Calliope's Alarm Clock

the things we can't answer

2008-11-12T19:38:00.003-06:00

As a hospice manager, I can tell you that in many ways, dying is mostly garden variety where the diseases are concerned. Lung cancer does this, colon cancer does that, congestive heart failure acts like this, pulmonary diseases make people cranky, and so on.

How patients, families and caregivers respond is never "garden variety" because each person is unique with a unique history. Some families do well, some do not. There are so many factors involved in the dying process that the best one can hope for is a tremendous amount of flexibility in the compassion it takes to do this job.

However, once in a very great while, a person dies so horribly that no medicine, kind words, flowers or smiles can take the horror away. Rarely could you definitely blame it on karma. It's that capricious thing that makes people CERTAIN there is no god. And if they can't convince themselves of that, then this god really becomes mean and cruel and dismissive. So it's the spiritual realm of the horrible deaths that bring the tears to my eyes.

I have a lady on service who is dying of face cancer. That's right. She has horrible skin cancer on her face. The cancer is eating her visage and leaving something behind that looks like hamburger meat with huge chunks of grisly fat mixed in. It is creeping towards her right eye. It will eat that eye. It has eaten away her nose and her lips. Her food and water ooze out of her cheek. We don't know if her tongue is still completely attached or not. A careless, insensitive nurse told this lady that the cancer would eventually find its way to her carotid artery and eat through it and she would simply bleed to death in about 10 seconds. The lady cried for three days straight. Now she insists that we bring her more, more, more! wash cloths to stuff against her decomposing face... for when it happens.

She shields her face in shame when a new visitor arrives. When she still had a face, I thought she was one of the most fastidious people I had ever met. Her hair was clean and perfectly combed behind her ears. Her room was neat and bright, with a little cage with two parakeets in it. The little birds brightened her and gave her tremendous joy. There was not a dropping in the cage, she took such good care of them. She was stately and slender, and her personality was almost haughty. Her sense of humor was dry, and her outlook quite matter of fact. Maybe flat is a better description. After all, anything that she saw as pretty in herself was just beginning to lose the battle with a menace that would make every person wince at the sight of her. As the cancer spread and her eyes began to fail, she would lose her own beauty and simply cease to see even the beauty of a tiny white and a tiny blue bird. Eventually, someone at the nursing home would take them away for some other old, lonely person to love.

The loss of beauty would be replaced with anger, bitterness, and venom. Today, she growls at her visitors and caregivers. She demands the flowers she is give be taken out of her sight. She criticized everyone's every move. She rarely allows her own kindness to prevail; no matter how much kindness she is given. Ugly is her reality.

What if you were a frail, hungry, disfigured "monster?" What if you had to lay there and wait for death to take you in the slowest 10 seconds of your life? What if you hadn't done anything all that bad in your life? What if you didn't believe in a god? What if your family lived thousands of miles away and couldn't come to visit you? What if the nurses in your nursing home ignored your pleas for food or water or a clean towel? What if you couldn't get up and get it yourself? So you were slowly shrinking and fading as your face rotted...

This is a true story. It takes a steely stomach to look upon a person who suffers this way. It makes a preacher question his faith. It makes those who think euthanasia is a sin feel guilty as they think it in the back of their minds. It makes murder seem like an option. For this lady, it would simply be suicide. She has requested that Dr. Kavorkian come to see her. She is the definition of pathetic.

And for god's sake! She will not die!

There's no moral here. I don't have a punch line. I simply wish to demonstrate that life is many things. Not always good. Not always bad. Sometimes a definition of compassion. Sometimes an example of evil. But always, we try to tackle it and change it to our way of thinking.

Folks, you can't do that.
Each of us has to learn how to accept the things we cannot change. We have to learn to live with them and make the best of what is; regardless of how bad it seems. We have to accept that any suggestion of "inner beauty" is thoughtless, insensitive, and inherently cruel.

So what is good for this lady? If nothing else, someone is thinking of her tonight. In that way she is not alone. I think a chaplain is praying for her. I think she has given him something he needs, which is the reminder that he is here for a reason... because someone so lonely and disfigured needs him to pray to that god of his and see if that god won't show her a little mercy.

Isn't that funny? That god is her god is his god is her is him is me is you is that that is and isn't and should and could and would be if we only accepted that it is not what we think, but what is.

neither nor

2008-11-10T22:02:00.003-06:00

It's taken me awhile to respond, but here's my answer to the question of whether I'd rather lose my sight or my hearing.
...one is not better or worse than the other.
I would accept it if I lost either or both.

Vision is more than sight.
Listening is more than hearing.

When I read, I "see" a world, its colors, its settings, its people. Movies disappoint me when they are the adaptation of a book I've read because I see better without seeing.

Sound is vibration. What I feel in my whole body sings to me everyday.

For me, to lament the possibility of the loss of a physical state of being brings on unnecessary suffering. I don't like to worry about "what if." I prefer to acknowledge what is.

True awareness does not rely on the concepts we devise through our senses. If we totally experience what is and how we fit into that, the loss of one sense would not change reality. It is what it is. If I were blind, I could read with my fingers, and the same eyeless brain would create the same pictures it did before I lost my eyesight. If I was deaf, my musical memory would know the vibration of a song I once heard with my ears.

Try that. When you feel a bass line coming from somewhere - a car, a house, a club - identify the song. Chances are, you can... if you've really been listening.

So I experience each sense with all of my senses.
A rocking chair sounds like a country shuffle.
A metal song looks like a 1979 black Trans AM.

Nothing is lost as long as everything is gained while I have all of my senses with me.

A song in progress (for the last year and a half) that needs some help

2008-11-09T13:30:00.003-06:00

How do I know if I'm crazy?
she said, How do I know if I'm sane?
I keep plugging away
I just can't seem to make the world change

How do I know if I'm happy?
she said, How do I know if I'm sad?
Is this all there is?
This confusion is driving me mad.

Oh, I know
That a life that's worth living
Is worth all the struggle and strife
Oh, I know
With you here beside me
I can face all the trials of life

How do I know if I love you?
Do I even know how to love?
I feel empty inside
I am frozen, I can't seem to move.

Topic suggestion

2008-11-04T17:32:00.001-06:00

Imagine that when you close your eyes tonight to go to sleep, when you wake up tomorrow morning, you are unable to open your eyes. What will you miss? What will you be happy not to see? How will your life change? What would be better? What would be worse? Would your outlook on life change?

I've been asked several times if I'd rather lose my vision or my hearing. I always said, my vision, because I would want to be able to hear someone say I love you.

When I was driving through Brenham the other night, it ocurred to me that I really would rather lose my vision, because if I lost my hearing, I could no longer sing. It was an interesting epiphany.

a weak response

2008-11-03T18:59:00.002-06:00

Stacy has the lyrics mojo again. I feel I should at least try. So I'll try something new...
hip hop/rap

Yo, Yo the cat is old
he get in my lap
an' he got gas
i throw him to da flo'

My girl gotta thang
for dancing stars
an' salsa wars
it just suck away her brain

yo, yo da bitch is old
she don't need da boy
she do need to explore
somethin' new an' bold

like old cats
that nobody want
cause they got gas
lil' kitty kat farts

we gonna take the prize
we gonna open they eyes
we gonna take it back
that be our power.
take back da power.

...and do something good.
ya know?

I like Stacy's lyrics much, much better.

ring, calliope, ring.

OK, I went to a wedding and was moved by the ceremony, and i wrote a song

2008-11-03T12:26:00.003-06:00

my cousin was supposed to get married on 9/13, but Ike had other plans. they postponed until 11/1, and I went. it was a the courtyard on st. james, near the galleria. it was a garden wedding, with a sitdown dinner.

what struck me about the ceremony were several things:

the words in the service were gender neutral
the bride and groom wrote very wonderful vows
the groom cried during the vows
they did this great thing where they each poured sand into a single container
rather than having wedding favors for the guests, the couple made a donation in each guests name to the md anderson children's art project, and so began their marriage in service

the bride's brother in law did a reading from ecclesiastes (chapter 4, verses 9-12, which is apparently oft cited at weddings) that I really liked, about having someone to help you up when you fall, having someone to keep you warm.

it was actually one of the most original, inclusive, traditional but unique, weddings i've ever been to, and i applaud them.

(i talked to my cousin at the reception, and she said, you know, we like the god thing, but the church thing, not so much.)

And only one of my cousins suggested I go out to catch the bouquet. I said, skip, I may not be legally married, but I am definitely not single. he said, oh, I guess that's right.

anyway, i had a notepad with me, and i made a few notes when things rang true with me. and yesterday, a phrase started bouncing around in my head..."the mathematics of love", which became the title. so in a couple of hours, I had this song.

You take away all my fears and all my doubts
You bring me hope when I'm turning inside out
You divide all my pain and all my tears
The mathematics of love

When I'm down it's your hand that lifts me up
When I'm cold it's your heart that warms me up
With you I'm more than i ever thought I'd be
The mathematics of love
The mathematics of love

(chorus, part 1)
All our yesterdays and tomorrows
All our happiness and our sorrows
All our memories and our dreams
We're so much more than two
When the mathematics of love adds me to you

And in the face of the storm we stood our ground
It huffed and puffed but it could not knock us down
A strong foundation will stand the test of time
The mathematics of love

Though sands will slip through the hourglass of time
With equal love, I am yours and you are mine
I'll stand beside you forever and a day
The mathematics of love

(chorus, part 2)
When I'm with you the stars seem brighter
When I'm with you my load seems lighter
We never want the night to end
We're so much more than two
When the mathematics of love adds me to you

I'll take away all your fears and all your doubts
I'll bring you hope when your turning inside out
I'll drive away all your pain and all your tears
The mathematics of love

When you fall, I'll be be there to pick you up
When it's cold, I'll be there to warm you up
When it's dark, I will shine just like the dawn
The mathematics of love
The mathematics of love

(chorus)
All our yesterdays and tomorrows
All our happiness and our sorrows
All our memories and our dreams
They hold me fast to you

When I'm with you the stars shine brighter
When I'm with you my load is lighter
We never want the night to end
We're so much more than two
When the mathematics of love adds me to you

We're so much more than two
When the mathematics of love adds me to you

I pretty much like the whole song, but one line i have struggled with:
We never want the night to end.

It was also:
Winter's short, and the spring won't end.

I'm just not completely happy with that line. I don't hate it, but I don't love it.

Cleaning the closet

2008-10-09T20:25:00.002-05:00

I cleaned out my closet. It's not a big closet to begin with, so even when it's stuffed, there really aren't that many clothes in it, but nevertheless, I cleaned it out. I got rid of faded, favorite shirts. I got rid of gifts I'll never wear. I got rid of things that don't fit anymore... for some reason people think I'm a men's medium when in actuality I'm barely a women's medium and closer to a women's small. If I didn't have boobs, I'd be a solid small. I have no shoulders. Scoop neck anything hangs on me, accentuating my ass as the garment hangs like a pup tent from my narrow shoulders down to my not so narrow back side.

So I cleaned out my closet.

I don't care. I put the Ann Taylor and the White Stag in the same pile. It will all go to a thrift store. Never mind the "gently used ladies clothing" boutique. I like the idea of some poor Mexican National finding my almost new Ann Taylor for $3. Certainly, there's a broad shouldered working woman who will look good in a designer scoop neck blouse.

Now that the job is done, I realize that I have no clothes. If I remove the shirts with my company logo on them, I HAVE NO CLOTHES! The half dozen slacks in there are either black, khaki or brown. There is one pair of navy pin stripes, but they're actually too short. I don't know why I keep them. I think because they have a low rise waist, and that makes my butt look smaller.

After the disappointing result from cleaning out the closet to pretty much nothing, I thought I'd check my chest of drawers. Nothing to throw away. It's my shorts, t-shirts and jeans. The ultra casual wardrobe. That means I have an ultra casual wardrobe and a work wardrobe. I am not allowed to go out on the town based on my wardrobe. I have to go to Dallas tomorrow night for a little salon. I have to decide whether to wear a golf shirt with a company logo or hiking shorts. I'll be an instant pariah in Dallas. Dallas is the city of fashion. Where Southwestern cultural beauty is defined. Where money shows off. And I'll be wearing a pair of REI hiking shorts and a cotton blend t-shirt!

Somehow, I don't think I can pull it off. I don't have the "personality" or "cool factor" to pull it off. I'll just look clueless to hip Dallas evening attire. Unartistic to the "nth" degree.

Embarrassing.
Country comes to town.

Pink pig

2008-10-02T15:51:00.002-05:00

The first thing I see when I look away from my computer screen. A pink pig sits on my desk. It's very round; like a ball with little ears perched on top and little pin point, black eyes and a stubby snout and four stubby legs. A little, squishy, pink piggy ball. It's there for stress. I can squeeze the pig when I need to release pent up aggression, or I need something to do with my hands while thinking, or if I think I need some digital muscle development.

Mostly the pink pig sit and peeks out from behind my business card holder. It stares down the hall and waits for someone to notice it, pick it up and squeeze it. I can't remember who gave me the pig.

It sits beside a golden plastic egg - the kind we fill with candy surprises at Easter. The eggs is full of glitter infused golden putty. It looks like molten precious liquid as it's poured into a bullion mold.
Go figure. I play with that golden putty more than I play with my squishy pig.

But the pig is cuter.

death

2008-10-01T14:15:00.002-05:00

I cried when the Archbishop died. Willa Cather's leisurely ramble through the history of Catholic New Mexico.
I regret the fading of the night sky, but rejoice as the sun breaks above the trees... faint, pink light that washes deep blue to a pale, dusty prelude to the day.
I am ambivalent to the faceless patient who dies within minutes of admitting her to hospice services.
Why?
Death comes every day in my business. It settles in and gets comfortable. It does not relieve the boredom of a quiet office on a fall afternoon. It feels like a paycheck. It is more distant than an old, classic character in a classic American novel because I cannot see the players of my patients' lives dropping their heads in sorrow as they watch the last breath wane and cease. I can't necessarily feel the tension surrounding the staff nurse who is there to "pronounce."

As a youngster, I thought of funeral directors as unusually and inappropriately happy people. How could death be happy? How could the preparation of the body be joyful?
It isn't.
But it lessens in impact as the fright and awe of what lies on the other side ceases to impress those who dispassionately shuffle papers, call in orders, and manage the business of death.

It's not that I don't care, it's just that there isn't anything left to scare me. A loss is sad, but not eternal. It's a shift in priorities. The circle of life which inevitably includes death.

diabetes

2008-09-30T13:55:00.002-05:00

I don't have it, but sometimes I think I do. I go just a little too long without food and suddenly, I'm racing out my office door towards the closest and fastest restaurant I can find to elevate my blood sugar. Usually, that would be a Mexican food joint. After all, I'm immediately rewarded with a basket of chips... irrational outburst avoided...
That didn't work today. I raced out the door to the nearest, fastest Mexican food restaurant only to find the tiny parking lot hogged by a pickup attached to a long flat bed trailer. The truck had parked across an entire row of parking spaces. Since there are only 3 rows of spaces, the truck effectively reduced my chances of getting a parking space by 33%.
I was not deterred. Hungry and stubborn, I turned onto the next row and found a narrow space near a rotting privacy fence. Should I bump it in my haste to park, it would be nature's fault; not mine.
As I got out of my own over-sized truck, I could smell the rich, burning smell of cooking fajitas.
My low sugar craze intensified. I almost ran to the restaurant door.
Once inside, the place was packed and in chaos. I wasn't sure if I should wait to be seated or seat myself. This place is more for the low brow, seat yourself patron, so I did just that only to wait and wait and wait to be served a basket of chips.
I was hyper sensitive to anyone I might perceive to be against me, so I unconsciously honed in on the conversation going on in the booth next to mine.
I listened to a hefty, narrow-eyed trucker tell his women about a wreck he had. Apparently, a woman who looked like a man, managed to get herself caught between his rig and the curb. He bumped her. But she looked like a man.
"You know." He said pointing to one of his audience. "She didn't have no flowers or nuthin' on her shirt, so I din't KNOW!" Then he leaned over and whispered, his loose chest falling on the table top. "She looked like A MAN!"
Then he glanced at me, of course.
I finally got up and left. I figured I could get a hamburger faster than a basket of chips.
Since my blood sugar was low, my absolute desire was to whack the mystery bubba on the top of his matted, dirty head as I walked by.
I didn't. I rationalized that I was merely hungry, and left him to his sexual surprise.