cCats and Coping

     My cats miss my husband.  So Do I.  At least I can visit him at the residential care facility where he has lived for the past 5 months.  They grieve their loss.  I see it in their accusing eyes.  Or so it seems to me.  Cats are unfathomable.

    Des misses them, too  He aks me if I talk about him.  Do they remember him?  Oh, yes, I say.  Who wouldn't miss his adoring pats, his murmured words of love?  I do.  But I know where he is and why. They don't.  They stare at me with round unblinking eyes, hungry for affection.  So am I. 

     Their behavour has changed since his absence.  Mitzi, the more verbal and hedonistic cat, whines for attention and food.  Her sister, Murphi, the mellow orange ball of fluff, follows me, leaps above my recliner and settles in.  Her tail brushes my forehead.  She yawns and waits for my next move.  Often, she slides down to stare at me face to face, her whiskers brushing my cheek.  I pet her and say, I know, baby.  Life is not fair.

     Mitzi is more restless, moves about for a place to nestle. She avoids the love seat, their special place, where she and Des sat side by side watching television.  Des would hold her tail and she didn't mind.  Kind of like holding hands she  stared straight ahead, her paw resting on the arm of the love seat while I watched from my recliner.

    She hasnt found her new niche yet, but does replace Murphi on the perch above the recliner when Murph goes for a potty break.   Mitzi rests her chin on my head then rubs it back and forth with pressure.  I try to duck down so she can't reach my head, but Des would say, oh look how she loves you.  I would smirk and say she just wants food.  But maybe he is right.  We all want love, the  unconditional kind.  Agape love, Des called it way back when.

     Does he feel it now, ten minutes from home by car,  but permanently embedded  in our hearts?
 
     Murphy purrs, Mitzi whines and I sigh.   I'm working on gratitude, but it is a tough sell.

So Says Sassy

Comforting the Comforter

As I sneeze and cough, I find myself envying my husband. Actually, I covet what he has. Before your mind takes a wild leap, I'm not talking penis envy here.

I wish I had a wife, like he has. When he is sick, his wife (aka me) keeps hm comfortable, brings him food, rubs his aching back, pours tylenol down his open mouth. Keeps the ice coming, he loves ice water. Pile blankets over his freezing feet. He has neuropathy and is 'freezing.' So I stoke the fire. You get the picture. I am woman, therefore I am a comforter. It isn't a guy thing, in my wistful experience.

Most men prefer to solve abstract problems, like letting his wife know she should move over to the slow lane now. Even suggested recently that maybe she should take one of those driving classes for seniors now that he had to give up his license Men often do other stuff like taking out the trash, change light bulbs, wonder if someone should feed the cats. Someone is my other name, by the way. As for making a cup of hot tea and adjusting your pillow just right, not in his gender description. There must be some exceptions, though.

Come to think of it, in my childhood home, my father was the comforter. When I threw up in the middle of the night, my dad took care of it, letting my mother sleep. He gave me yummy hot toddies for a sore throat, had sympathetic brown eyes, curly mustache and soft brown eyes. His only flaw, a gambling addiction.

Well, the guy in this house, is only addicted to pampering , so getting another wife is not the answer either. I'll just have one more mouth to feed, while she brings him his slippers. Wish I had a hot toddy about now.

So Says Sassy

New Beginnings

The year is ten days old and I have not broken any resolution yet. That's probably because I resolved to make no resolutions this January. So far, so good.
Other years I was on a WWWW kick. Stood for water, write, walk and worship.

I drink water when swallowing pills. Never carry water with me anywhere. Not totally true. I have been known to carry a bottle of water when I go to water aerobics, but that's in case I have to swallow my dizzy pill. Translation: Antivert or meclizine for vertigo. Except that now I have discovered an over-the-counter version you can chew. I am becoming addicted to green tea with honey, lately. How healthy is that.

Walk is an easy one. I do it all the time. Every time my husband begins a sentence with, 'I hate to ask, but where is.....?' I jump up like Pavlov's dog and begin to look for whatever. Just an aside here: Pavlov was too smart to have a cat.

Worship is more than showing upon Sunday morning at church. I do that regularly. It is more than reading spiritually uplifting stuff. I do that, too. I'm working on finding out where I am most serene, more empty of mind chatter, awed by cloud pictures and gnarly trees, persistent sea gulls who peck at driveways at fast food places expecting against all odds to find a feast. Being present in the moment is where I am most likely feel the Presence I need.

Writing is a no brainer. Isn't that what I am doing right now? It comes upon me to write whenever a thought crosses my mind that would make a good story, or to pontificate or when something makes me smile like the pigeon I saw walking across the street in the crosswalk. Didn't he know he could fly? Who could fathom the mind of a bird, or anyone else, for that matter Think I'll write about that, but first I need some water. I'm thirsty.

So says Sassy

A Gift From The Past

Today I got a glimpse of my father's signature on a 1940 copy of the census from my old neighborhood at 2146 RacineAvenue, Chicago, Illinois.  His age listed as 31, my mother's  age listed at 30.  Below their names, their daughter Ann Marie, age 8.  That's me, of course.

I studied my father's signature, the oversized J of is name, Johnny.  Occupation - mechanic, then my mother's not so showy, Grace.  Occupation-seamstress.  We lived in my grandfather's two story building.  There was grandpa, Vincent, age 63, occupation...street worker.  My uncle Joe living with him, age 16.

It was from that house that, two years later, Uncle Joe was a soldier in the South Pacific.  Three years after that, my grandfather killed himself in that house.

The neighbor two doors away,was Mrs Keane ,  the Irish lady who took care of me as a child while my parents worked.  I thought she was ancient with graying hair and blue twinkling eyes.  The census notes her age at 53.  She went to mass every morning, rain or snow, to our beautiful St. Vincent's Catholic Church.  I made my first Holy Communion at that church.    I had such an angelic look in photos of that day.  Innocent and trusting.

The catalyst for this trip down memory lane was another angel without wings who emailed  me this  page out of the 1940 Census from Cook County.    He was the  boy next door,  swooned over by half the girls in the neighborhood.  I adored him from afar, me the 8 year old in pigtails, and he all of 12.    His parents were divorced, a rarity in the forties.  His mother had classic beauty.  No one knew what happened to the father.  She was admired by the neighbors for her simple grace.

The first twelve years of mylife was spent in that house on Racine Avenue.  I learned about the comfort of family, (my maternal grandmother lived right across the street), I had aunts and uncles and cousins nearby.  I felt the kindness of our neighbors, and the mysteries of my faith.

Leaving that neighborhood was truly like emerging from a cocoon, eyes blinking against the unknown, fearful of what might be.  I knew who I was, but not yet who I would become.  But that's another story.

So Says Sassy

Life Interrupted

When someone is sliding a bedpan under your bottom, you know you are in the twilight zone of monitors and tubes.    But I digress.

Several weeks ago, Des and I were enjoying a visit from the busy bees from Brocton, New York.  Translation:  our niece and nephew came out to see us and help us do stuff.  Marv and Joyce Zirkle to be specific, although Des refers to Marv as Whiskers.  It promised to be a good time when they arrived on a Wednesday afternoon.  That changed with severe chest pains that hit me on Friday night.  The rest of the story became a blur of a trip to the ER where doctors noted my history of stents in my major artery and decided to admit me. 

Marv and Joyce went back to our house to let Des know he probably should wait before replacing me.  It ain't over till it''s over, mister.

  Meanwhile, the ER  white coaters hooked me up to stuff in the temporary cubicle while they pondered my next move.  I fished for my cell phone and snuck out calls to people.  Hours later, I ended up in the coronary care unit, with tubes hooked to both arms and oxygen in my nostrils.   This is where I had the urge to pee and started to swing my legs gently over the side of the bed when all hell broke loose.  Sirens and white coats piled into my room.  I got yelled at.  One does not leave the bed in the CCU without help.  Thus, cometh the bed pan.

Bed pans are cold and wobbly and when one slides under you,  everything comes to a standstill  Bodily fluids go on strike, than suddenly let go.....yikes, you think, wondering if it all stayed inside.  Thankfully, all was well.  From then on it was xrays, sonagrams, BPs and the heavy portable EKG monitor hanging over the pocket of my flimsly nightie.

Okay, cut to the chase.  I spent two nights in the hospital while there was a debate about an angiogram in my future.  Happily, on Sunday morning I got to go home.  Passed the nuclear stress test, heart enzymes okay.  Conclusion, the flu and heavy coughing the week before plus stress  conspired to cause the chest pains.  Prayers answered.

A few more days of the busy bees meant that lots of things are now painted green, the garage got cleaned out, weeds pulled, pantry organized, egg custard made for my salivating husband.  Even got the car washed. 

Thankfully, our visitors got to make a few trips down to the Marina, my pal Donna showed them the Ojai Valley, Chuck showed off his garden and red blazing pointsettias..    We ate beef stew, my gluten free lasagna, Chinese take out and, of course, nightly serving of ice cream.  Joyce brought her famous cinammon roles which are in the freezer, doled out to Des on a need to plead basis.

During these two day, I got my Kindle by my side, plus my Smart Phone, so I never felt abandoned...well only the long last night when I didn't know whether the morning would mean the angiogram or home.   Turned out to be my blessed home.    It never looked so good, hungry cats and all.  One thought for the hospital suggestion box:  any way to warm up the bed pans?

So says Sassy