No Promises

Sometimes people keep going on out of sheer cussedness. No matter what seems to be the limits a body and mind can take, they just keep going...because they have to.

My friend Edna was like that.

When she was 13 her mother died and she was left to pretty much raise her younger siblings (and herself) alone. This was in 1932. She got through it out of sheer cussedness.

When she was a reasonably new bride with a reasonably new baby, her husband was killed in WWII and she bucked all tradition and did NOT find another man to marry who could support herself and her baby- she'd seen too many stepkids being treated as literal 'red-headed stepchildren' and wasn't about to have that happen to her son. This was in 1943. She got through it out of sheer cussedness.

It wasn't easy. It was never easy. The worry of being sure there was a roof overhead and food on the table was deeply ingrained in her and in the last year of her life, when there was so much information and memories stuffed into her brain that it all started getting muddled she'd fret and become vexed and outright agitated. She was filled with a roiling core of sheer cussedness.

"We need to be looking for another house."

"Why, Edna? This IS your house."

"Oh, it is not!"

"Yes, it is- they built it to your specifications and we wrote a check for it and decided where on the farm it would set. I was there. This is your house."

"Well...if you say so it must be true."

"I promise you. It's true."

At 94, she was very slow getting around, but she got up every day these last few months getting ready to go to work.

"Where are you going, Edna?"

"I'm going to work, of course."

"You don't have to do that- you're retired."

"I am??? Thank goodness. I'm too tired to go to work."


Edna kept her own house, cleaned, cooked, did laundry, tended her garden and her dog, till about six months ago. It became too much for her physically and she was starting to forget the order things were done in...cooking, coffee making, laundry.

I said, "As long as she doesn't wander away and set shit on fire, she's OK."

One day, she did both in the matter of four hours.

A daily living service started coming for six hours a day. Then eight. Then twelve. In between and around, Joe and I took turns checking on her, sitting with her, tucking her in at night.

I had a baby monitor set up with one end on her refrigerator and the other on my headboard.

I slept with 'mom ears' for almost three years.

Twelve days ago at 2am, she got up for a drink of water and fell...hard.

In a matter of minutes, we were at her side and in another thirty minutes she was in the emergency room.

Fractured hip- three breaks. Cracked elbow. The X-Ray showed not only the fractures on her right hip, but a crack in her left hip. ICU. Surgery. More surgery when the elbow became infected. Home.

This was her third stay in our local hospital. The other two were for bladder infections. Every time she's rallied and come home, but just a bit weaker than before; starting out a bit lower on the strong scale. But rally she did...including checking herself out AMA, then sitting at her kitchen table eating pizza and drinking beer three days later. Cussedness, thy name is Edna.

They transported her home via ambulance, because of the two broken hips and all. We had a hospital bed installed in her living room to be her command station.

Something about the transport scared and disoriented her and she fought the EMT's, wearing herself out and hurting...something. Somewhere.

The assigned nurse came out, assessed her pain level and noted her failing circulation and accumulating fluid in her limbs and tummy and said, "You don't need me. You need hospice."

The hospice nurse came out, assessed her falling blood pressure and oxygen saturation even with constant oxygen and said, "It won't be long. She's just plumb wore out. Our goal now is to keep her comfortable."

When Edna and I took our epic road trips back and forth to Oklahoma, and even our run of the mill weekly trips to have her hair done and out to lunch, the boys would say, "Ya'll don't get into trouble now- no bar hopping and dancing on tables." We'd grin and say

"No promises."

Some days when I'd visit her on my way to work she'd say, "Don't work too hard and don't hurt anyone." I'd grin and say

"No promises."

Some days I'd be leaving her house and say, "So and so will be here in a minute to stay with you for a while- don't give her any trouble or try to run away." and she'd grin and say

"No promises."

By yesterday morning she was very weak and sleeping most of the time. When she'd wake up she was in pain so sharp it brought tears to all of our eyes. Before her next dose of morphine set in I kissed her and said, "I'll see you later." She looked up at me, smiled and said

"No promises."

Those were the last words she spoke to me.

The boys tell me that bringing her here after she got pneumonia and decided she couldn't live alone in Oklahoma anymore gave her the best three years of her life.

Having Edna for my friend was an honor, and an inspiration, and a joy, and a daily lesson in tenacity and cussedness, and I'll miss her every single day of my life.

Edna Hoskins, born at home in Oklahoma 9/15/1919

Died at home in Texas 8/8/2014

Ho Ho Holy CRAP My Head Hurts

'Twas the day before Christmas and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Everyone tiptoed and whispered with care
Because mom had a migraine that hurt even her hair.

The day had broke sunny, the cat had been fed
And then BAM just like that, mom was back in the bed.

She downed 2 Tylenol ES, cold washrag applied
And burrowed under the covers, keeping light from her eyes.

A half-hour later she lurched from the room
Looking haggard and deadly- the house filled with doom.

"On Meloxicam! On Diphenatrop! Quick, where's the caffeine?"
And she cursed stupid laws against home IV's with morpheine.

And Gomez and Sparky were filled with concern
If Christmas dinner's on them, how bad would it burn?

For several long hours, time seemed frozen in place
Even the dogs knew to stay out of mom's face.

Then what to their wondering ears did they hear
But the soft clicking of keys on her laptop so near.

And they knew then she'd live and re-enter the fray!
Happy Christmas to all...it's a wonderful day!

The story above is true- names have not been changed to protect the innocent.
I'm off to work and one. Last. Freaking. Errand.
Tylenol, Meloxicam, Diphenatrop and caffeine on board- my head is only throbbing at about a 5, instead of the 14 it was this morning on a "From zero to ten, how bad is the pain?" scale.

Sunny, calm and 50 degrees out...a perfect winter day. The garlic is up, the peas are up, the herbs are still hanging in there- oregano, basil, parsley, cilantro...all reseeded themselves for the umpteenth time.

The boys are wrapping gifts "Don't look, mom!!!" and tonight and tomorrow will be quiet affairs- I'll cook a big dinner tomorrow after doing some baking, and if everyone's feeling up to it, we'll have Joe and Edna over to eat.

I was thinking on Christmases past and how weird it is after several decades of being a kid on Christmas followed by several more decades of having kids on Christmas, that my very last baby (almost 14) announcing this year, "Mom? Just take me clothes shopping- I don't need anything to unwrap" filled me with several emotions.

Sadness of a deep and abiding sort- the sadness that comes when you know something is over. Really over, and won't be back. Ever.

Irritation because I'm not ready for that phase of life to be over yet. I still love the whole gifty wrappy Christmas morningy thing.

Relief that I'm done with letters to Santa, and trying to budget to fulfill the top 5 requests on that list, and the wonderment that my children were always careful to put the really expensive shit on Santa's list...because they knew we couldn't afford them.

Christmas and how we relate to it changes with age and circumstance, like everything else in life and that's not only OK, but it would be creepy if it didn't. It's a very tangible yardstick of how we're growing as humans, where we've been and where we are now.

It's one day of the year that is caught over and over again through the photographs of us as kids, then teens, then adults...the people in the photos changing from one bad hairdo to the next, one ugly holiday sweater to the next, one awkward human phase to the next. Grandparents grow older with each passing year of snapshots and then are simply not in them anymore. Babies suddenly appear and are linked in with the rest of the family chain.

And there you have it. The real reason for the season.

Because whatever mid-winter event brings your family together, THAT. That right there is the reason for the season.

Stop. Look at the people around you- even the ones who make you insane. This is your chain.

If you're alone, remember holidays past and how they were all different from each other if only microscopically- not to make you even more miserable, but to remind yourself that nothing lasts forever- there will be new chains to link into even if your old one is gone for good. I promise you that.

I spent one Christmas Eve alone in a crappy motel outside Lubbock Texas. My alcoholic abusive husband had knocked me around a little, screamed at me a lot, took the car keys, the car and all our money and disappeared into the night. This was before cell phones and I didn't even have a dime for a pay phone to call the nearest people I knew...400 miles away. I can safely say that was my worst Christmas ever.

I will never tell anyone to 'just' cheer up, get a grip, get out there and meet people, stop being depressed, stop being used or abused because no one else is in your head besides you, and no one else knows what living your life has been like or what your exact thought processes are.

Anyone who judges someone else for apparent lack of character or bad decision making is an asshole.

This is also the time of year for the highest rate of suicide.

I have no magic wand, no quick fixes for a heart so broken that it feels like it cannot beat one second longer.

All I can offer is this-

This, the darkest time of the year, the shortest day of the year comes every single year.

And every single year it's not only the darkest day of the year but it's the beginning of the light.

Light always comes after darkness, and we are every one of us stronger than we think we are.

I promise you that.

Just give it another day.

Merry Holiday to my entire human family. I love you all.

Even the ones who make me insane.

The Lesson We Hate

"Everyone leaves, son. Through relocation or emotional separation or death...nothing stays the same and everyone leaves."

My 13 year old son's dog was only 2 years old. After having given his heart to 2 already aged dogs and having his heart broken when they died, I chose for him a little wild-haired terrier/poodle...because those damn things live forever.

Alec (son) and Aaron (dog) were inseparable. Since Alec home schools that's a literal statement. Outside, they explored our property back to front and side to side and never tired of it. If Aaron got sidetracked by some smell or sound and Alec rode off on his bike without him, you'd see in just a few moments Aaron flying full flat out- ears pumping and tail ruddering after his Boy, short little legs a blur.

Inside, Aaron was under Alec's chair at the dinner table (or ON the chair eating his dinner if he left the table for a glass of milk) or sleeping on the desk chair in Alec's room where he could see Alec at all times. He wasn't a snuggler, but he needed to be within nose's reach at all times. He did love the schnauzer. He couldn't be in the same room as her without humping her ceaselessly until Alec would notice and say sternly, "Aaron- I'm going to have to ask you to stop that."

Aaron wasn't very well housetrained. He and Alec would be outside for an hour, come inside and he'd pee on the (thankfully cement) floor. Alec would sigh and say, "Aaron- you're a terrible terrible dog". And Aaron would wag his tail furiously and gaze at Alec adoringly.

If Alec was away, Aaron would curl up on the bed and nap till he got home. If Alec left him behind and went somewhere on the property without Aaron? The noises that came out of that little dog would put a slaughterhouse to shame.

His wild hair and behavior when separated from his Boy earned him the nickname of Meth Muppet.

You may be thinking, "That sounds like an awful dog" and you'd think so, wouldn't you?

Aaron was long of body and short of legs. He had wiry white hair that was never quite clean. His front feet always pointed out...like a platypus- even when he ran.

His eyes were different sized. Really. But they were serious intelligent eyes. His other nickname was Aaron the Freakishly Understanding.

Alec could balance Aaron upside down along the length of his arm (tail against his elbow bend and head in his hand) and carry him around that way. Aaron would fall asleep like that.

Alec would sit Aaron upright in his lap, dog back against boy chest, and use Aaron's paws to gesture while he talked. Aaron would fall asleep like that, too.

Aaron first got sick back in May. Liver failure that responded to fluids and antibiotics so they thought it was an infection.

We boarded him at the vet's when we went on vacation in July and they re-did the bloodwork just for fun. The liver values were better...but not normal. We realized that Aaron probably had a birth defect that had made it easy for the infection to take hold back in May and he was most likely a dog with numbered days; but from May through last week you'd never know it by his behavior and outward health and we were thinking months, maybe years, but not literally days.

He crashed last Saturday, spent the weekend at the emergency clinic on fluids and not eating with very bad liver values.

Monday he went back to the regular vet and Tuesday he was eating, so we were hopeful- we were sure (even the vet) that he had gotten another infection and would respond as before.

Wednesday he really crashed. Stopped eating and his bloodwork was twice as bad as just four days prior- all organs were now failing. He was retaining fluid in his abdomen and his breathing was labored.

Alec spent almost an hour with him in his lap, and stayed with him till the end.

I know in my heart that he would not have survived the night, and we all know it was so much 'better' for us to have been able to say goodbye...for him not to have been alone.

My six foot tall boy's heart is broken, and because of that so is mine and so is Ward's.

It's not fair. It's not sensible. It's the lesson we hate- that those we love are here one minute and then gone...whether or not we're ready and whether or not we have time to steel ourselves for it.

Our family is not religious, but we believe in science and I personally believe in energy- that little spark, the life spark in all of us that some call a soul. I believe energy can be focused and sent (also known as 'prayer') and I believe the scientists when they say that energy cannot be destroyed- it only shifts somewhere else.

I told Alec that I believe when a companion animal passes on in the presence of their loved one, it's easy- when their life spark leaves the furry body, it attaches to its human...because that's all they ever want- just to be near us.

It's not the same. It'll never be the same. He'll be looking for Aaron and missing Aaron forever.

But he's right there. Balanced in between his elbow bend and hand, upside down. And sleeping.



Alec visiting Aaron at the emergency clinic over the weekend. Rest in Peace, little buddy.

In the Blink of An Eye

'Round about the time I turned 40, I realized that I really am on the downhill slide from birth to death.

I wasn't really too bothered then- women in our family live ridiculously long lives, so I figured at 40 I wasn't even to the halfway point. But still.

Even now, more than a decade later I hardly ever think about it.

But sometimes...

Sometimes I wake up in the morning with an acute sense of urgency. Even after I pee.

I look at the clock and think, "It's 7am. I have 16 hours in which to do everything I need to accomplish this day, because it'll never be back. Once I close my eyes tonight today will be gone forever".

I think about that a lot. Not always or obsessively, but often and sporadically.

This day, this time, this moment? When I blink my eyes it'll be lost.

And I'll never get it back. Ever.

I feel keenly and to the point of physical pain that my days and hours are numbered.

And the clock never stops.

I've had to learn the difference between 'busyness' and 'progress', between 'bullshit' and 'important'.

Watching most anything on TV is 'busyness'. Most reading is 'progress'.

Time spent criticizing my family and friends and employees is 'bullshit'. Time spent appreciating them and loving them is 'important'.

Shopping is 'busyness'. Trips to any museum are 'progress'.

Impatience is 'bullshit'. Compassion is 'important'.

Even though I've learned the differences, it still takes concentration and dedication to practice what I've learned.

Every single day.

We've all heard "Don't go to bed angry" and "Tell people you love them because you might not get another chance".

One of my favorites is "No one ever said on their deathbed 'I wish I had spent more time at work'".

I'm busy.

Terminally, sometimes exhaustingly busy.

I think I've weeded out most of the useless busyness and bullshit already, but it still seems that there's never enough time, never enough of me to go around where I'm needed and more importantly where I'm wanted.

I'm surrounded by the most amazing people- people I love, people I live with, people I work with.

Around me is the most breathtaking beauty from the smallest wildflower to the most lavish sunset.

My days here are numbered.

I can feel the seconds counting down with every beat of my heart.

Not all the time.

It's like being aware of your tongue.

Once you think of it, you can't stop feeling it right there and you curse the person who mentioned it (you're welcome).

But you stop thinking about it without even thinking about stopping thinking about it.

And life goes on.

Your tongue retreats back into its life of quiet anonymity.

The days pass one after the other- sun rise sun set sun rise sun set like it'll never end.

Because it won't end.

Only we will.

In the blink of an eye.

Becoming a Tiger

Ward's comment came out of the blue, out of silence, completely random.

"So, El Nino's a tiger now."

El Nino was our billy goat, and he just died a few weeks ago. He'd been born on our place almost 10 years ago. He was a good goat- not aggressive at all, even before he crippled himself by going through a sheet metal wall and cutting the tendons in both front legs. His legs healed, but put a permanent hitch in his giddyup.

He fathered many goatlings and was patient with them- they'd take turns bouncing off his back while he tried to maintain the dignity his stature as Head Billy implied. He was never mean or pushy with the girls.

As he got older, he developed arthritis in those scarred front legs and I retired him to live with Alec's wether Lazarus and our sheep Conrad. He still had a hearty appetite, which is my primary benchmark for quality of life- our farm tends to attract the old and infirm- lack of perfection does not equal sickness or pain.

In his final 30 days he was still eating, but had started dropping weight. I suspect cancer had started up somewhere, since that's what got his dad before him.

One dark and stormy night he just laid down and died.

Not knowing what do do with a large dead animal is an unpleasant fact needing to be dealt with on any farm. When you don't have benefit of a huge amount of land or a tractor with a backhoe it becomes doubly problematic. I've only lost 3 other goats (and no horses...yet) and 2 of those were hauled away by friends with a "back 40" to leave animals out for the food chain. The last one we carried deep into the woods and left- within weeks there was no trace of him.

The circle of life spins quickly. And silently.

This time Alec and I had just been to Tiger Creek Wildlife Center outside Hawkins- they are home to many big cats, but mainly tigers- rejects from small zoos and circuses, a horrifying number that were surrendered because people bought them as "kittens" and then were astounded when they ended up as...freaking tigers.

They have some with rare bloodlines and they work with zoos on genetic preservation, although they do no actual breeding there.

They run purely on donations.

When we were there they mentioned that some of those donations are in the form of meat. Cattle, horses, pigs wild and domestic, sheep...goats. Tigers eat a lot.

So I called them up and we loaded El Nino's body into the truck and Joe and I delivered him to Tiger Creek on a cold and rainy morning. I told the girl there I'd had him since birth and petted that big shaggy head one last time as they transferred him to their cart.

But I never thought about what Ward said until he said it.

We are what we eat/we become what eats us.

It appeals to me greatly that El Nino- who spent a good part of his life with limited mobility, is gliding effortlessly across a large wooded enclosure and leaping silently onto a lookout rock. Stretching languorously as only a cat can do and looking at the world through metallic yellow eyes.

I've always said that when I die I want every part and parcel that someone else could use taken and disbursed. I always assumed the next step would be cremation of "the rest" and scattering over the land I love and is so much a part of me.

But now I'm not so sure.

Maybe I'd prefer being a tiger first. For just a little while.

The Perfect Dog

"Please? She's really no trouble- she's the perfect dog".

That's what our son Jordan told me when he asked if we could take Kate- the last pet he had to place before leaving on an extended trip to India. I was skeptical.

Kate was a border collie- known barkers, and she was elderly with seizure issues.

On the one hand, we're full-up with critters. Horse, sheep, goats, dogs, cat, poultry of all varieties, and more guinea pigs than you can shake a carrot at.

On the other hand, once you pass 100, does one more really matter?

So Kate came home to us.

Alec immediately fell in love, being my child who unwaveringly falls in love with the old, the odd, the infirm- guaranteeing him a lifetime of constant broken-heartedness.

At first, Kate didn't notice since she camped out on the rug in front of the door Jordan had left through...waiting for him to come back for her.

After about a week, she deigned to move into Alec's room since it was right next to the front hall and she could still sleep with her nose pointed towards the magical door that would bring her master home to her.

After about 2 weeks, she decided that while she loved Jordan, she'd never been able to sleep on one bed (ours) all day, and another bed (Alec's) all night with only the interference of breakfast and dinner in between.

Being a realist, Kate shifted alliances.

Jordan had told us "She's the perfect dog- I've never even heard her bark". What we found out was that Jordan's other dog, Sissy, had never LET Kate bark. One day the UPS truck rumbled past our bedroom window and without thinking, Kate's head came up and a sudden "Woof!" came out.

Instantly she flattened on the bed, waiting for the Wrath of Sissy...but Sissy wasn't there. She glanced at me sideways, hesitant, cautious.

"GOOD DOG, KATE! S'KIT 'EM, KATE!" I told her.

And at age 10+, Kate started barking at stuff. Not incessantly or constantly, just when there was something to bark at, something that made it worth her while, for she appreciated every single unrestricted vocalization, and was not about to have it taken away.

One "woof", a satisfied tail wag and smiling eyes. Then back to sleep.

When Jordan came home, Alec informed him that Kate was HIS dog now.

Our old house didn't have air conditioning, and summers were cooler under the tree in the shade, so Kate camped out in the summertime and came in by the fire in the wintertime. She barked at the UPS truck, doted on her Boy, and held a tense truce with the ducks.

Once we moved to the new house, she stopped barking- way off the road there was nothing to bark at, and she had her dog bed inside and her own covered porch outside, and it was enough. She'd grown too arthritic to jump up onto the bed anymore, so Alec started sleeping on the loveseat in his study- to be as close to Kate on her bed as possible. The boy had 3 places to sleep- top bunk, bottom bunk and perch mattress, and he'd sleep on the sofa with his stork-legs gangling up over the arms...but within petting distance at his fingertips. He said even the bottom bunk was too high for her to see him without lifting her head.

Visitors to the house were greeted with our spastic little housedogs Fizzgig and Smigeon and were always surprised to have to step over Kate sleeping at Alec's feet. The standard family joke was "This is Kate- she's very lifelike".

This last six months Kate started coughing- congestive heart failure. And she found it increasingly difficult to get up to go outside, so we only asked that of her twice daily. In all the time we had her, Kate pottied in the house exactly once- in the initial panic after Jordan left her.

Kate's seizures seemed to be stimulus-related, since things like thunder or gunshots were triggers- we were happy when the seizures became few and far between until we realized it was because she'd gone mostly deaf.

Kate demanded nothing and was grateful for everything- the closest she ever came to being pushy was a gentle "Please- just a bit more" nose under a hand that had stopped petting her.

Three times in the weeks before we left for vacation I'd gone to take Kate outside and thought she'd left us- she was sleeping that soundly and deafly, breathing ever so slightly Kate spent her life making no waves, ruffling no feathers.

When we left I told Kate and Oz (our 16 year old barn cat) the same thing I tell all our geriatric pets before we leave- "Don't die while we're gone".

But she did.

For the first time ever, one of our oldsters slipped quietly away while we were gone.

Alec is heartbroken- he's sure she'd died thinking we were never coming home, he feels guilty that he wasn't here to pet her while she left- we came home to No Kate but with no transition for his feelings- she was here when we left...now she's gone.

He has her collar and has hoarded as much shed fur as we could find outside in a baggie, but I'm afraid that it's going to take much longer for us to stop looking for her than the other old pets we've witnessed leaving...and yet.

Kate died as she lived- not making a fuss or racket, really no trouble at all.

We miss you, Kate- you were the perfect dog.

If I Could Say One Thing Before the Party Gets Started...

Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.
- Martin Luther King, Jr.

And that, in a nutshell, is what I'm feeling about the death of Osama BinLaden.

I'm half Sicilian, so I believe that there are, in fact, some people who just need killing but I also believe that to REJOICE in their deaths- no matter how deserved- is more than misguided, it's evil.

I have a friend, a dear friend whose son was gunned down execution-style exactly 5 years ago today. Although they know who the killer is, he walks free until they have "enough rope to hang him with" because without hard and fast evidence there's a chance that he'd be acquitted in a jury trial.

Frustrating? Oh, yeah.

Maddening? Absolutely.

Even as 'merely' her friend it makes me crazy that this is taking so long to bring to an end, a closure, some goddamn justice.

But lets just say...

Lets just say they get the evidence. It goes to trial and he gets the death penalty (because here in Texas we still do that).

There are no appeals and no calls from the governor and my friend witnesses the death of her son's killer.

I've known her nigh on 20 years and can say with some assurance that there would not be a smile on her face, no joy, no satisfaction.

I can say with some assurance that she'd be weeping. From the still-fresh wound of the loss of her son, at the brand new wound of the loss of someone else's son (no matter how badly he turned out, he's still someones' son).

Because even with Justice Served, her baby is still gone forever. The death of someone else's baby will not bring him back. Ever.

So, should Osama BinLaden not have been assassinated? No, he clearly needed to be dead.

But we do not honor OUR dead, OUR loved ones, by rejoicing in the death of another- no matter who he was.

We honor our dead by a moment of silence, a deep sigh of resignation, and by wasting not one minute- not one second- on bloodthirsty relish.

The people who lost their lives both in the attack on our soil and overseas in our armed services are lost forever, and the death of even the admitted author of the attack does not change that one iota.

We honor those we have loved and lost by striving every day to live lives of honor, and truth, and justice yes- but also of compassion and peace.

Ironically, it's those last two that sometimes take the most strength and resolve.

Take us home, Martin-

"Let no man pull you low enough to hate him."
— Martin Luther King Jr.

Five Pounds of Pure Heart

Ten years and ten months ago, almost to the day, I was driving to work on a Saturday morning. I was very proud of myself, since I was on time- a rarity- and had on makeup and shoes and everything. As I rounded a curve in the 2 lane road that runs alongside Lake Palestine on the right and forests of pine on the left (I loved my commute), I saw up ahead...something running back and forth across the road.

Rabbit? No- not hopping.

Cat? No- not slinkyish enough.

Dog? Crap. A tiny little dog.

Loose dogs are common in the country, but most of them have that "I know where I'm going" look about them. This one was frantic. Terrified. Abandoned. Every car that passed he'd run straight AT as though he was SURE "they" had come back for him- throwing him out of a moving vehicle had surely been a horrible mistake and they'dve realized by now he wasn't in the car with them.

Sighing with resignation I pulled over.

Brownish, matted, skinny, the little dog ran to within 5ft of me- just out of reach before realizing "YOU'RE NOT MY MOTHER" and circled the car, not knowing what to do. Each time he circled (at a dead run), he came just a few inches nearer, and I knew what I had to do.

I waited, kneeling.

This doesn't seem like such a big deal, but at the time I was roughly 27 months pregnant, so it wasn't nearly as comfortable as may seem.

Finally he came close enough to briefly put his tiny paws on my knee and I swooped him up- expecting to be shredded to bits by nasty little teeth.

But he didn't.

I got back into the car and he crawled up over my enormous belly,cuddled in under my chin and was asleep in seconds- happy to have had his fate decided for him.

Sounds like a real Hallmark moment, doesn't it? Except he was covered in mats and ticks and fleas and had been rolling in something long-dead on the lakefront.

I arrived at work...late (as usual)...and stinky (luckily a rare occurrence).

After applying clippers and alot of flea spray and soap, we found an old poodle- the Vets guessed him at about 10 years old. He was thin, and had "poodle teeth", but no heartworms.

So he came home with me. I called all the area Vets and placed an ad in the paper- clearly he'd been used to being in someone's lap all the time. Nothing.

All I can think is that his owner had to go to a home, or died, and whoever inherited him dumped him, threw him, tossed him out of a moving vehicle.

He told me his name was Tiny Ramon the Magnificent, Ramon for short- he abhorred "Tiny".

He became my lap-warmer, and although he loved all people and never offered to bite anyone at anytime for any reason, woe to the dog or cat- no matter the size- that tried to come near me while he was in his spot on my lap. In the over ten years we had together, only one dog was allowed to share my lap with him- Oliva the mini dachshund who was another rescue even older than he was.

He would play fetch for hours.

I've never had a manicure and haven't been to a beauty shop for a professional haircut in almost 20 years. Ramon had a standing appointment every 6 weeks at Aunt Weegi's Poodle Salon- "For the poodle who really cares".

He was so cold-sensitive he'd seek out a sunny spot to lay in in the middle of July- in the winters he would crawl under the covers and curl up on my feet.

Several years ago he was diagnosed in heart failure and had to be on lasix periodically to keep his lungs clear.

About a month ago, Ramon had a stroke. I thought "This is IT".

But he rallied.

Blind in one eye, walking with a wobble, he still did the Happydance at breakfast and dinner times. So I lifted him up onto and off of the bed, and sat with him while he ate.

Last night he woke me up coughing, so I gave him some lasix.

This morning he could barely walk, and didn't want breakfast. I'm not entirely certain he could see me at all anymore.

It seemed that all his internal switches were turning off, one by one.

He spent the morning in my lap while I did my computer stuff, as usual.

He watched me fold laundry curled up on his pillow, and I promised him I'd spend the afternoon holding him.

I went to take a shower, and ten minutes later when I came out, the last switch had quietly turned off and he was gone.

Guessed at ten when I found him, he warmed my lap and my heart for almost eleven years, which made Ramon...older than dirt.

For years it was a family joke that at the End of Times all that would be left would be cockroaches, and Tiny Ramon- their King.

Right now I do feel as though it's the End of Times- my heart breaks and I wonder how I can sit without him in my lap, come home without him dancing at the door, sleep without him firmly snuggled against me.

Right now, I don't know.

Getting Away With Murder

If you've been following this blog for any length of time, or if you've known my family for any length of time, you know we've had a pretty rough 8 years or so with Ward's health. Particularly the last 4 years, and VERY particularly this past April and May.

If you're new here- take a look see at the postings from April and May (mostly April) so you know what the hell I'm talking about today. We'll wait right here.

(sound of Muskrat Love muzak while the rest of us are on blog-hold)

I know the worst of that whole Abysmal April was the time period after hearing the words "When we tried to wake him up from anesthesia he went into heart failure and stopped breathing". Most specifically the 12 hours or so after that- when they really didn't know if he'd ever wake up again. If they'd ever be able to turn off the machines breathing and beating for him without marking the time and covering him in a sheet.

People say something horrible is "like a nightmare", but when you're really truly wide awake living it you pray for a nightmare to give your life a little levity.

And during that time, four thoughts ran through my head over and over and over again without stopping- on a mental loop trying to lasso my sanity.

One- What will I tell Alec? Ward's his Hero.How can I raise him all by myself?

Two- Ward told me before this surgery that he'd be ok, he said "It'll be alright- I'm going to be fine- you and I have a lot we have to do yet". Ward has never lied to me in over 15 years, and I was by god going to hold him to this one.

Three- Please. As in a prayer. One word asking that I not have to...ever...not now, not ever... go to the computer, log in and type "I am a widow".

Four- Visuals of our friends Sunni and Jim, Sharlotte and Edward. Quiet, kind, patient Jim. Ornery, exasperating, kind Edward. Sunni and Sharlotte alone now- just in the past few months- having typed "I am a widow" into the blank of their lives that asks "marital status".

It was this last thought that was the most terrifying. There was basically nothing wrong with either Jim or Edward and they had nothing in common health-wise with Ward- Jim was younger and Edward older- except for one thing. They both (like Ward) went into the hospital with something fixable. But Jim and Edward never made it out again.

Jim went into the hospital following a mild stroke. He ended up contracting pneumonia and dying there.

Edward went into the hospital with intestinal problems that required some surgery. He ended up aspirating during a post-op MRI, contracted pneumonia and died.

Ward was much more fragile. Much less healthy BEFORE his "alarming event".

He'd entered the hospital after numerous infections and bleeding episodes but deemed well enough for the surgery to repair the failed graft that was the source of the infections and bleediness.
He went from a long complicated surgery
To a very bad drug reaction
To an emergency surgery
To his heart and lungs saying "That's it- I'm out".
To mechanical support in ICU
To pneumonia
To staph infections
And then, amazingly

To a slow, torturous, frustrating, frightening but hallelujah praise whoever's up there recovery.

Ward was lucky. Ward IS lucky. Alec and I are lucky.

And it so easily could've slipped quietly,quickly and fatally in the other direction. As it did for our friends. Not people in the news. Not abstract figures or names in the death notices. To our friends.

That's a few months behind us, and Ward's still making slow but sure recovery, so what in blue blazes am I doing re-hashing all this mess???

We've got a guinea pig show coming up and Sunni and Jim are guinea pig friends. We've stayed more than once at their home and cherished every minute we've ever had with them.

I talked to Sharlotte today- she lives just up the road from us and we buy hay from them. She and Edward have always been there for us for any reason and at any time.

So I had both couples on my mind lately. Couples that aren't anymore. Not because of natural causes or an accident or because they didn't make it to the hospital in time.

They died BECAUSE they were at the hospital. And not tiny little bohunk boonies hospitals- Sunni and Jim live in Austin and Edward went to our large regional hospital (clever hint given two paragraphs down). Just as Ward almost died directly BECAUSE of what was done or not done for him or to him at the hospital- MDAnderson Cancer Center- one of the premier hospitals in the world.

And it's not just some freak bad karma following my friends and me around zapping our menfolk- this shit happens every day in every hospital in this country.

Way back when we were just starting on our Cancer Family Adventure, I was waiting for Ward to get his hydro-therapy at our large regional hospital. Let's call it Trinity Mother Frances in Tyler Texas. To pass the time, I went to the cafeteria for a cuppa coffee.

On every table were little placards- colorful cardboard centerpieces to both inform and make dining more enjoyable. That was a very long time ago, but the gist of the placards was this-

Hospital Death Awareness Week (fill in the dates)
A week of educational seminars focusing on lessening the occurrence of death due to hospital-contracted conditions
(listing of educational seminars)
Trinity Mother Frances Hospital 20XX goal- LESS THAN 1,500


I re-read it a few times, in different light and at different angles because there was no way I could fathom
a) that this was something they'd put in the PUBLIC cafeteria for loved ones of patients to peruse and
b) that "Less than 1,500" was something to shoot for, death-wise.

And I guess, from the safety of this far away from our own near-death experience, I can breathe, close my eyes, and get truly and totally pissed off about a hospital that thinks "less than 1,500" is not only acceptable, but admirable.

That healthy people can go into a hospital in good faith and with no real concerns and not come out.

And that the hospitals are not accountable.

They may express concern. The individual players may grieve right with you, because I really believe that most of them ARE there to heal, to care for, to nurture other humans and the problem is that the environment they have to do it in is toxic and/or managed not by health professionals but by accountants and insurance companies and/or the systems used to keep records is ridiculously cumbersome and archaic.

But when you enter a hospital in America for any reason whatsoever, you must sign a little paper before a doctor will even come into the same room with you. That paper says that you give the hospital and its staff permission to treat you as they see fit. That the outcome of your visit may or may not be favorable to you, and may end in disfigurement, a worsening of your condition, the addition of new conditions or possibly death.

It's a permission slip.

It's a golden ticket.

For getting away with murder.

And I think of Jim and Edward and Sunni and Sharlotte. I look at Ward- the shadow of what he's been through hangs on him, dragging him down, and he fights his way through it every single day- for the last 3 months and for many months to come.

And people who've never skated that close to the edge shrug apologetically and say "Well, what can you do?"

And people who've tipped into that frigid bottomless pit go to the phone book and call a lawyer and see what they can do. And the answer is "Not much".

We actually saw a lawyer way back when we found out that Ward's surgeon here in Tyler was well aware that she did not get all the cancer when she enucleated his eye, even though she told us she did, and even though they radiated the snot out of the area (they told us) "just in case".

Although the lawyer was sympathetic, and he AND his medical advisor said she'd not done the right thing, he declined the case. He said the only cases he could afford to take were what he called "jaw-droppers"- something that a jury would just freakin' not believe- and that had ended in death.

And we told him that while money would sure be nice to pay off all the subsequent "this was caused by her actions/inactions" expenses that had already totaled into the tens of thousands of dollars, our main goal was to make her stop.

Make her stop and THINK before saying "Oh yes- I do these all the time".

And I believe that's all most people who bring lawsuits for medical negligence want- because no money on earth will fill the hole losing your spouse, your parent, your child leaves in your heart.

Just STOP and think before doing something, or before blowing something off.

Because you've got someone's life in your hands.

And even though we've signed the permission slip, you need to do everything in your power to not have to use it.