21st century mind

I am something of a news junky. The CNN website is my homepage. When I turn on the TV, MSNBC will most often be the first station that pops up. I can't stand missing the local news broadcasts at both 6 and 10, for fear I might miss something. ESPN is a staple of my information diet. I'm ashamed to admit that I don't read the newspaper on a regular basis. But that is because I spend so much time on the internet, gleaning those nuggets of info that keep feeding my news jones. Having said all that, I have to admit to a problem that I hope I am not the only one to have.

While watching the news on whatever station I have on at the time, I always become totally distracted by that newsy crawl line at the bottom of the picture. All the stations have them. They are the torment of my life. I simply cannot direct my attention to those updates without losing the line of thought being spoken by the talking head on the tube. I have to give my total attention to one or the other. I am genetically incapable of hearing and reading at the same time, and understanding both. I usually end up totally confused and absolutely in the dark about what is going on in the world. I am a failure at the twenty first century skill of multitasking.

That it is possible to hear, watch, read, and understand all the info being thrown at a person at one time has been proven in my own household. My son, Jonathan, during all his years in school, would come home, turn on the tv, and proceed to do all his homework assignments while sitting in front of that tv. His powers of concentration are legendary. I could not protest his methods of study since his results were exemplary. He was, after all, the valedictorian of his high school class.
It just points out the differences between his generation and mine. All his life he has been bombarded with a sensory overload of noise and information and has trained himself to separate the various streams that flow by him and filter out the unnecessary and concentrate on the few drops that nourish his brain. I, on the other hand, find myself drowning in that same stream of information, gasping for breath and grabbing desperatly to any floating detritus that happens by. I emerge from the stream soaked and sodden and disoriented, while he bobs happily to the surface and effortlessly wades to the shore refreshed by the dip in the waters of knowledge. His is a 21st century mind, while mine is mired in the single shot 50's of the last century.

I can only keep trying to separate the various lines of info that came towards me, hopeless in the realization that that is the best my feeble powers of concentration will allow. Either that or stop watching the television version of news and return to the old time renditon of news deliverance--the printed page of newsprint. I feel so old and inadequate.

we had a funeral today

We had a funeral today. Only family members were there, about forty people in all. John's body was cremated, so the urn that held his ashes was there among pictures of his life and loved ones. The ceremony was brief, although two ministers had their say when one would have sufficed. During the ministerial ramblings there was little sound coming from the assembled family, no suppressed weeping or sniffling into tissues. Most of the weeping had been done by now and we were all just trying to get through the ordeal. The attendant minister and his minion in training took all the available time, so I didn''t get the opportunity, nor did anyone else, to say any thing about our brother, brother-in-law, uncle, son-in-law, or husband. So to complete my process of mourning, I include below the words I intended to say if given the chance.


"John was a good man, strong willed, generous of spirit, and full of humor. But he had one flaw that dominated his life. He cared and loved too much.

That flaw was his undoing. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop loving. No matter how he tried to fill his days with work and projects that could occupy his mind for those waking hours that tormented him, he could never diminish the love that swelled his heart to bursting.

Our inclination is to scream, “why?” Why have you allowed that love in you to take you from us. Why couldn’t you spread all that caring and love among us, so we could help you to cope with it? Why are we left here to wonder how such unending love could be so cruel?

What we find are not answers to those questions, but only more questions. So let us stop seeking answers and accept the reality. John found his way to cope with his desparate love and untenable loss. We are not here to judge him, for who among us can claim to be unflawed?

So while we shed our tears and grieve, while we mourn the loss of another loved one, let’s remember the good man, the strong willed man, the generous man, that John was, and revel in the shared time we had with him. For while that time was too short, it is all the more precious for that brevity. And if there is any lesson we can learn from him, it is that sometimes, if we love too much, we can leave too much love behind."


After the funeral service, no one wanted to just leave and go home. We all still needed some time together for a bit more closure. So we all headed for a restaurant that could accomodate our group and spent the next couple hours in a dance of family bonding. During that get together, there were few tears, and fewer references to the man we lost. It was as if we were seeking as much normalcy as possible. We laughed, we told stories, we poked fun at each other the way families do. We had something to eat. We prolonged the party as long as possible, but the time finally came when we were forced to reenter our normal lives and leave the cocoon we had spun around us.

As we drifted slowly toward the parking lot, there were more than a few furtive glances at each other, wondering whether it was ok to again shed some tears, to hug each other one more time, to revisit our grief. All it took was one tentative half hug to get the process rolling along again. Hugs all around. Tears unashamedly tracking down cheeks. The repaired mascara was ruined again. Promises were made to stay close in contact, to be there for each other, to support each other. And then it was done. We all returned to the outside world that demanded our attention. Memories are all that are left now.

For the hour it took us to drive home, we talked little, preferring the silence to the subject we wanted to avoid. Once home, we saught solace in the mundane. It was a warm and sunny day, so we cut the grass together. We made supper. We planned the rest of our week, we returned to normal. Now it all seems so ordinary. Life goes on. One day we're here and planning the rest of our week, the rest of our life, and the next day we're gone. Is that all there is? Are we all just memories in the making?

why?

We keep asking ourselves, "why," and keep failing to come up with a satisfactory answer. The only one who can difinitively answer, "why," ia dead. All we can do is speculate, guess, try to understand the reasons for taking such a drastic and despairing action. We think we know the underlying cause, but still have a difficult time accepting the means he used to ease his pain.

Three years ago he and his wife lost their only child, a daughter, in a traffic accident, when she was killed as a passenger in a car that was broadsided by a drunk driver. The loss was devastating to them, as it was to all of us, but they seemed to be coping by throwing themselves into their work and projects that kept them busy enough to forget for a liitle while each day.
Still, whenever he was asked how he was doing, the answer was always a variation on the theme "what is there to live for?"
Everyone would, of course, list all the reasons for carrying on, for dealing with the loss and for supporting each other. They had a strong marriage and seemed to gather strength from each other. His sense of humor often seemed a refuge from the despair he was obviously feeling.

We all just look at each other through the fog of tears, wondering why we didn't see this coming. How could we have been so blind to the signs of growing helplessness he was feeling? How could we have been so duped by his work ethic and mask of good humor? He threw himself into the development of their business. He was building a sound studio in his home for recording his and his twin brother's band. He and his wife were planning a Carribean vacation in a few weeks. All perfectly normal stuff. All things to look forward to. All things that indicated a desire to go on with life. All a sham as it turns out.

That his final action was premeditated and well-planned is obvioius from the notes he left for those who meant the most to him and by the contents of his pockets-- a picture of his wife and beloved daughter, a cross that had belonged to his dauighter, and a rosary. He kissed his wife goodbye that morning when she left for work, giving no indication of what he was planning to do. That he chose his sister-in-law's garage as the stage for the final act of his life, showed a realization of the trauma his discovery would cause. He didn't want his wife to be the one to find him like that. All those acts were seemingly lucid and well thought out. But, really, how lucid can someone be when they decide to do something so desparately final? How can a person justify the anguish and grief and despair he is about to cause? How can he not see how cowardly and selfish his action is?

Last Saturday morning my wife's brother, my brother-in-law, one half of a set of twins, all his wife had left, hanged himself. And all we can still do is ask,"why?"



















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a little something

I almost forgot this. I brought it up from the workshop yesterday to show to Mary and she claimed it. It was sitting on an endtable and I forgot it was there. It just a little something, a candle holder, that I threw together using some scraps that were lying around. The three towers are mahogony with a birch strip down the center. The base is mahogony. The tallest tower is about 9" high and the base is about 11" long. The blue glass rocks can be any color; I just happened to have some blue. Mary loves those little tea candles and has them everywhere, so this is just right for her. The piece could be made to hole tapers as well if I wanted to do that, but we have a huge supply of those little tea candles so that's what I use.



Off to start loading the van for our week at the cottage. We picked up a new couch and chair yesterday that are headed for the cottage, so there isn't a whole lot of room for other stuff in the van. We might have to take two vehicles to get all the stuff we just can't live without up there.

adding to the collection

Here are some pictures of the latest cane I made to add to my collection. This was an exercise in wood bending. I wanted to see if I could ceate a vine effect running up the shaft of the cane. It worked fairly well. I call this one the Vine Cane.







It will probably be awhile before I get to do another cane or add to the leaf series of wall plaques, or work on any of the other 3 projects I have started. First I have to make a couple tables and a lamp for the cottage. Mary ordered them so I have to follow her orders. Plus the weather is just too nice these days to stay inside in the workshop. Outdoor activities are calling me. I can see the grass growing so that is one of the chores that needs attention. The usual spring yard cleanup and fertilizing needs to be done. And let's not forget golf. My clubs are standing by the doorway waiting to be let out to play. I hate to disapoint them even though they usually treat me harshly.

We will be at the cottage all next week for Spring break, hopefully enjoying good weather there as well. I'm looking forward to trying out my new kayak, riding my bicycle, playing golf, and getting my back loosened up and functional again. With the stretching and strengthening exercises that Chris, my therapist gave me to do, and the drugs I'm fouling my body with, I seem to be getting back to normal. I will feel better when the drugs stop being a necessary part of the equation.

Since there is no computer or internet access at the cottage, it may the end of next week before I can post here again. There is the possibility of using a computer at the local library if I can get there. We'll see.

getting better

I saw the physical therapist yesterday about the back muscle spasms that sent me to the er last weekend. She is a miracle worker as far as I'm concerned. She diagnosed the problem and then connnected me up to some electrodes that sent impulses into the the muscle and effectively relaxed the damn thing. She then gave me some mild stretching exercises to do. I feel a lot better today than I have for a few days, and I have Chris to thank for it.

I also had an appointment with my neurologist yesterday. This was a regularly scheduled checkup for PD. What I like about this doc is that he will spend as much time with you as you want or need. I never feel like I'm being pushed out the door without having all my questions answered. He addresses all my concerns and is very reassuring that I am doing fine and will probably outlive Moses. He did give me some samples of new meds to try to counteract what he feels is a mild depression or anxiety I have. I'll give them a try, even though I don't feel paricularly depressed or anxious. But I guess the patient is the last one to know. He says he can see the signs of depression in the way I walk and talk and generally present myself. And all this time I thought I was just having some physical difficulties.

So I open the package of pills and dutifully start to read the drug description and adviseries that come with all meds. This particular sheet was one of the more daunting examples of drug literature I have seen. The sheet was fully 18" long printed on both sides in that miniscule print drug companies are so fond of. It took me at least a half hour to wade through that labyrinth of medical jargon and rhetoric and I'm still not sure what it said. But the impression I got was that the drug in question would either cure me or kill me. I would either treat my symptoms or give them to me. The drug would alleviate thoughts of suicide or make me want to commit suicide. It would help me to relax and sleep better or keep me on edge and sleepless as long as I take the stuff. And, oh yea, don't take too many at once because the overdose will probably kill you. I am so much more confident in the drug now that I understand what it can do for me, or to me. For some odd reason I think I might be better off taking my chances without taking the drug.

I'm sure I'm not the only one to ever have the thought, "what am I getting into?" Or, "do I really need this?" I guess we are all so indoctrinated into thinking that doctors always know what is best for us without question, that we blindly do as they say and take what they give us. Then again, I am concerned that if I don't take certain meds, my condition will worsen and I won't be able to regain the lost ground. It just comes down to a question of "who do you trust?" Yourself or the doctor?

ab's & er's

I thought I had my aching back under control by last night. I was moving around fairly well by the time bedtime arrived, but I found that lying down was quite uncomfortable. Still I managed to find a position where I was able to fall asleep. At least for awhile. Then around 3AM as I tried to shift my position in bed, the old back seized up again and I was paralyzed with pain. Mary woke up to the sound of my groaning and gasping and I managed to communicate the fact that I was definitely not alright.

The next part I don't really remember. She says that I managed to get myself into a sitting position on the side of the bed where I proceeded to pass out. Yup, fainted away like a school girl. Eyes rolled back, cold sweat, falling down faint. Your resident wuss. Of course Mary did the right thing at that point by calling 911 and getting the paramedics here to tend to my sorry ass.

I was lying again on the bed, trying not to move, since any and I mean any, movement resulted in excrutiating pain, when the emt's arrived. My greatest worry at that point was that they were going to have to move me somehow and the anticipated pain was as bad as the real thing. There were four of them, I think, but I'm not real sure since everything was experienced through that haze of pain. Anyway I sucked it up so as not to appear too much the sissy in front of them, and managed not to scream too loudly while they rolled me onto a blanket and lifted me into a chair and trundled me down the stairs and out into the ambulance.

Once in the ambulance, we sat there in the driveway for what seemd to be an unusually long time. Maybe they wanted to finish their card game first or something while I writhed and moaned and cried like a baby. I couldn't seem to get any sympathy or drugs out of them, either. When we finally did start to move I was sorry for wishing it. That ambulance did more pain causing damage than if I had been getting whacked in the back with a 2x4. Haven't they heard of shock absorbors? That thing felt like it was riding on the rims without any tires. I felt every little crack in the road for those next ten minutes. And I didn't even get the thrill of a siren or any flashing lights either. I guess my condition wasn't serious enough in their eyes to grant me that little thrill.

Mary followed along in her car, or so I thought. It seems she was delayed for a few moments by calling our son and daughter to inform them of my latest misadventure. Then when she did finally get on the road, true to form, she got lost on the way to the hospital and had to call 911 again for directions. You have to understand that Mary's sene of directiion is so primitive and undeveloped that we have to tie a string around her waist when she goes out to the maikbox so she can find her way back to the house. She is one person who should never be allowed out alone. But her unswerving love for me must have guided her in the right direction, because she did arrive at the hospital, finally, to fuss and hover over me like the mother hen she is. Don't know what I would ever do without her.

When we finally we arrived at the hospital, I was handed over to the nurses, who, bless their caring hearts, proceeded to pump me full of morphine and valium at the doctor's orders. The next couple hours were spent in a blissful state of drug induced euphoria, the pain only a distant memory. When I finally came to I could actually sit up and move without feeling the stabs of a thousand ice picks in my back. I was sent home with prescriptions for valium and percocet and instructions not to do anything stupid, like walking. We got home by about 7:30 and I settled my still woozy body in the recliner and fell asleep for the next 4 hours.

Now here I sit at he computer, not sure all that really happened. It seems like just another bad dream. Still, we did fill the prescriptions just in case the bad dream recurs. I hope I won't need them again.

I hurt myself

Damn, I can hardly move. No matter which way I try to move I end up screaning in agony. Right now I am clenching my jaw with the effort to sit upright in my desk chair and write this. I think it is the right side latissimus muscle in my back that has seized up. And goddamnit it hurts.

How did this happen? I started walking more the past couple weeks. One of the things I need to do to continue to stay active and reasonably mobile is regular daily exercise. Parkinsons Disease robs you of the normal muscle function you are used to. Slow movements lead to no movement or involuntary muscle movement because of the effort it takes to move normally. By not being able to move at a normal pace, your muscles tend to get weak from disuse. Hence the need for regular exercise to keep those muscles functional. So I execise every day. What I haven't been doing much of is walking. We have a treadmill in our execise room, but I avoided it for a long time because I felt like I didn't get enough of a workout on it because I have to walk so slowly.

I ride the stationary bike and do weight training and yoga on a regular basis. But Mary suggested that I need to walk more in order to walk more. Makes sense if you think about it. The reasoning is that if I walk on the treadmill at a regular forced pace, I will be able to better walk during normal daily activities.
Her suggestion made sense to me, so I started to use the treadmill more. I found that when I did, though, my back would hurt a little from the forced posture needed to maintain the steady pace of the treadmill. At first I thought I would be able to work through the initial stiffness and gradually strengthen those back muscles by repeated use. That seemed to be working until today, when that muscle that had been somewhat sore suddenly seized up.

I didn't actually scream, but I groaned and gasped loud enough, that had the windows been open, the birds would fled the neighborhood, the dogs next door would have howled in fright, and the new buds on the trees might have whithered and died from the shock wave of the sound. I was seriously frightened that I would be unable to get up the stairs to get to the bottle of Aleeve and an ice pack. I managed to struggle up the steps in exagerated slow motion, literally crying all the way. I couldn't get to the Aleeve, which was upstairs in the bedroom (no way was I going to try another flight of stairs), so a handful of Advil from the kitchen had to do. As fate woud have it, Mary chose that time to call, just to check in as she frequently does during her time between classes. It did not do her a lot of good to hear me gasping and struggling to talk on the phone. Now after a couple hours, the meds have kicked in, the ice and then heat eased the pain somewhat, and now I am sitting here hoping that when I try to get up, I will be able to do so.

Even more frustrating is that I had a whole list of things to do today which are now not going to get done. Just basic household stuff, routine chores, that I simply can't do right now. Even worse is that when Mary gets home from school, she will be faced with doing those chores. Not fair, I know, but there is not a whole lot I can do about it. I hate like hell lto add to her worries about me ( and she worries a lot), so I will try to downplay the whole episode, grit my teeth, and carry on as near to normal as I can.

But right now life sucks. And hurts.

mission accomplished

The two day working trip to the cottage was a success. Here are pictures of the finished wall sculpture I went to install. I'm very pleased with the result. It turned out pretty much the way I expected it to. Maybe even better.


The location of the cottage is in central Wisconsin, which touts itself as the Christmas tree capitol of the world because of all the tree farms in the area. Hence the inspiration for the piece.

It took most of both days to get it all done, since I had to paint all the pieces first. I was able to do it seamlessly since I was there alone without any interuptions. Matter of fact, the working conditions were ideal. I put on a pot of coffee, cranked up the dvd's of classic rock, and worked in idyllic conditions.

I did get all the other miscellaneus chores done as well. Nothing too important, just the usual maintenance chores. So things are looking good for our next excursion up there for Easter week, when Mary has a break from school. In many of the past years we would take that week after Easter and head to Florida for a week of sunshine and relaxation on the beach at Clearwater Beach. But with Easter being so late this year, we decided to stay here and use the cottage that week instead. Mid April around here is a crapshoot as far as the weather goes--it could be in the 60's or in te 30's. Naturally we are hoping for the 60's. I intend to play a lot of golf that week now that most of the work is finished.

another rampage

Mary is on a rampage this evening. She's tearing around the house threatening my life and wellbeing. She's accusing me of being stupid and selfish and unreasonable. Why? Because I want to head back up to the cottage tomorrow so that I can work on, and hopefully finsh, the wall sculpture that I started to install over the past weekend when we were there.

I've been working on making the various parts for the piece for the past couple months, and got my first chance to see it inn place and how it will turn out last weekend. I liked how it was progressing, so I am anxious to finish it. I have this compulsion to complete any piece I'm working on when it gets to a point where I know how it is going to turn out. I will go nuts if I don't get to it and complete it NOW. I know, that is a bit extreme, but unless you are an artist or have a similar compulsion, you don't know how difficult it is to wait to finish something like this.

You would think that Mary would understand me by now, having had to put up woth me and my creative energies for all these years. I think she really does understand, but likes to make a big deal out of it just for the sake of argument. She doesn't want me to get too sure of where I stand. Gotta keep the old man on edge. So she calls me all kinds of unfreindly names, impugns my intelligence, questions my common sense, mutters about the expense of putting gas in the van, and claims to be worried that I will starve to death. (since I do all the cooking around here, she should be more worried about starvng herself.) She does all this complaining while spending the entire evening making sure I have everything I need to take along, that everyhting is properly organized. She is busily writing copious notes to remind me of everything I need to take and do once I get there. That's just her way of maintaining control.

Of course she is mumbling irrational obscenities aimed in my direction the whole time. She tries desperately to cuss like a longshoreman, to find the most vile and disgusting epithets to hurl at me, but it all usually comes out garbled and mixed up in an unintelligible slurry of syllables. I can't help myself, I just have to laugh. That just drives her into a more expressive frenzy of mangled language. Soon enough her invective has petered out and she will retreat to the bedroom where she can mutter to herself and convince herself that I really am worth all that emotion.

Despite all her ranting and raving, I again will get my way. I will go tomorrow to the cottage where I can work and satisfy that urge to finish what I started. She also knows that I will take care of a number of other minor tasks that need to be attended to, so she is a bit more willing to let me go. For my part, I better to be sure to accomplish all the tasks on her list or risk more hellfire when I get home. As long as I get my main objective done, the sculpture, all the other stuff will get done eventually.

I'll check back in here towards the end of the week to let you know how I fared. I'll have pictures, too, to prove I was actually there working and not just playing golf.