you have come around. You've gone from lying in bed with weak legs and a droopy eye to walking around--some days with assistance, and others, not--and watching the grand kids play. As I've told you so many times, I knew you'd recover, but you wouldn't have done so, without your daughters. When we rushed in, you received 24/7 care unlike what you'd find anywhere. With every medication dosage, every bite of food, every time we steadied your elbow, and yes--every time we prayed for poop--we brought love with us. All three of us essentially put our lives on hold to come to your aid, because we knew Mom could not handle you alone. And while you might have some ways to go, I'm confident that physically, you will find good health again. But I'm wor

All day long I use words to express myself. In my teaching. With my kids. In my writing and in editing. I take for granted those words will be there, always within my reach. And yet, today, I find that I'm speechless. Tongue-tied. Inarticulate. Unable to utter anything other than profanities. I'm not sure how to find the words to say what I need to say. Maybe they aren't ready. Maybe I'm not ready. I'm not sure I ever will be.

I think that June 9, 2015, will go down as one of the most memorable days I've had in my lifetime. But I'm too tired to tell you why. Just know that someday, probably soon, I'll sit down and catalog my day today. Until then...

What can I say about June 8? I'd love to be smiling, but I suspect the stress and strain is showing on my face. I can only hope that all will be over soon. I dream of the days when I can go to Walloon Lake and sit back with a warm cup of tea in my hand. I'm grateful for my family; I'm glad that I can help them. But I'm also going to be completely at peace when I am out of this house. I don't mind visiting, but this isn't my home anymore. That's a sentiment that is very clear to me right now.

Each morning these days, I creep out of bed and poke my head into my parents' room. I hope that they're still asleep. Dad needs as much rest as he can get, and I need some peace and quiet. The television is always on inside the house, and the noise is irritating me at my very core. I'm reminded of my grandparents house, the 1950s ranch with the oval Formica kitchen table and the antenna television. I remember the noise then, I hear the noise now, and I crave those temporary moments (that are few and far between here) when the only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and the chirp of the early bird. It's the only time I find myself "at home" so to speak. That says something, I think. That even when I'm at home, I'm not really at home. Because my home is no longer here, and to be truthful, it never was. I only spent four years in this house and that was four years too long, in my opinion. Of course, those years were full of normal teenage angst, s

Sometimes, in the midst of utter chaos and devastation, you find moments of lightheartedness. Early last night, I poked my head into my parents' room. My dad was in the bathroom; Mom hovered nearby, in case Dad needed help. Me: How's it going? Mom: All right. Me: Has he done anything? Dad: A little. About an inch. Me: Great! I'd love to have that poop party tomorrow, Dad. Dad: Me, too. Me: Okay, well I heard movement [from the walker] from downstairs, so I came up to check. Dad: Ha. Movement. Me: You got that, eh? I bet you didn't know I was that funny. My dad claims that he hasn't had a bowel movement in just about a week, and now every dinner table conversation we have revolves around defecation. I find this fact especially interesting considering any talk of feces at the dinner table when we were kids was verboten. And now, here we sit, cracking jokes left and right. Just so you know, we've tried fresh fruit, scads of prunes, Colase, Miralax, a

It's 6:55 p.m. and the house is closed. The front porch light is already on and she's shut the curtains in the kitchen window. Her arms extend to draw the drapes covering the sliding glass doors. "Can you leave that open, please?" I ask, so that I can see what I'm doing by the wonderful almost-summer light. The days are longer and I like to revel in that fact. She used to be the same way. And I think to myself, how many years do I have left? How many years do I have to recognize my children and remember that I love strawberries and pineapple? How long will I be able to run, and cook, and write, and read? Will I be 70 and already to the point that she is: turning in for the night early, falling asleep to the chatter of the television, waking up the next day to repeat everything all over again. And when I say repeat, you know exactly what I mean: the constant wandering and spinning of wheels such that each day flows into the next and the next. How long, I ask? I

I sit here at the computer, watching her. I don't let her know that I'm doing it. I surreptitiously flick my eyes up and back when her body is turned away from me. And, I rely on my peripheral vision to show me what she is doing. I watch as she moves to the calendar, checks the date and the appointments, and then moves again toward the refrigerator. She pulls on the door handle, roots around on the food-laden shelves, and shuts the door. Her hand is empty. Neither of us know what she wanted to get, and whether or not she will remember is anyone's guess. Hours later, I witness similar actions when she studies the checkbook. Her eyes dance from the cable bill that sits unpaid on the counter and then to the tax bills I helped her pay last week. She picks up the tax papers, reads and rereads the information, opens the check book, and grips the pen in her hand. With an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she stops. She looks at me. She smiles and goes back to the calendar.

If you follow this blog, you KNOW how necessary these pictures are this week. I missed these fellows, although not as much as the kids.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I wanted to be a physician. I never quite got to that point in my life. Somehow, my plans were derailed. And while I thought very briefly (maybe 1 nanosecond) about being a nurse, I went ahead to graduate school instead. So my bedside manner is nonexistent, you know? Yet here I find myself, acting as nurse, health aide, social worker, all around caregiver, and pharmacy technician. I've helped prepare meals, write checks, chauffeur people, buy groceries, and make appointments. I haven't wiped any bums, but I'd be willing to do so, and last night, I held Dad's head while he almost vomited into the garbage. I also waited to go to bed so I could wake up him up, help him with his meds, and see what else he needed for comfort. I'll be coaching both of my parents this morning on whatever information the visiting nurse leaves with us. I'm tired. I'm slightly crabby. I've indulged in more alcohol than I have ever had