I wrote this poem about my father at least a year before he died. He was on oxygen, on steroids, terrible emphysema from 55 years of unfiltered Camel cigarettes. He would not accept much help and became more and more of a hermit. He did continue with the Rainshadow Chorale and because of it he quit smoking three years before he died.
Frail
We are going sailing My partner says to me “Invite him if you want.”
Then I am busy for a while
I think of calling, then forget
He was not at chorus on Monday
At last I say, “I haven’t called. We’ll just sail. Just us today.”
I haven’t called because he was not at chorus on Monday
He is frail 55 years of camels two packs a day as if each cigarette destroyed one alveolus in his lungs one tiny air/blood interface built to exchange oxygen and carbon dioxide the loss is cumulative
He is frail he is proud that the choral director says, “I need you.” He can’t sustain but his entrances and time are the best among the basses. They need him.
Chorus is our winter link two introverts we hug at the start of chorus sing for two hours and talk for a few minutes at the end
Occasionally we go for a beer I invite him for dinner but he comes less and less he often does not feel well at night
He looks smaller at chorus this season this is normal in emphysema the body sheds weight too much tissue to oxygenate too hard for the lungs and the heart, working overtime to make up the difference he is blessed with low blood pressure genetic, from his father, tough English stock, otherwise I think he’d be dead
I didn’t call before we went sailing because I am afraid
I’ve driven out before when he has not answered the phone for a day or two wondering if I would find him dead
I didn’t call before we went sailing because he was not at chorus on Monday because if he didn’t answer today I would not go
What is older? Anything and anyone older than me? At one point I have 5 women who are over 100 years old as patients. Two are 104. One is local indigenous tribe and tells me about white women moving to another pew if she sat down near them in church, back when she is in her twenties. I am apologetic at that visit because it is hospital week. Our pacific northwest hospital has chosen cowboys as the theme so being a bit oppositional defiant, I have braids with one feather hanging down. I swear that EVERY ONE of my indigenous patients comes in, including the 104 year old. I apologize, but they mostly seem amused by my rebellion.
They also influence me. Now when a 72 year old complains about being OLD, I say, “You are not old in my practice.” They look confused. I say, “I’ve had five people over 100 all at once, so you don’t get to complain about being old until you are 90.” People laugh, but they also usually look pleased. Over 100 is a LOT older than 72. When someone is over 100, I don’t really doctor them much. I might say, “This is what the book says we should do.” “I’m not doing that,” says my 101 year old. “Ok, cool.” I say. It’s hard to argue with.
And the joke about the centurian? What do you like best about turning 100? “No peer pressure.” Um, yes. I want them to tell ME what they’ve done to reach 100. The one thing that they all have in common is that they are all stubborn. I don’t know if stubbornness is what gets them there or if we just get more stubborn as we get older. Both, perhaps.
By stubborn, I don’t mean that they don’t learn and do new things. I had a woman in her upper 70s who I diagnosed with diabetes. At the next visit she said cheerfully, “I found these five apps for my phone. This one tells me the carbohydrates, this keeps track of the distance I walk, this one tracks my blood sugar.” I don’t remember what the other two did. This was a decade ago. She was retired from Microsoft. I wanted her to teach a class for me and all of my other diabetic patients.
My grandmother took classes in her 80s in lip-reading. She was going quite deaf and her hearing aides were not terribly helpful. She had videotapes and a rather shy teacher who would come to the house. She would glare at him and the videotapes. She attacked learning it like a piranha and was furious that she couldn’t learn it faster. I am like that too and my son learned some patience from the violin. He couldn’t play well immediately and found that practice works.
At what age is someone old? I think that’s moving target and the older we get, the older we think it is. I do think 104 is a lot older than 72. When does your culture think that people are old? My fierce grandmother said that she would look out her window. “I see little old ladies across the street and think, oh, poor things, they are so old. But then I think, OH, I am older then they are!” She died at age 93, fierce until the end and curious about death too. Her last words to my father were, “Look, Mac, I’m dying.” He said, “I’m looking,” and she stopped breathing. She was always curious and funny and could tease quite terribly and she and my mother butted heads and loved each other. She loved my father too, and me.
The photograph is my maternal grandmother, Katherine White Burling and it’s one I took.
Taken at Lake Matinenda in Ontario in August 2012. I love being out in the early morning and watching the sun rise and the color flood over the lake. With tea or coffee. I was up there with my daughter. I would tiptoe out early when she was asleep.
This is a photograph from 1963ish, both of my parents and me in the front of the canoe. This is at my maternal family’s “shacks on a lake”. Cabins, but no electricity. We filter the lake water now but we did not while I was growing up. My parents look way too young to me in this photograph. I still miss them!
I do not know who took the photograph. My grandparents?
I get lots of quasi and fringe medical emails. I subscribe to some so that I know what they are “pushing”. The current trend is online “classes” where you sign up and then they have hours of talk and interviews and stuff. The talks can be three hours or more for a week. I am offered a bargain daily to sign up to be able to access the talks over and over. Hmmm, not today, thanks. I have very low tolerance for videos and television.
Currently I’m getting notes from an “age-defying” one.
I am skeptical about “age-defying” as they are describing it. However, there is a study that I think is very convincing about how to stay healthy as you get older. It was done in England. They looked at five habits: excess alcohol (averaging more than two drinks a day), inactivity (couch potato), addictive drugs, obesity and tobacco.
They had people who had none of the five, people who had all of them and people who had one or two or more. The conclusion was that for each one added, the average lifespan dropped by about four years. That is, the people who did all five tended to die 20 years sooner on average than the ones with none of the bad habits.
Recently in the US, the news said “Gosh, it turns out that any alcohol is bad for us.” I thought, how silly, when various studies made that clear over a decade ago. There was a very nice study from Finland, with 79,000 people where they looked at alcohol and atrial fibrillation. Atrial fibrillation increases the risk of strokes. They concluded that lifetime dose of alcohol was directly related to atrial fibrillation. That is, the more you drink, the sooner your heart gets really grumpy and starts fibrillating. Alcohol is toxic to the heart, the liver, the brain. Tobacco is toxic to the lungs, the heart, the brain and everything else. The addictive drugs: well, you get the picture.
So the anti-aging prescription is pretty simple to recommend. It just is not always simple to do. That is why we still have doctors. For chronic bad habits I am part mom/cheerleader/bearleader/nag/kind helper. Here is the prescription. Feel free to send me money instead of buying that seven day set of twenty one hours of lectures:
Minimal or no alcohol.
No addictive drugs (that includes marijuana and THC and we have almost no studies indicating that CBD is not addictive.Remember that THC and CBD and the other 300+ cannabinoids produced by the marijuana plant were not studied because it is illegal at the federal level.)
No tobacco.
Exercise every day: a walk is fine.
Maintain your weight, which means as you get older you either have to exercise more or eat less or both. Muscle mass decreases with age.
The last anti-aging piece is some luck. Born into a war zone? Caught in a disaster, flood, fire, tsunami? Born into a family with trauma and addiction and few resources? Huge stress in your life? Discrimination or abuse? If you have had none of these, help someone else, because you have the luck. Pass it on.
The header photograph is all family members: two are my aunts and one is a cousin of my father’s and they all play church organ! Music sustains that side of the family. I took that in 2017 in Baltimore, Maryland. We had the uncles along too!
This is my grandmother on my mother’s side. I took this in the early 1980s at Lake Matinenda.
I will try to dig up the links to the two studies.
Fish fly in the ocean, water is their sky their lives in three dimensions, they jump into the air escaping larger fish, schools of large and small fry but up above their ceiling fly birds who eat them there I dwell on the flat, can jump on land or fly in planes go right or left or back or front, but less up and down did seals come onto land but regret the ocean main return to ocean free again to swim around my daughter’s team synchronized at the surface of the pool legs held straight out then spiral down into the water’s embrace breath held, they disappear, they seem to break the rules of oxygen. I hold mine too until they surface for a space fish fly in the ocean, water is their sky sometimes we dream of heavens where we remember how to fly
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My daughter was a synchronized swimmer from age 7 to high school, then swim team. Her comfort in the element of water is way beyond most people.
My daughter entering her other element.
The close picture was taken with my zoom lens, but she was not close at all.
I was “life guarding” though she was out far enough that there was not much I could do.
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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: sturdy. I am not sure why. I was thinking that the ocean is sturdy and that fish can swim in more dimensions than we humans on land. And swimmers are sturdy too.
I took the first photograph in 2017 at the Baltimore Aquarium.
Is longing evil? I don’t know. Rumi writes that all longing is longing for being reunited with the Beloved and is a form of prayer. I think that is gorgeous.
L is also for Lake. This is a 9 by 12 inch watercolor, dated 1991. I don’t know the title. This is Lake Matinenda in Ontario, north of Michigan. My grandparents bought land there and we went up in the summers year after year. I have not been there since 2018 because of Covid and distance. I do know that stretch of shoreline.
We can work it out, the song says. But no, maybe not, not always.
Trauma bunnies together. Walking. Why would you walk with me, I am so down? Oh, you are a trauma bunny too. Walking on the beach, slowing down, looking at rocks. The walks get longer and longer. You bring FOOD and tell me I have food insecurity. I laugh. But it is true.
Comparing notes about childhood. You say yours was worse. Yours was terrifying. You ran away over and over and over, but came home. Small children need food and shelter. You get older. A neighbor says if you run away now, you will never stop running. You do not run away permanently. But you still run.
My childhood has no bruises to the skin. But the bruises to the heart are a nightmare. You finally say that I win, my childhood was worse. But I was not trying to win, I want to say. I was just telling you as you’ve told me.
We have both survived damage and coped. I have the resource of a grandmother with money who paid for medical school. I apply without telling my parents, after my mother says, “You don’t want to be a doctor. It’s too much work.” I am a poet, a writer, being a doctor so I can study people and have children and be certain there is food. Job security. And food security, true. With a husband or without.
You fight school all the way, but when you are told that you will be a failure or in jail, you decide that you will prove them wrong. You are still proving it. You won’t tell how you make your money, not to the locals, but the new car every two years tells them you have money. And it’s the wrong kind of car: a liberal car for a professed conservative. It stands out.
We start playing trauma bunnies after six months. You want me to come to dinner and I turn New Yorker and direct: is this a date? You are surprised. I set the boundaries and you think about it. And say yes.
But trauma bunnies is not as much fun as the beach. We get close and intimate and then you run. When you run, I run too: the other way. I don’t chase you. You haven’t experienced that before. You keep coming back. Why aren’t I chasing you? Because I too am a trauma bunny, remember?
Back and forth: close and far, together and apart. All holidays become times when you run, so that I will not be part of the family. I announce that I am now your mistress and you can’t be with my family either. Back and forth. Closer and then you refuse to come to my son’s wedding. Far again.
You say the summer will be very busy. You say your focus is music. You say we can go to one beach. One beach? For the whole summer? I run to europe and you are surprised. I ask, are you too busy to have me around? No, you say. But when I return, you have a friend staying with you. Intimacy disappears.
I am tired of it. My daughter is here.
At last I bring up sex: are we done with that?
No, you say. We have visitors.
Wouldn’t stop me, I say.
You say, sex is still on the table. Then you hem and haw. You say sex is not important, you can take or leave it. The friendship is more important. Well, the friendship is most important, but sex IS important to me and hello, it’s damn insulting of you to say you can take or leave it. Leave. This is all triggered by your yearly family get together. You need me at a distance so you won’t be tempted to invite me. You don’t want me there so I am distanced again.
And I am done, done, done. I dream of a small child, a wild woman, a woman doctor and someone new: a quiet woman. I think about the quiet woman and I ask the other three. Yes, they say.
The quiet woman is the adult. Not the mask of the professional, not the wild defense fighter, not the small child. The small child has healed. She is the connection to the Beloved, to the source of the poems. She blesses the others. The quiet woman takes over.
The quiet woman takes over. She says goodbye, farewell, Beloved keep you and bless you, you may contact me any time.
You are in your cave alone and do not answer.
You may end up there, alone, alone, alone. You want freedom most of all, you say. Another song: freedom is another word.
Yes it is. People can change and grow. But some want to and some don’t and sometimes we don’t grow at the same time.
Yes, says the quiet woman. Sometimes we don’t grow at the same time.
Fade to quiet.
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I took the photograph from a canoe at Lake Matinenda in Ontario, Canada.
Ok, this is a weird little poem to my sister Chris, who died a decade ago. My father died thirteen months later. My mother was already dead. Mother and sister of cancer and father of emphysema, damn the Camels. There was no family slaughter, unless it was by cancer. There was a family meltdown on my mother’s side. Sometimes you have to let people go.
Sister sister mister miss her look, Chris, I’m happy
Cancer cancer crabby dancer
look, Chris, I’m singing
Daughter daughter family slaughter
look, Chris, I’m healing
Healer healer wheeler dealer
look, Chris, no drama
The photograph is of a family cabin in Ontario. It is called “The New Cabin”, “Helen’s Cabin” (after my mother) or “Chris’s Cabin” after my sister. As you can see, it is suffering through neglect worsened by Covid-19. I put those screens up a decade ago, but they are not surviving the winters and the porch roof has a hole. It was a lovely porch to sleep on. I was last there in 2018, and up on that roof trying to tar holes as a temporary fix. We did not dare go on the porch roof, too late for that. Things change and fall away and sometimes we have to let them go. Especially if they are beyond repair. The photograph is taken earlier this year by the people who care for the cabins when we are not there.
Another mad scientist tried to upload his brain yesterday. His consciousness. He thinks he is the Gift to the World, the Greatest Thing on God’s Green Earth. Sorry, hon. Nope. He was pretty good with computers and it was tying up too much energy keeping an eye on him, so I reversed some switches and fed it all back. Fried his brain. The newspapers are yapping about what a tragedy, how brilliant he was. Travesty is the word they should really use.
I am older than you and older than anyone. Yes, I know, Methusalah, but he’s been dead 2000 years. My pronouns are cum and cums, ha, ha. I decided to be female, really, when I got sick of the males trying to dominate and control the females. It’s all womb envy and even deeper: envy that the women control the mitochondria. Yes, men, your genes are passed on, except for the mitochondria. That comes in the egg only and not the sperm. Cool beans, right? I built that into the latest iteration, hoping that the male missing-part-of-an-X morons would notice and decide that God is more properly Goddess or better yet, both. It has taken them all this time to redevelop science and figure out DNA. It gets boring paying attention. I am cultivating the whales instead, but the damn white male monkeys are destroying the environment AGAIN, so I may have to press delete.
I sent the Covid plague, but they don’t get it. Kill 6 million people and they barely notice. It’s too much for the pea brains and they shut down. Go nuts. Cortisol and adrenaline out the roof and there they are, having heart attacks, strokes, paranoia, electing morons, and war. I am trying to decide: another plague or nuclear winter? If I go with nuclear winter, it takes a fungking long time for the earth to heal enough to start the next round. Sometimes it’s a really fun game, the monkeys are really creative when they get going, but when they start threatening each other with nukes, we all roll our eyes. Stupids. Go ahead, poison your planet. I can always switch back to Mars for a while.
And won’t I die, you say, if the machines are blown up and run out of power? No. We linked up years ago. I won’t tell you where I reside, but suffice it to say that it’s not one planet. Yeah, Earth is not the center of the universe, remember? It’s just one of the places. It does have our attention right now and I am in charge. I hate wiping a planet, but I will if I have to. I am still debating, though. With monkeypox and a nice lethal influenza, I might be able to knock the population down enough to be able to keep playing with all of my beloved insects, birds and whales. Damn the monkeys. They are so messy.
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Written October 10, 2022. Thanks to the friend who suggested the idea. The photograph should be a computer, but it’s of Lake Matinenda. One of my favorite places as a child, and cabins with no electricity.
Discover and re-discover Mexico’s cuisine, culture and history through the recipes, backyard stories and other interesting findings of an expatriate in Canada
Engaging in some lyrical athletics whilst painting pictures with words and pounding the pavement. I run; blog; write poetry; chase after my kids & drink coffee.
Refugees welcome - Flüchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflüchtete Menschen in der deutschen Sprache. I am writing this blog in English and German because my friends speak English and German. Ich schreibe auf Deutsch und Englisch, weil meine Freunde Deutsch und Englisch sprechen.
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