It Is What It Is

I try to remember that when death brings what it brings, it does so without malice. It's not evening the score or meting out punishment. It's not flexing its muscles or showing off. It has no need to have the last word, doesn't concern itself with the pain of those left behind. It has a job to do, no more and no less and it cares not at all whether it's a blessing or an injustice. The empty spaces it leaves within us are not its problem. We may hate it or root for it, deny it or rage against it but we need to remember a basic truth - no matter how it affects, wounds, or hurts us - it isn't personal.  In her song “It Is What It Is”, singer/songwriter Kacey Musgraves wasn't writing about death but she could've been: It is what it is til it ain't anymore.

I try to remember this as I sit with Blue and watch her try to stay awake after her afternoon pain and anxiety meds. It's a muggy, after-the-storm kind of day and the old trailer is on the warm side. I can smell fried shrimp and boudain, flowers and leftover perfume and I can hear Bubba, curled at Blue's feet with his head resting on her ankles, snoring gently. She strokes his head with one pale hand and he sighs. He instinctively knows it's his job to comfort her and he rarely leaves her side.

“Go to sleep,” I tell her, “Let the drugs do their work.”

“What if I don't wake up?” she wants to know with just the shadow of a smile.

There's no answer to this. I smooth out her sheets and turn her pillow, brush her hair off her face, check that her oxygen tube isn't tangled and take her hand. She's so wan and wasted away she almost looks transparent but her spirit is still bright.

“Well, then Bubba would have the whole bed to himself,” I say, “And the chicken and dumplings I brought would go to waste.”

Another hint of a smile. “We can't have that,” she says and her words are beginning to mush, “Reckon I'll hafta wake up at least one more time.”

It doesn't take long til her fingers relax in mine and her breathing levels out. I curl up in her old, second hand recliner chair and watch her sleep, hoping it's as peaceful as it looks and praying she won't wake up in pain or struggling to catch her breath. The cancer steals more from her every day and her frailness and breakability are more obvious with every visit and yet she still finds the strength to comfort others, to be grateful for her life, to trust and to hold onto her faith, even for a little humor and an occasional flash of feisty.   In a strange and agonizing way, she's never been more beautiful.

Camera Ready

When Blue got sick this time, I put my camera down. I found I didn't have the heart to take pictures. She fussed at me for this, reminding me that despite cancer and all the overwhelming losses we face, life goes on.

“Listen,” she scolded, “You have a gift. You can't stop just because I'm dying.”

I hated hearing her say it, hated the truth of it and her calmness when saying it. There have been times these past few days when her acceptance has scalded me. Worst of all, I hated that she was right. She knew it and I knew it. Reluctantly, I dragged out my small point and shoot and aimed it at her. I wasn't at all sure my hands were steady enough for it.

“How do you want me?” she asked.

“Doesn't matter,” I said but it was a reflex reply and I knew it the second I said it. “Put your hand on the guitar here,” I instructed, “Just rest your chin on your hand and look at me.”

“With or without oxygen?” she wanted to know.

I hesitated but only for a second. “With,” I told her, “You're nothing if not real.” There was a suggestion of a smile, more in those soulful brown eyes than her mouth, and I snapped the shutter before I could think about what was happening. The idea that it could be the last picture I would take of her was flitting like a moth around the edges of my mind and I wanted it gone.

“Good?” she asked, putting aside the guitar and sinking back into a nest of pillows.

“Good,” I assured her although I had no idea whether it would be or not, “I'll pretty you up a little and then show you tomorrow.”

She nodded, closed her eyes and fell asleep and another precious day was behind us.

Comforts of Home

 I find myself wishing there was an instruction book for times like this, some “how to” guide that I could refer to and follow, maybe even find some comfort in. I find myself wishing I had Blue's courage or her faith in the afterlife but I'd settle for the acceptance she seems to have found. All I seem to be able to do is witness and grieve and it feels hollow. I tell myself her suffering will be ended. I tell myself she's had a grand ride. I tell myself what she tells me, that's she's tired, has made peace with her Maker and is ready. And none of it helps worth a damn. I can't bear the thought of her not being here in this sorrowfully fucked up and impossible world. I can't bear thinking about missing her.

So we sit in her crowded, cluttered, old trailer home, listening to the soft, steady hum of the window unit and not speaking much. Home health arrives to bathe her and shampoo her hair, her daughter and I put fresh sheets on her hospital bed and make up her afternoon meds. Her cell phone rings a half dozen times and a steady stream of visitors come and go, bringing food and flowers, puzzle books and hugs. Her stocky, short legged old dachshund watches from a distance, confused and a little anxious about all this activity but when the home health nurse finishes and brings his mistress back to her bed, he jumps up to join her, curling snugly around her small, waiflike body, comforting her in a way none of us can. It's a feeling I know well.

In the courage of the dying, there are lessons about living.

Going Home

It's a small thing really and in the overall cosmic scheme of things, it isn't going to make the most microscopic ripple, but after a long, lonely, and pain filled week in the hospital, my friend Blue got to home today. She'll spend the time she has left in familiar surroundings, among her own things, her family and friends, and her beloved dog. It may not seem like much but it matters enormously to her and to those of us who love her.

I find myself wishing there was an instruction book for times like this.

A Crisis of Care

The a/c recognizes a crisis and responds by stubbornly refusing to cool all except two rooms of the house. Sadly, one room is the bathroom and the other is the former guest room, now dedicated to unfinished projects, stuff I haven't found room for or am planning to give away, and litter boxes. I click on the window unit in the kitchen/den and it comes to life with enthusiasm. The second window unit in the bedroom/sunroom - where I spend the majority of my time - reluctantly kicks in but after the first 5 minutes, it crashes and takes everything but the computer with it. I have to dig out my pocket flashlight and hack my way to the circuit breakers, cursing with every step and trying to convince myself it could be worse. I don't allow myself to think of exactly how it could be worse. Lately, it's been my experience that reality sees such thoughts as a challenge.

I make arrangements for the a/c repair people to come on Monday, pick up around the house, tend the animals and head for the hospital. Blue is less well than she was that morning, the fluid is building around her lung again and breathing is a ragged struggle. She's in pain and restless with anxiety. Not wanting to make a scene, no one has asked why someone hasn't drained her lung and the weekend nurses are far too busy with making their Saturday night plans to tend to her. After she's waited over an hour with no response from a nurse, after I've watched her double over and weep with pain and anxiety, I walk to the nurses station myself. It's deserted.

Quite literally abandoned, not a living soul anywhere in sight. The angels of mercy have taken flight. I check my watch and am just about to head back to the room when the elevator pings and a young woman in scrubs exits, talking animatedly on her cell phone and laughing loudly. She stops at the sight of me, rearranges her multiple carry bags and her smile vanishes.

“Hold on,” she mutters into her cell phone and glares at me, “Help ya?” Her voice is slimy with resentment.

When I explain that she has a patient in need, who has been in need for some time, she waves a free hand around the empty nurses station.

“Cain't ya see I'se not signed in and there ain't nobody heah?” she snaps, “maybe sumpin goin' on.”

“Maybe so,” I concede, “But that's not my problem and it's sure as hell not the patient's fault. How about you get your (fat, slovenly, low rent ass) self signed in and do your job?”

She slams her carry alls and makeup bags and oversized totes on the counter but keeps her cell phone jammed to her ear. “What room?” she snarls at me.

“Pick one!” I spit back, “But you can start in 3!”

By the time, 10 or 15 minutes later, she finally saunters into the room, plants one multi ringed, long nailed hand on her hip, looks at Blue and says “So what's goin' on?”, I've already hunted down the regular night nurse and he's brought the much needed medications. I've also found out that the people who could've drained the fluid from her lungs and maybe avoided the worst of it for her, left without bothering to check on her.

“It's Saturday, you see,” he tells me helplessly, “They're long gone.”

“I found Todd,” I tell the fat bitch coldly, “He's taking care of her. But you can close the door on your way out, please.”

She makes a half hearted offer to notify the doctor which neither of us acknowledge and waddles out. Her bracelets and necklaces and dangle earrings jingle like a coin jar.

“Please keep her out of here,” Blue asks Todd when he comes back with additional drugs, “I don't know what her problem is but I've got enough of my own.”

He gives her a concerned look and nods.

And such is the state of health care in this country. There was a time when the best care available in this state came from this particular hospital. Nowadays, you're lucky if they notice you're there.

Beyond Mountains, Are Mountains

Beyond mountains, the Haitian proverb goes, are mountains.

The phrase stays with me for its simplicity and truth as I walk the long hospital corridor to see my friend, Blue. There are a thousand places I would rather be, a thousand things I would rather be doing. There's a pulse to this place and it mutes my senses. I hate the muffled background sounds - the call buttons and machines and the whispering sighs of doors as they open and close - this is a place of sorrow, secrets and pain.

She looks tired, I think, but really, the truth is that she looks exhausted and even more ravaged than she did yesterday. Her smile takes more effort, her breathing is more labored and her color is like chalk.

“It's more fluid in my lungs,” she tells me, “I can feel it.”

“No talking,” I tell her quietly, “I'm just going to sit with you awhile.”

Her fingers close around mine, weaker than yesterday, I can't help but notice.

“Shut your eyes,” I say, “Try to relax.”

She looks so breakable, so defenseless and small, it hurts my heart and I have to will myself not to break down and cry.

Even in better times, she never was much more than a tiny slip of a girl. I'm only five feet tall and she barely came to my chin. We used to tease her mercilessly that she wasn't a hundred pounds soaking wet and carrying weights. I was shamefully envious of her flat belly and Scarlett O'Hara waist while she complained endlessly about being flat chested. I watched her struggle and finally win over alcohol and drugs, immediately reaching out to others less fortunate. She knew the name of every homeless or down and out street person and even if it meant her last quarter, never turned one away. She played guitar and drums and wrote songs, rode a Harley, smoked like a chimney, cussed like a sailor, survived the death of a husband, raised a daughter alone and worked like a field hand all of her life. That there will be no more better times is something I can't make sense of.

The doctors, who as best we can tell, have differing opinions on how to proceed, finally agree to siphon the fluid from her lungs for a second time. This time they draw off a full litre and leave a drain in place and a half hour later, she's finally able to breathe again. It takes a considerable more amount of coaxing, pleading and nagging to convince the nursing staff to change her bed linens and bring her a supper tray. The respiratory therapist arrives to give her a breathing treatment and frowns at her heart rate. Soon after, one of her doctors orders a new EKG. The night nurse appears with a pain pill and a sedative, we get her sponge bathed and into fresh clothes and at long last, she sinks wearily back into the pillows and falls into a drug induced but mostly peaceful sleep.

The mountains will keep til tomorrow.

Faith, Hope, Fear, and Morphine

Huddled in the bedclothes in the hospital bed, she is a small sliver of herself. I've never seen anyone look so frail, so transparently thin and weak. Still she reaches out her arms to me and manages a ghost of a smile. I hug her gently, trying to be mindful of the oxygen tube and the numerous IV's running to and from her small, bruised body. I can't think of anything to say except to whisper I love you. It's nowhere near enough.

“I brought you a present,” I tell her and produce a small black and tan stuffed dachshund with a curly tail, crossed eyes and a exaggeratedly long snout, “To keep you company until you go home.”

She takes it in both hands, rubs its fur against her cheek, and her eyes fill with tears. I'm terrified I won't be able to hold it together if I start to cry but I can't seem to help it. I don't trust myself to speak so when she tucks the little stuffed dog into a crease in the pillow, I take both her hands in mine and squeeze. She squeezes back and we sit there, holding hands and letting the tears fall.

As frivolous as it seems, we make small talk which really isn't small at all, it being about faith, hope, fear and morphine. She beat back the first round of cancer and had three good months before the second siege. If such a thing is possible, she's made peace with dying. She talks about God, about her daughter, about wrapping things up and how it's relieved her mind to have made arrangements with her sister to take in her beloved dog. She talks about time - six months, the doctors have told her, if the immunotherapy is successful and doesn't kill her before the cancer does – and that brings us to the benefit which is already being planned.

“I want to call it a going away party,” she says in between coughs that bend her double and make her wince with pain, “Want to have it in the park with kids and dogs and music.”

“Consider it done,” I tell her firmly.

“Don't wait too long though,” she adds and smiles with the kind of exhaustion that I can't even begin to comprehend, “I'd hate to miss my own party.”

A nurse pads in with an assortment of medications – a cc of liquid cough supressant, two new pain drugs and something to “calm your nerves and help you sleep” - she explains everything softly, slowly, and patiently. She fluffs and turns pillows, refills the water jug, adjusts the covers. She looks tired but there is concern in her voice and kindness in her eyes. It's very close to mothering.

“Try and get some rest,” she says quietly, “It's the best thing for you. The doctor will be in later and I'm just around the corner if you need anything.”

“I'll stay until you fall asleep,” I say.

“It won't be long,” the nurse adds and gives me a reassuring pat on my shoulder.

And it wasn't. Her breathing eases and becomes regular. Her hands unclench and relax and the pain lines on her face begin to smooth out. I can almost see my old friend as she used to be and will never be again.

On the way to the hospital, all I could think of was I don't know how to do this. I was still thinking it as I left but what I do know is that I'll go back tomorrow and for as many days as there are.

Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even the end. ~ Joann Harris

The Arkansas Tick Show

Since the advent of Jimmy Ray, I've rescued shoes, socks, toothbrushes, weatherstripping, mail,

nightlights, diabetic testing meters, magic markers, shower curtains, dvds, rare books, and an assortment of plastic ware and kitchen knives from him. I've fought him for possession of paper towels, electrical cords, padded envelopes, jockey shorts, pill bottles (with and without their contents), credit cards, water bottles, lint brushes, throw pillows, leashes, bulldog clips, empty toilet paper rolls, imitation flowers and entire binders of bank statements. The battle has been never ending but in the case of the Arkansas Tick, my courage failed and I found myself yelling for Michael.

Jimmy Ray was batting it about on the carpet like a toy and until I leaned in to see exactly what the damn dog had gotten now, I didn't realize it was a tick. It was the size and shape of a jellybean, metallic gray in color and engorged with blood. I saw spidery legs waving from its head and sides like antennae and nearly retched with disgust.

“Kill it!” I screeched at Michael, “Smash it! Set it on fire! Nuke it!”

He calmly slid a piece of cardboard under the vile thing and carried it to the kitchen where he did indeed set it on fire in the kitchen sink and then drowned it for good measure. The idea of it sucking the little dog's blood until it couldn't hold anymore was so repellent to me I was sure I was going to lose my morning chocolate milk. I vaguely remembered reading it was the blood that carried disease and that made my gut clench even harder.

“Arkansas Tick,” Michael said matter of factly, “They fall off when they're full of blood.”

I'm not usually squeamish but that was the straw that broke the camel's back and a wash of acid rose in my throat. I made it to the bathroom but only just. Jimmy Ray, possibly hoping I had another tick in my pocket, padded right along behind me. Michael and I spent the next hour going over every inch of every dog with a fine tooth comb.

In Mother Nature's grand scheme, I'm sure there must be a reason for parasites, even the blood sucking ones, but I really don't want to know.

Literacy's A Bitch

“Is this 733?” the postal carrier demands sullenly.

I confess it is and keeping one nervous eye on the dogs on the other side of the door, she thrusts a package at me and orders me to sign.

“How does it happen to be so ripped and torn apart?” I ask.

“Come that way,” she shrugs and shoves her little electronic signing machine closer, “Not my problem.”

“Course not,” I say snappishly. I sign but not before I clearly print DAMAGED above my signature. She glares at me.

“Not my problem either,” I tell her, “And you best go before I let the dogs out.”

She scuttles off like an angry, cornered crab.

Just as I'm asking Michael who he knows in San Miguel, I look a little closer and see the actual address is Oliver Street. We're on Olive Street.

Literacy's such a bitch.

Mice in the Walls

During the night, the mouse who lived in the attic and who had been trying to chew his way through since June, had been unusually busy. There were tiny paint chips in my hair and bits and pieces of the ceiling scattered over my pillow. I tasted what I imagined to be insulation and sneezed out a fine spray of dust. He was a most industrious mouse but generally only active at night and I was grateful to see that even after two months, he hadn't made much progress. Despite night after night of mouse excavations, the ceiling above my bed - while flaky and beginning to thin - was still intact. Ruthie had bet me a nickel he'd break through by Labor Day but it was already mid-August and I wasn't worried. I suspected the mouse knew more about patience and persistence than either of us.

Unhappy children are quick studies and after a summer or two of sleeping with the mouse, I'd learned that you can get used to anything. At first, the nightly gnawing and scratching had made me nervous, even apprehensive. Sometimes when a fine shower of dust would fall ever so lightly onto my face, I would stiffen with fear and move to the opposite edge of the bed, completely convinced that the mouse was about to chew through and come tumbling down, all teeth and talons. It was a colorful and thrilling scenario albeit not very likely and in time the noise became just another part of the night sounds, like the wind or the waves. Paint chips and dust were one thing, I reassured myself sleepily, but no respectable mouse was going to let itself fall through a ceiling in the dark.

My mother's fear of mice was legendary - not to mention, phobic - and my grandmother was what my daddy called rodent intolerant so I mostly kept the mouse's presence and activities a secret. I could've asked to sleep in another room but it surely would've aroused Nana's curiosity if not sent her scurrying for a mouse trap or worse, poisoned bait, so except for Ruthie, I kept it to myself.

Summer after summer passed and I still slept in the same second floor room with the same patch of ceiling above my head. For most of those summers, the mouse still scrabbled and pawed each night and I supposed it had become as much of a habit with him as he had become with me. And then one morning, I spotted a dime sized hole in the ceiling - nowhere near enough room to accommodate a mouse slipping through - but still impressive. My daddy discreetly patched and plastered over it and I never heard the mouse again. Did he accomplish his goal and move on? After a lifetime of effort, did he achieve his ambition and have no more worlds to conquer? Was the final break through too much for his little mouse heart?

“You look a mite peaked, child,” my grandmother offhandedly remarked to me a few days later, “Ain't you sleepin' well?”

Not about to confess that I missed the determined little mouse, I shrugged and made some excuse. She gave me a sharp eyed look - Nana could always tell a lie at a thousand paces - and looked thoughtful.

“Mebbe time for a change,” she said casually, “Mebbe try sleepin' downstairs for a spell. It ain't as quiet downstairs. Mice in the walls, I reckon, but they mind their business and I mind mine. Might be you git used to it.”

Might be you do.

Elizabeth Street

Unless you have business on the one block that is Elizabeth Street, you might not even know it's there.  It's a tiny side street, poorly marked and mostly overlooked, a pass thru more than anything else and except for the fact that its clearly seen better days, the last house on the left is barely noticeable. 

I doubted it had ever been a showplace but with its screened in side porch and wide veranda, I suspected it had once been distinctive. Now, it was just this side of a ruin. The porch screens were in tatters, ripped and shredded in places, hanging by a thread in others. The roof sagged with water damage, the concrete steps were chipped and fractured. The entire paint peeling exterior looked battle scarred with age and neglect and I suspected it wouldn't have taken much pressure to bring the three supporting columns down in heap and most of the house with them.

It was just one of hundreds if not thousands of forgotten and abandoned properties you find all over this city, neighborhoods gone to seed, their dignified and genteel homes left to wither and rot. But for the construction site I'd had to detour around, I'd never even have seen it and even seeing it, I'd never have paid much attention except that it was covered up in cats.

A half dozen assorted tabbies are playing on the veranda, stretched out and sleeping on the steps, peeking out from behind the shrubs. One black cat, perilously thin, is balanced on the remnants of a window sill, another is halfway up a tree, all four paws wrapped around its slender trunk. A third is indifferently perched atop a discarded cat carrier, grooming itself casually. An uncommonly fat Siamese reclines on the edge of the roof, paws crossed and tail switching while next to her, yet another tabby looks on and a long haired gray tiger cautiously peers out at me from behind a nest of ivy and tangled leaves. I count thirteen in all and those are only the ones I can see. In spite of the food bowls and water dishes and makeshift shelters scattered randomly across the porch, I have a sinking feeling that the cats are like the house itself, sickly and in sorrowful need.

I can't shake the idea that there are photographs to be had here so later that day I come back with my camera. The only human among all these cats is now present, porch sitting in a beat up old leather chair, smoking and listening to a tiny portable radio. His name is Randy, he tells me and he's lived here for 17 years. He has no real idea how many cats there are anymore, he admits, but I'm more'n welcome to take all the pictures I want, anytime I want.

“They come at night,” he tells me and shrugs, “And then they just sorta stay. Got two in the attic with newborns. It ain't much but I feed 'em best I can and I'm always tryin' to find homes for 'em. You need a cat, lady?”

It strikes me that all too often those among us who can afford the least, often try to do the most. And sometimes it's that very kindness that does the most damage.

I wrestle with it for three full days, trying to balance Randy's good intentions and the health of the cats against the health risks of both.  Granted, bringing food might benefit the cats but it would also make me part of the problem.  Calling the city was an option but it would surely bring about the death of every cat they could trap (not necessarily an un-kindness, I remind myself brutally but not something I wanted to part of either).  Despite the staggering number of animals involved, trap, neuter and return seemed the only viable option and although I had no idea whether Randy would agree to such a strategy or not, I decided it was worth a try.  Reluctantly, I call someone I know at the parish commission, someone I know to be an animal lover and who I hope will have a gentle enough touch to help. 

It's several weeks before I pass by the house again.  There's not a cat in sight and no sign of Randy. 

I hope it was a happy ending but I find myself wishing I'd never seen the wretched old place.