2015: The Long and Short of it

So long to 2015. Like Clark, may regrets be short and sweet.

     As 2015 draws to a close, I have some reflecting to do.
1.) I lost two adoring dogs. Chelsea, a miniature long haired dachshund we raised from a pup and Clark, a basset mix who came into our lives as an elderly rescue. My life is so empty without them but I am thankful for how much love they gave me in the long and short time we had together. Long and short...just like they were.
2.) I lost an aunt who for all intents and purposes was another mother. Never having married or children of her own, she had always been around. The tubs and tubs of photographs attested to her presence. It's strange not to have her around. Even if she said very little or contributed even less, I never got to thank her for 'being there' as a babysitter for my siblings and our children, for dutifully making the obligatory puto and fruit salad, for instigating photographic evidence of an event, and more poignantly, her participation in the lives of others. Even as a silent observer, she will be missed.
3.) For many people, my store finally closed, only because now there is a new endeavor to ponder. I'm still grappling with where A Centre for Women's Work will be headed, but it's a direction that is part of the next steps, building a future based on the past, because from the time I stepped into the Kalahari Desert and met the San Bushmen in 2003, I have been focused and centered on women. There is still so much more to do.
4.) My daughter has not only blossomed in college, but is now her own person. We stopped the twice daily texting mainly because there was no cellphone coverage at Cranberry Lake. That's where she spent the majority of the summer gaining, and I must say, excelling in a practical wildlife education (she names trees, lifecyles of mushroom and identifies mosses, for godsake!). She got a new boyfriend, now sings in a band, performing on stage and continues to amaze me with her effortless stream of creativity. She joined the equestrian team and started competing. While we support her financially and she does still come to us for advice, this is her life, I'm only glad I'm here to see that her potential is evidenced in her many, sometimes too many, actions...What I'm trying to say is that I did good. Yup. I gave her the foundation to reach beyond me and my capabilities. To soar to heights I didn't know existed. And to do it knowing Peter and I 'got her back'. I believe our children take risks not because they know we will catch them, but that we are there no matter what.
5.) My son, my son,  my son. He is also his own person, needing some guidence certainly, but seeing him as the honest, reliable, candid, sometimes intense but mostly laid back young man that is him. He took a jump while snowboarding, face planted, scrambled to find the go-pro that was still running and cheerfully texted me asking where his dad was since he made his way to first aide. I was home. Peter had taken him to the mountain. Instead of being scared, coz the doctor who took a look at him first thing on Monday said he could have lost an eye had he not been wearing his goggles and reprimanded him for not wearing a helmet, he jovially said, "Yeah. I won't be doing that again." Meaning not snowboarding without a helmet, but couldn't wait to get back to that mountain to conquor the jump. At least he knows just how lucky he is. And that's thanks to me. Yup, me. I have instilled in him a sense of right and wrong, good and bad, and without much prodding, he opens the door for me, carries bags for me, and obligingly does just about anything I ask. And do you know why? Because he knows I love him and he shows me he loves me in return by doing these little things. And he does that because he knows just how lucky he and I are to have each other. I wish many more moms of teenage boys could say that.
6.)  Speaking of moms, I had reached a new level of understanding and appreciation for my mom. While my aunt suffered with cancer, I realized how little time we truly have with those we love. You can waste it wishing for a better relationship, demanding a change in outlook, regretting lost opportunities for connection, rememberance, remorse. But in the end, loved ones leave you with unfinished business that will need to be cleared up and in some cases, completely cleaned out.
7.) Which brings me to time...the perfect inspiration for the end of year reflection. Time is short. My brother who died at 32 and my father at 65, are my reminders of life being way too short. My realizing that my daughter will make her own home one day soon, away from us, never to be a part of our home again. Our son, a junior in High School is also too close to being on his own, forcing me to face that empty nest.
     But I'm lucky, like my son, I realize just how lucky I am, because while my nest may be empty, my life is full. I have a husband that adores me - me and my long aspirations and short accomplishments. His very presence can relieve my greatest fears. Having met and married in our early 20's, he and I have grown up together and rest assured that we will grow old together.
     Growing old, retiring, planning a future when so much of our life is in the past, I look forward to 2016. I accept love and loss. I am grateful for the moments we can share with others. I know that each year is not a year older, or a year gone by, but another blessed memory we make for ourselves and for those we love.

Happy 2016, everyone! 

Miss Chelsea

Yesterday was a year without Chelsea.

     I didn't write anything because I spent the day with my mom as she underwent a partial mastectomy. She is fine. It was preventative. Caught the benign cancerous cells before they could cause damage.
     At 81, the doctor gave her a choice. The cells were so slow growing, she could ignore them for years before they would do any harm. There was less than 5% chance they would ever be anything to worry about. That's good news. Finally, this time cancer could be controlled.

     It's been a long year. A year where I lost Chelsea due to my own negligence. I let her out without her electric collar, not that she was trained to stay put with it or anything. She was a tough little doggie and would run through the fence when she wanted to. None of our other dogs ever did that. That day, was nothing special. She often left the yard. . . but she always came back. If I called to her, she would turn to me as if to say, "Yeah, I hear ya, but I'm still going this way." There was no controlling her. There was no preventative measure. As a way of dealing, I told myself, she suffered great back pain. Recently, she had had episodes where her spine would contort and it would wrap her up like a pretzel. She would grimace in obvious excruciating pain. I took her to the Vet several times and the only relief he could offer was cortozone injections. I feared for her quality of life. Her death meant she didn't have to go through that. Meant she went out as she lived, running and doing as she pleased. I'd like to think she didn't see that car coming and she didn't feel a thing. That's what I tell myself. My shadow and my "owner" may be gone, but certainly never forgotten. She would have been 8 years old.

Then, in September, just about a year from when we got him, Clark had a violent seizure. Titch, who was nearing the end of her life, called out to Markham. They were the only ones home at the time, because that day, I took my mom to her doctor after she complained of a stomachache . The doctor had her go in for a scan and they told us to go to the emergency room. That's where I was instead of home taking care of my thirteen year old dog. That's where I HAD to be in order for me to not have to witness his dying.
     In the year that Clark was with us, he became so attached to me. At first, Chelsea didn't know what to make of it. Later, I think she thought it was cute that this old dog would be so in love with me but she knew I was hers. "It's OK," she'd kind of say to Clark. "You can love her, but she's mine, all mine." Which is how she played it particularly when Clark tried to get up on the bed. She would defiantly stand above him and not let him up. Pretty funny sight considering she weighed eight pounds and he weighed a very dense fifty-four.
     He would search the house for me and cried until I came home. Lucky for both of us, I could take him with me most of the time. He would be my co-pilot. He would sit beside me at the various offices I went to write. He would walk beside me, getting the attention of strangers who found his personality and handsome good looks inviting. He'd let them pet him, but he rarely engaged. He only had eyes for me.
     There were no signs of an illness. Sure, he'd had trouble over the year - his vet bills were double what we'd ever spent on Chelsea and Maverick combined. When we first got him, I'd check on him as he 'slept' to make sure he was still breathing. But it was just a few weeks before he died that I noticed he didn't follow me from room to room. He didn't ask permission to "be". Something must have clicked inside of him, it was evident. He had found his home. He had found where he belonged.
    And so, when Peter called me that night to tell me there was something wrong with Clark. I knew what he was saying. I said, "The surgeon just arrived. He's telling us what he will be doing. I can't talk now. Please tell me I love him. Do what you need to do." And I hung up.
     Clark had gone into a long and severe seizure in the arms of my son. My son, who was mad at him, who didn't like him, and wanted us to get rid of him. My son, whose dog, Maverick was dominated by Clark. Over food mostly, the two male dogs would have altercations. Fights that left Maverick bleeding on several occassions. Getting inbetween them once, I felt Clark's bite and had the black and blue mark to show for it. Markham was defensive of his dog, understandably. So, how appropriate that "God" would leave it to Markham to HAVE to care for Clark. And when he needed to, my 16 year old son was there for him. I don't know what happened. Peter won't tell me details. But Clark couldn't have gone out any other way.

A little over a month later, my aunt died, finally. Her cancer had become unresponsive to the chemo and had started to grow once more. Unlike Chelsea who literally didn't see her death coming and unlike Clark who had gotten stronger over the year we took care of him, Titch started to visiably fail. She stooped, she shuffled, she ate less and less. Over the course of the two weeks before she was hospitalized, she became a shell of the person she once was.
     Her death was anticipated, expected and inevitable. The surprise was that she lingered in the hospital for over a week without any liquids, meds, or breathing apparatus. She clung to life even though there was virtually no life left to cling to. She strained for each breath. Her heart labored. Her muscles twitched. Two of the oncology nurses said they'd never seen anything like it.
     People paraded in to say their good-byes. People prayed. Then the next day, they prayed some more. We cheered her on. Even the priest from her church gave her the last sacraments and said, "Go on. Meet your maker. It's time to go" in the cheeriest Irish brogue. But days later, she was still there.
   
Three deaths in one year. Someone said, death comes in threes because of the Holy Trinity. I don't know. I do know one thing though.
     When I go, I want to go like Chelsea. I want to be remembered as I was; spunky, spry, bossy and bitchy. I want to say, 'Yeah, I see you, but I'm going this way, not your way.' And I wouldn't want to be a burden. I wouldn't want to have a long good-bye.

God, I miss Chelsea but I'm so grateful that I was hers for that long and that she was that sassy miniature long haired dachshund we all knew and loved to the very end.

https://www.facebook.com/CeciliaDinioDurkin1/videos/10205476513703106/

Death: Mocks and Mimicks Life

Another cancer patient.
     This one was ready early. "Do you want to go now because we have 15 minutes." " No, let's go now," she said.
     There seemed to be a delay in getting a nurse from Vassar Hospital. When she finally arrived, she didn't know where anything was. I had to show her where to find the rubber gloves.
     My mom worked in hematology. She knew she had difficult veins. She told the nurse about the nurse in the ER when she had appedicitis just under two months ago. "The blood came oozing, dripping down my arm."
     But this nurse got it the first time. She took her time and was not only experienced but caring.
     Less than an hour after I left her in the care of the surgerical team, she awoke. Smiled at the nurse and asked when the doctor would operate. She was already in recovery.
     With only one other patient in her wing, the tranquility and serenity was a welcome experience. They played beautiful music and none of the conversations between the staff was anything but pleasant. Mom opted to have a preventative operation, ridding her body of possible malignant cells.  
     At 81, the doctor didn't say one way or the other whether or not she should go for this operation. I urged her to. All I could think after Tita Chet died of complications due to cancer just a month before, was I wouldn't want to give cancer a chance. Not even a small percentage of risk.
     My mom was given a choice, while her sister's cancer was inoperable.
Their lives mimicked their cancer prognosis, again proving my point.

$15 and Change

Before you tell me how great a person I am, I want to tell you that I am not. I did something any one of you would do if given the chance.        
Over the weekend at a Salvation Army store in Syracuse, a family stood in line. They waited to get the price of a winter coat for the mom. 
I was at the register next to them. I was buying three pieces of children's clothing...for my dog. In all, the polar fleece vest, the down vest and the hoodie came to around $15. As it turned out, the same price as this woman's winter coat. 
When the cashier told her the price, the couple looked at each other and the husband said, "We don't have that much." The cashier said, "So what would you like to do?" 

Holding up a pair of red velvet boots with tassels that I assumed were for the little girl, the mother asked what the total was without those boots. The cashier told her. The mother looked at the items she was purchasing - a bra for herself, a pair of gloves, a sweatshirt for their son. Again, the cashier asked her what she wanted to do. The mother said, "I will take it." English was not her first language. From the conversation between the couple, I think they were speaking Swahili. The cashier questioned her. "The girls' boots or the jacket?" The woman said, "I want all of it, but..." The line grew longer. "I'm confused. Do you want all of it?" "Yes, but I can only take one." "So, which one?" The clerk asked impatiently. "That one." She pointed to the red boots. 
Well, that nearly broke my heart and made it swell all at the same time. She chose her daughter over herself. I had to do something. 

As they paid, I glanced up at my husband, but he wasn't really paying attention, and so I quickly asked the cashier waiting on me to ring up the coat. She hestiated for a moment. Afraid the family would leave without the coat, I grabbed it as she added it to my bill, I handed it to Peter. "Quick, quick." I said to him. "Give this to them." pointing to the family heading out the door.
Without looking their way, I heard Peter saying, "Excuse me." And "Stay warm this winter." 
He returned to me at the register to take the bag of kids' outerwear we had bought for our puppy, Westley. $15 to clothe our dog, the same amount to keep a woman warm during a Syracuse winter.
We were going to our car when the husband came up to Peter, took his hand in both of his and said, "God bless you. Have a wonderful day."

I debated whether or not to put this on social media. I decided to, not to pat myself on the back, but to inspire others to do the same.

Every day, we can make a difference in someone's life. When you see that chance, take it. Be the change.

Rejected by Rescues: I Abandoned the System.

So, you are on Facebook, minding your own business when up pops a "news" story about an abandoned dog. His ribs are sticking out, flies land on his eyes. Scared, he retreats to a drainpipe to get away from his rescuers. You begin to weep uncontrollably.

But there's good news! You can adopt this dog and give him the home and love he deserves. That idea had never crossed your mind, but now it's an obsession.

You post a comment on this story and you get a response. You notice there are literally hundreds of comments from people all wanting this particular dog. There are other kind souls out there. You are not alone. You feel better but now, you actually want to help. If they can do it, so can you.

I'm sure we didn't meet Heart of the Catskills
qualifications either, but they knew no one
would adopt two old dogs together, so they
did the right thing and let us skip the adoption
application. I have Mitch and HoftheC to thank
for this wonderful year with Clark. 

You click on the website of the rescue and you begin to fill out the application form. With each passing question, you wonder, am I adopting a dog or a child? Neither are easy processes to be sure. Here are some of the questions that our family failed when trying to adopt a dog after Clark died.

1.) Fencing Lesson
We don't have a fence. We have an electric fence, but not a physical fence. Many rescues don't think it's humane nor effective in keeping dogs in the yard.
Our stubborn dachshund would sometimes discover that the fence was off or that her collar was not charged or as was the case the day she died, her human took her collar off because it was causing scabbing on her neck. While she had run our of the yard before, she had always come right back. Not that day. And still, we have no fence.

2.) Population and Demographics
How many people live in your house? Do you have children under 15 or elderly relations? If there are people that live with you that don't want the dog, you may not get the dog. In our case, this means the dog would never have to be crated, left outside to brave the elements, or be alone all day. But for some reason, I don't know if this was a good thing.

3.) Canine Companions
They ask you if you have other dogs. I thought this would be a good thing. Surely, if you have a dog already, they must realize how much you love dogs! But this turned out to be the most troublesome issue. If you have a dog, what kind is it? They want to know how old, how the dog deals with other dogs and a huge surpise and deal breaker is if the dog is neutered.
Rescues do not want you breeding your dog. Our remaining dog is a pure bred English Setter with papers. We had originally wanted to breed his predecessor, Oz who was smart, handsome, and obedient. Maverick, not so much. But the breeder asked us not to fix him and we didn't. I don't see why I should subject him to an unnecessary operation and expense since he would never come in contact with another dog unless we wanted him to. That's our business, no? It's not as if we are breeding him or don't care about where he is so that he can breed? I would totally get the rescue neutered if that's the rule, sure. But him? Why?

4.) Dog Family History
Then they ask you to list your other pets and how they died. This was painful but as you all know, I rather enjoy expressing my pain.
I wrote about Oz and Otse and what they meant to our family. How our neighbor at the time (in Africa) had shot and killed them becaues he found them on his property. The shelter I had applied to responded that she couldn't give us another dog because she wouldn't feel right putting it in danger. We live in the USA now. I doubt very much our neighbors here in Poughkeepsie would shoot our pet! But she stopped responding.

More recently, I wrote about Chelsea and how she was my shadow. How her loss was something I had to live with because I had taken her collar off that day. One minute she's next to me, the next she was gone. I found her a little over an hour later hit by a car blocks from our home. I wrote about how devestated I was because I was her pet. There's that fencing problem again, rearing it's ugly little head.

I wrote about Clark, how we had adopted him from a rescue after he'd been found by our friend Mitch. Mitch had come across the two old malnourished brothers walking along the road in the middle of the woods. According to the dog warden, who, it is worth noting, is also the mail carrier, their owners had left them there three times that week. One time with their collars. One time without. And the third time, Mitch picked them up and called the warden once again.
   We took in both elderly dogs and named them Lewis and Clark. But only Clark would make it home with us. Lewis didn't recover from the neutering. For a year, Clark followed me around, cried when I would leave him behind, and lived a happy, healthy, and loved life for the first time in his 12 years. He had gained weight, regained full use of his arthritic back legs, and had just settled into our lives and our home when he had a seizure and never came out of it. Again, we rushed him to the emergency vet - the first time was in Syracuse while visiting Macallan, his ankled swelled up and he was in visible pain. Another time, he was lethargic and had a fever. We joked that we had spent more on Vet bills for Clark than our other dogs combined.

5.) Vetting based on Vet Bills
Which leads me to the questions about our Vet. We had no regular Vet and many of their vaccinations Peter and Macallan would give them. We really should have gotten them rabies shots, but up until recently, we had no medical coverage, we certainly couldn't afford regular visits for our pets. So, when the rescues would check out our care of our animals from the Vet, they weren't happy with the answer. No, we hadn't had our dogs checked each year. Our dogs' vaccines were not updated as far as they were concerned. And none of our dogs were fixed, except for Clark.

I have to say, I applaud the work that rescues perform. I admire the dedication to animals' care. I think it's amiable to make sure pets are in homes that will give them a healthy, happy life.

What I wonder is, how many dogs are not homed? How many dogs remain with unstable futures in fostercare? Fostering is short-term and yet there aren't enough "qualified" adoptive families for the dogs to go to permanently. How many dogs die before the rescue decides which home is suitable? How many live in kennels instead of a loving home because of strict regulations?

But other than going through a shelter/ rescue, there are few ways to acquire dogs. There is buying a dog from a breeder, a pet store (Please Don't Do That! Many dogs from Pet Stores are produced in puppy mills, with breeding dogs in horrendous conditions resulting in odd mixes and poor health for the puppies.) and on Craigslist.

I've seen the stories of dogs being used for dog fights and puppy mills coming from Craigslist. I hadn't gotten a positive response from any of the rescues so I started looking for dogs that might fall between the cracks. I only started looking that day and up popped an ad for a coonhound puppy. I answered it right away. And she answered right back. We had a dialogue for an hour or so. Peter was unreachable at a conference. I had to wait to ask his opinion and ask if he would be willing to drive an hour to go meet the owner and the dog.

Five hours later, with no forethought. We were driving home with a coonhound puppy. I had always noticed them in a crowd, but never thought about owning one. After the personality of Clark, I wanted a basset hound. I wanted a companion, not just a pet. Coon Hounds had similar person-like personalities, just like Clark. As I held this little guy, I hoped he too would be as attached.

Meet 11 week old Black and Tan Coonhound,
Westley Fitzwilliam Darcy,
the perfect companion
for me. 

Long story, just a little bit longer...It's been a week since we went to get him. A month after losing Clark. I wanted another dog because I saw how much of a difference we made in Clark's life. I thought about his brother, Lewis, who never made it to our home. I remember crying after the rescue called to tell us he wouldn't recover from the surgery and thinking, "I hope you knew we wanted you. Your family didn't , but we did."  And that's what I wanted to do for another dog.

I looked for an older dog that someone might not want. I searched and applied for abandoned or homeless dogs that needed someone to love them. I didn't find one through a rescue.

But I think, this dog was meant to be. I will give him the care that Clark should have gotten. From the start, I can give him the love and trust a dog needs to feel safe and secure. He'll have good food, a soft bed and positive attention from caring humans.

With Clark, I got to see him go from being a guest in our home, to knowing he belong here with us. With Westley, I get to see him blossom and grow to reach his greatest potential. Our home will always be his home, the only home he'll know. That's something I can give him. And for many dogs, that's something they never receive.

Aunt-Tithesis of Love & Hate

My mother included her in our family
from the beginning. She accompanied
my siblings and me to the USA in 1966.

I hate her, I thought to myself as I once again waited for her to emerge from the house. She is late for every single Dr.'s appointment.

It is 6:20am. Three hours before I usually get up! Here I sit, dressed and on time to take her to the hospital.

Last night, I had set my alarm for 5:30am so that I could jump in the shower and be ready to drive her to yet another Dr.'s appointment. But just as my alarm is going off, I hear her throw open her door and shuffle into the bathroom.

Always in the way. She. Is. Always. In. The. Way.

I wait for her to finish and go back to her room. Now, I only have enough time to brush my hair and teeth.

I finish quickly to get out of the way of the regular routine my son and husband have before they leave for school and work. That's what considerate people do.

It is now 6:05 and I make my way to the car. I know she is awake, so as I go toward the front door, I knock on her bedroom door and say, Ready? She doesn't answer, but she knows it takes 15 minutes to get to the hospital from here. I will meet her outside.

It is 6:20 and we should have left 5 minutes ago. I walk back into the house to retrieve her. The front door is locked so I ring, ring, ring the doorbell. She takes a while to come to the door. "Come on!" I holler at her. "You have to be there by 6.30!" I shout.

I wonder if my neighbors can hear me. I can't control my anger with her. She is the anti-thesis of everything I hate - lazy, dumb, inconsiderate, complaining, unresponsive, ineffectual, silent, and a follower who hides behind religion to excuse her lack of motivation, her ignorance, her inability to care for herself. Jesus will do it. 'fraid not.

Her bedroom today. Hoarding is just one
sign of her instability, not due to the
Cancer but as a result of a lifetime of
unresolved issues. 

This has been a long 9 months. Hmm...the length of time it takes to have a child, well, unfortunately, she's been like one all of her 75 years! Imagine, 75 years of expecting everyone around you to take care of you.

It may seem heartless for me not to want to care for her as she battles cancer, but this is not new, a special circumstance, it is the norm. And not only does she expect someone else to take on her burdens, she requires it and isn't thankful for any help.

Last night as my sister-in-law explained to me what our aunt's end-of-life scenario would be, I felt sad. It dawned on me how little time she really had, and for a time, I felt compassion. I have waves of it toward her. But all that was erased when she not only kept me waiting once again, but then she let the car door fall shut and didn't try to reclose it. She looked at the door and then at me and decided she didn't care and started to walk away. "Close it again." I shouted for the second time this morning.  She reluctantly did. Then she turned to walk herself into the hospital because I was going to be damned if I went out of my way for her!

She's infuriating! I was prepared to go into the appointment with her but not after her late departure. Do it yourself, I thought. You can go this alone because you're so difficult.

I drove away even before she reached the front door only to have to return because I hadn't given her the prescriptions for the procedure. Why did I have them? Because the oncologist's office wanted to make sure she had them with her. Because I had to make phone calls for her to schedule them. Because my mom, the nurses and I weren't sure she would be responsible for her own care! So, I turned the car around, pulled over leaving the hazards on and ran inside to give her the script.

I see her still making her way down the hall. 'Oh, come on!' I think to myself. 'It's not that far from the front door to the first medical office in the building. Gimme a break.'

I call to her, "I have your script." She looks at me and keeps walking. "Stop!" I shout. I know I'm in a public space but I can't can't can't help myself. I hate her right now. I really do.

I catch up and thrust the script into her hand and turn around and leave.

"Fuck you." I say to her in my head, but I bet I'm so mad, she can hear it.

Once home, I am too wired to go back to sleep, which was the plan. Just as well. I get a call. It's the nurse. "Are you Consuelo's neice?" Yes, I say. "We need a list of her prescriptions. Can you tell me what she is taking?" "She's there isn't she?" I ask timidly. Sometimes, people don't know she can speak English because it takes her so long to answer or not answer. "Yes, but she doesn't have a list and she doesn't remember. She even said she wasn't sure why she was here. That you just dropped her off." "No, she knows she's there for a port." I responded defensively. The nurse says, "I"m sure she does. Believe me, I know. But she's insisting that she doesn't know what she takes and we really would like that list." I don't know any of that stuff but I'll see if I can find out some information in her room. "Even if you can just read off the labels to me, that would be helpful." I say, "OK. I'll call you back."

We're not allowed in her room. She doesn't let us in. I am shocked by how much more stuff she's accumulated since I was there a few months back. There is literally only a foot path from the front door to her bed. The door doesn't open all of the way because the closet behind it has erupted and spread well into the rest of the room. I don't see any prescription bottles on top of her dresser, even as I gingerly lift papers, bags, clothing to peer underneath. I step closer to her bed that is covered three feet deep in stuff - blankets, towels, books, rosary beads, a dish of half eaten food. I step on something greasy. I am totally grossed out. Ugh! What the fuck is that?

I walk on bags, slippers, newspaper so that I don't have to touch the floor and still can't find anything on this side of the room except for a pill dispenser that has a compartment for each day of the week. I open it but I don't know what each of the 8 pills are for, only a few look like drugs while the others look like vitamins.

Ah, I think I see her stack of vitamins and a small bin that holds prescriptions. I turn to leave with the entire tray when I notice another pill bottle toward the back. I pick it up. I don't know what these convoluted names mean. I didn't take Chemistry even in High School. I read the bottle. Disgard by 04/14. Oh. I look at the other bottles I have in the tray. Shit. They all expired in 2006. None of this will do me or the hospital any good.

I call the nurse back. It is now only 15 minutes before they're supposed to start the proceedure. "I'm sorry. I did find medication in a weekly dispenser but I'm not sure what they are. There are no bottles that I can find. "(She doesn't know that my aunt is a hoarder.) "Well, we can only do what we can do. I'll tell the Dr. It would be helpful if she wrote these things down." I agree.

Today, I'm going to have her do that and to make a list of her assets and other necessities. There is no time left and she is quickly failing.

Her cancer was kept at bay for the past 9 months, but now, the tumor is growing again. Funny how the 9 months gestation is the same for this tumor as it would have been had she had a child. She never did and that's one of the biggest causes of uterine cancer.

Her eminent death is the very reason I think that we die as we lived. I can't equate this with every death, but I can with the ones I'm intimate with. She was always a passive person. She let things happen to her. Cancer is that kind of disease. It happens to people. And like her life, she now needs others to care for her.

There's also a beauty to cancer, if I may. I am speaking about my aunt in particular, not about every cancer patient. For her, this is how she lived. And I think that "God" has given her this way out in order for her to rise to a level of human interaction and to make amends with those around her. She is dying slowly so she could be a better person, have better relationships, rekindle old ones, make new friends, but she doesn't.

"God" also is giving her a chance to reflect on her life and be grateful. But she isn't.

With cancer, "God" has given her a chance to complete a bucket list. No more delaying. Do it now. But she didn't.

She chose to go about her life as she had always done, again and again not acting but going along as if nothing has changed. Not facing the fact that she could no longer drive. Not addressing the fact that she had difficulty dressing herself, walking, eating.

She has filed for bankruptcy twice. Her room is filled with the fruits of her ill financial gains.

She would drive an hour home at 11pm from over an hour away after a Bible class and on several occassions had to call my brother in the middle of the night to come change her flat tire, to dig her out of a snow embankment, to have her car towed because she seized the engine. We noticed her car was leaking oil and instead of paying $500 to fix it, she drove it until she couldn't drive it no more! Then, she asked each one of us to buy her a new car.

That's is the woman we live with. The woman we invited into our home years before my mother would move in with us. The woman who lived with my mother all her life previously and the woman who resented her for it. They don't speak to each other and when they do, they bark. It would take me years to figure this out. One day, I saw my daughter relaying messages from them - "Tell Tita Chet that her laundry is done." "Tell Mae I will drive her to CVS."

I was her least favorite neice. She had slapped me across the face when I was six. When my mother found out,  she told her she better not ever do that again. She has never been kind. When my daughter was 12, for her birthday, she asked my aunt to make a Filipino dessert that she was particularly good at. My aunt said no. She didn't feel like it. Had it been my mom, she would have felt flattered, but my aunt said no.

She is oddly suspicious of everyone and seems to think nurses that have met her for the first time are being mean to her. Last week when she had to get a blood transfusion, she wanted a chair with a TV. There was a woman leaving and my aunt wanted to sit in that seat. The nurses apologized and said a woman who is on oxygen needed that seat so that she could plug in. My aunt complained and cried. She cried. The nurses kept coming up to me to explain. I said, It dosen't matter to me. I totally understand. But the whole day, my aunt was pissy. I left her there and an hour later she called me crying that they still hadn't found the right blood and she didn't want to sit there any longer. What?!? Too damn bad, I wanted to shout. But instead I said, "It won't be long now."

I have no sympathy.

I am not patient or kind or pleasant. I can't be.

So, I updated my brother and sister and other family members, as I do now and then, and asked for help. I know how I should act. But I can't do it. And no matter how much of a pain in the ass and asshole my aunt is, she is suffering through this disease and its treatment. Having someone yell at you  is not helpful.

Something my aunt will never have the benefit of knowing, I know. I willingly asked she and my mom into our home. My wonderful, really, saintly husband and children agreed. And we live relatively happily together. I don't ask my brother or sister to pat me on the back. It's something I wanted to do.

But I also know that when I need them, they are there. I emailed them and everyone - sister-in-laws, brother-in-law along with my siblings - rallied empathy, suggestions, solutions. That's how great my family is.

Yes, our aunt is a piece of...I'll be polite and say, work. But despite her, we can all get together and show love for each other.

Sad to think, really. Due to her own insecurities, Consuelo had received very little comfort her entire life.

Writer's Oath No. 786

It's September 9, 2015 and my kids are officially off to school.
     My daughter left for college before Labor Day. While I think of her all day long, every day, I know she is leading her own life now. I used to get morning and evening texts, now, it's when she wants to share something with me. That's pretty awesome too.
     My son left for his Junior year of High School this morning. I made him hold a sign up as I took his picture. I made sure it was way before the bus pulled up. It was apparently totally uncool to take the picture, much less hold a friggin' sign up, but he did it and I love him for that. And many other things...I'm hoping this will be the year he really finds his "calling". And I'm so alright with it being all about the snowboarding. Just find something you love.
     And so, as promised to my husband and more importantly to myself, this is my time to write. That is what I love. I have a self imposed deadline of November to have a completed manuscript. I can do that. I have the stories written, all-be-it needing much editing. But they're there. My job the next few months is to fashion the stories into a book, a memoir, my memoir.
     I will turn off all electronic devices (which is difficult for me, ask my husband and kids, ugh!) and meditate, then sit in my favorite chair in my bedroom and write. I will spend 30-45 mintues getting my thoughts together and then I will pull out my computer. Reading, re-reading, editing, shuffling electronic pages, and peering at pictures from our life during 2003-2006. I get weepy just thinking about the process.
     I get remorseful thinking about the life we've lived.
     I get scared thinking about how to best convey it.
     I get anxious thinking about what I will do if I can't do this?
     Then, I remember, that I can. I can write the book I want to read, send the message I want to give, not want to sell or tell to please others. This is my story. Writing has always been my first love and I will love it as it deserves to be loved.
     No more excuses; no old, sick, sad dog waiting for me to return from my writing studio, no need to sell everything from the store in order to unclutter our lives and our home, no major financial drawbacks that require I bring in some money, no kids to attend to and no unhappy husband who needs extra attention. I have no excuses. None.
     I tell my kids over and over again, find something you love. Do what makes you happy. Follow your dreams.
     Maybe it's time I took that advice and threw myself in the one course of life I had always thought was my purpose. So. Here goes.

Without Clark

Most mornings I wake uncomfortable after sleeping pinned between my husband and Clark the Elderly Rescue Dog​. If I get up before them, I crawl over Clark and the small wet spot he has unwittingly left due to his slight incontinence. He makes it worse after he obsessively licks it, thus further drenching the spot with his saliva. I sometimes step in more drool or some throw-up and occasionally poop, but in fairness, not since we first got him last year this time. He now only pees or poops in the sunroom, which, to Clark, must be an extension of the outdoors.
I jump in the shower and when done, I'd find him lying on the bathmat. There's no room for me to rest my foot in order to get out.
He will awake to lick my legs of remaining water droplets, leaving behind his rancid breath. He also likes the taste of my skincare, Marula Oil and will lick my legs and arms after I've applied some.
His shedding fur clings to my newly washed feet. Ugh, I have been heard to exclaim. I never feel clean.
This has been my morning routine for a year or so now,  until yesterday, this is, when I woke up without him.
I will recount my many complaints about my buddy Clark in this blog, on FB, and in private correspondence, I'm sure. Complaints aside, I will remember him fondly. Oh how I would gladly experience them again and again if only he were still alive.
I will miss his hot stinky breath on my face when he climbs into my lap, pinning me down and claiming me as his.
I will miss how he looked at me as I did things like brush my hair, chose clothing to wear for the day and walked out of the room. I'm sure I left him wondering where I was going and what I would do while he waited for me to return.
I will miss his howling at what seemed like nothing in my bedroom, but perhaps it was a lingering ghost in a house that holds trapped souls.
I will miss how he arouses himself from his deep sleep and runs around the house looking for me when he realized I'd returned.
I will miss how he smelled like Fritos.
And I will miss a very good and loyal friend who helped me get through the loss of my shadow, Chelsea.
I would give anything to have to care for you again, Clark, and miss the way you took such good care of me.

Clark

     As I sat in the ER with my mom, frustrated by the amount of time passing and knowing she was in pain. Acute Appendicitis, diagnosed after getting a C-Scan at DRA Imaging. "I have the CD", I offered, but no one wanted to see it. 

     Meanwhile, my son called my husband who just left us to get some food and something to drink. Instead of getting pizza as I requested, he had to rush home. Clark was throwing up and having a seizure. 

     As I waited for the surgeon to bring my mom into the operating room, Peter called. I knew why. I said, "Do what you think best." without his asking me. "It's a decision we have to make." "You make it." as I half listened to the Dr. 

     Then I texted Peter, "Give my boy a hug for me. Tell him good bye." 

     Tonight, I lost my best bud. We had a lot more time together than we ever expected. 

     I know I had to be with mom so that I wasn't there to watch Clark die. I know there is always someone looking out for me. I am truly blessed. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

(More to come but I had to share this for now. BTW - Mom's operation went smoothly. Let's hope for a full recovery with no complications. )

Lost and Found

One day, out of the blue, my daughter got a text from her boyfriend. He had just found two dogs wandering in the middle of nowhere. He pulled over, called them and they eagerly came to him and willingly got into his truck.

They were abandoned by their owners. The Catskill dog warden said there was a history of the family ditching these two dogs. This time, she wouldn't return them. Instead she would put them up for adoption at the animal shelter.

We wanted them. Abandoned dogs that were sweet enough to come when you called them. They were older and the shelter was relieved that anyone would want them. Elderly dogs were not what people were looking to adopt

As it turned out, each of us, Peter, Macallan, Markham and I would go on three different occasions to check out the dogs. They were so sweet. Well, in reality, Lewis (as we would come to name him) was very attentive and happy and couldn't be more handsome. His brother, Clark, not so much. Clark was only fixated on Lewis. He did not make a very positive impression on us. But we all wanted Lewis, so "Yes", we said to the shelter, "We'll take them both."

Unfortunately, Lewis wouldn't survive. He was 15 or older, in poor health, uncared for and extremely thin, we were told. Clark, though was all set. OK, we all agreed we'd take him. But I wondered if he'd ever interact with us.

Well, soon after bringing him home, he had attacehd himself to me. He would look for me, whining from room to room if I went out. He'd rouse himself from his deep sleep when I came home. He needed to be right next to me at all times. I loved it. And loved him.

I felt so responsible for him that I'd try to take him everywhere I went. Co-dependency was a real issue here, something I'd never really experienced before. I don't know who missed whom more?

My sister came to visit and met our new family member. She looked at him and then at me and reminded me of a dog I used to draw when I was little. The image hit me like a slap in the face. Yes, that's right. I knew this dog and drew this dog over and over and over again.

When I was a little girl, I used to doodle a lot. I couldn't really draw and had no artistic ability (still don't), but I'd draw this one dog over and over and over again.

Recently, I found a journal from when I was in 5th grade. A basset-hound-kinda-dog that filled my imagination and filled the pages in my daily diary. I remember thinking he would be my best friend,  that he only had eyes for me, big, sad, lonely, loving eyes only for me.

I have no recollection of where the bank came from but I also had a huge plastic basset hound bank with the same expression.

Could it be that my long lost memories of simpler, happier, impressionable, and hopeful times had come alive? Did this mean that my life is fulfilled? Does it show that instead of feeling lost and abandoned (an issue I've had since my parents left us in the Philippines for a year when I was 4), I am found?

It did not escape me, the irony of "finding" and "rescuing" a dog, only to realize I am the one that was lost and now found.

I'm still exploring the message. I'm not sure what the takeaway is. But I know that it makes me feel safe, secure, and loved. Every day, I get reminders, signs, symbols and guides that help me find the direction "home".

Thank YOU, the royal YOU for always looking out for me. I'm not religious, so YOU is not a particular god, but a collection of energy that enfolds me. Thank YOU for making me feel that I'm worth looking after. And thank YOU for showing me moment by moment how fulfilling life can be.

In honor of #NationalDogDay #BassetHound love #childhood security blanket #LostandFound #Petsareheaven #guidance #signs #spiritualawakening #inspiration #HudsonValley home #Abandonment

https://www.facebook.com/ClarkWithoutLewis/photos/pb.735315543190253.-2207520000.1440600827./742476702474137/?type=3&theater

Cosmo article

It's not every day you appear in Cosmo. . .

30 years later and more in love than ever.

http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/news/a45153/i-married-my-summer-fling/

Looking Forward to Buying Day

Marea during Buying Day in Ghanzi (Circ - 2003)

I have been emersed in the new project which will be announced on Thursday, August 6. It's been announced, talked about, planned, plotted and presented in various forms and stages, but none of them seems real...yet.

I have stood in the actual building and could easily envision myself there. Feel the presence of the other members. See the light bouncing off the canvases, hear the chatter, smell the coffee roasting from the floor below. It'll be a joyful space.

I fantasize about the established artists coming in at all hours of the day and night, when inspiration moves them. I picture the young mentees, eager to get to work on the new sewing project, anxious to finish the 100 earrings in time for the deadline, the glee when given a check in payment for doing something they love.

I want to surround myself in this every day.

When we lived in Botswana and I worked as a consultant at Ghanzi Craft. I looked forward to being in the office. The coolness of the quiet before the day began. The firing up of the computers, flicking on the lights, and slowly and steadily, the staff filtering into the space. Someone was sweeping the yard. Someone was using nail clippers to begin to make ostrich eggshell beads. Someone was finishing off a strand, scraping the polishing stone over the row of unevenly stacked eggshell that would soon be called beads. I loved the feeling of potential. I loved being surrounded by purpose. I loved being part of the flow of creativity.

I have missed that.

Almost nine years ago, we were living in Ghanzi and today would have been "Buying Day". That's when the San Bushmen knew they could sell their crafts for cash. They lined up outside of the store, catching up with this one, spotting that one, gossiping about her, ignoring him. It was a day of excitement and high energy. At least it would start that way.

It was good to get there early because you were sure to sell something. The ones at the end of the line, it didn't matter if they were the best at their craft, if the nonprofit ran out of funds, you were out of luck. The first few were always the lucky ones. If their bracelets were half decent, they would be able to sell them. The staff were still full of themselves, still looking forward to the day and generous. By lunch time, you didn't know how they would be. If they needed their afternoon nap, if they were too hungry for lunch to concentrate, if the ones in front of you were not nice or didn't make the jewelry properly, or Becky realized no one made the copper bracelets that was ordered by the store in Capetown, then you were out of luck, my friend. Doesn't matter how good a beader you are. You were going to get scolded, money shorted, get told to leave and not come back.

Buying day was my favorite day.

And I am going to have them again.

This center, this Centre for Women's Work will have days where artisans bring items they've made and we have marketed. We will wholesale the products, distribute the jewelry, bring income to the City of Poughkeepsie. Ghanzi was a small town of 1500 people, whereas Poughkeepsie has 50,000, but both are remote in their own ways. And both have a population looking for employment/income.

Out of Control

In early June, I got a request for 100 ostrich eggshell bracelets for a business man in Rhode Island to give to his employees.

I emailed the order to the manager of the San Bushmen women and within a little over a week, the bracelets were finished. I sent payment. I was told the bracelets were shipped.

I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more.

I contacted the manager but got no response.

Finally, I got a PM on Facebook. The manager's house was broken into while she was at home. Several men beat her and asked her for money. She didn't have much, so they beat her some more and took her phone and TV. She messaged me (using a friend's phone) that she waited until the order was complete before leaving for the capital to seek medical attention.

Several days and 9 hours later, she was told the bleeding in her ears where she was struck would eventually stop and the ringing would go away. As is the Motswana-way, she didn't tell me any of this until the hospital visit provided good news.

The business man ordered the bracelets because he had found out that the beads were made by the oldest human race in existence today. He heard that the ostrich egg is symbolic of good luck and well wishes. He was going to give the bracelets to his team for working long and hard and perservering.

The gift was for an event he was having on July 8th. The bracelets did not come in time. They arrived on July 17th. Instead of the shipment taking the usual 4-5 days, it took several weeks. They missed their deadline, not by any fault of the San women, but by forces outside of their control.

The business man decided this too was part of the story and a lesson his crew would find too often. No matter how hard you work, somethings are just out of our control.

I have to tell you, when the package had not arrived, I wondered if I was once again disappointed by the Bushman group. After working with them for 12 years, there have been some issues. But, I too had to take a deep breath and acknowledge the a job well done and some unfortunate delays that were out of our control.

And in case we missed it, the universe made sure we got the message. Not only was the package delayed in Botswana, it was also delayed in the US. I sent it two day air but as it happened, the store that had ordered it from us for the very patient business man, was closed on Mondays. And so, today, after a flurry of excitement, disappointment, confusion and relief, The Peaceable Kingdom in Providence, RI emailed me to say, "The bracelets have arrived and they're stunning."

I'm hoping to get some feedback from the gracious and generous business man, a story I can also pass onto my team in Botswana. I look forward to hearing how his employees reacted, but of course, I may never hear from him again. Some things are just out of our control.


 http://www.womensworkbw.com/osbb2007.htm (The bracelet he chose was the very one that had spurred me on to start working with the San Bushmen women to begin with. They told me, once they sold this bracelet, they could feed their family for a month. Who wouldn't want to help them sell them?!?)

Shhh...it's a secret...

More info to come on August 6th. Hope you'll attend Vacant to Vibrant - http://api.ning.com/files/j*z2ryZ7D1zjIgS7zeR5JIu9Z45HT7H8R7tl9pXfnBu7A9cJGHVoNu*oLRIhJft8xsjsgpQ78HLDwUWrBhVuh2fk-3kxsMzl/VacantVibrant_EmailInvite.jpg

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Womens-WorkShop/382397415301505

Millenial Market

I got an email inviting me to vend at a Pop Up Sale at the Centre for Social Innovation, a launch pad for people changing the world. I had only heard of this center after getting the invitation. As I looked over their website and their Facebook posts, I was floored. Did a place like this really exist? Bravo! What a brave and noble endeavour. I hope they do well.

Thinking they were a start up, I was shocked to find a floor of dedicated YOUNG professionals. The workstations were full. The place was hopping. Greeted by a receptionist, you enter through the kitchen where catered lunch was being served, fridge and other necessities like a coffee bar were readily available. I noticed some sound proof meeting rooms, couched seating area and wall space to hang exhibits.

This is what I wanted to create in the Poughkeepsie Underwear Factory, only less. The tranquility and supportive buzz I wanted in Women's WorkShop was replaced with high octane youthful exuberance - a dizzying pace, loud boisterous laughter, deep booming idealism, and those 20-something-sing-song hyper punctuated verbage. I loved it!

And I felt really, really old at the same time.

Unpacking my unsophisticated ostrich eggshell jewelry atop the 5 foot table, I looked around to see the other socially conscious vendors staring at me. I took up an entire table, when some had to share. I instantly felt defensive. I've been at this a long time. I deserve the respect of an elder. I deserve this five foot table.

And as the day wore on, I came to earn the self-inflicted title of 'elder'. The two tables that surrounded me were newly formed businesses and the founders all under 30. As I spoke with  the CEO to the right of me, I found myself being more candid than is my norm. Her self-assuredness made it easy to feel comfortable around her. She questioned me about my business. "So, that's your net?" After saying something, I'm not sure was right, she responded, "Get out! Shut up!" Not being business-minded, I was still trying to figure out what she was asking me when she moved on. She was a hyper-intelligent and critical-but-kind founder of a company that made and sold jewelry and donated a portion for micro loans in Kenya. She had studied for a time in Africa. She was inquisitive, and direct, passionate about her business. She wanted to learn all she could from me and others she had interviewed prior, trying to find the answer to the age-old-question, "How do you sell stuff?" I didn't have the answer.

To my left, the young man was starting to pack up his table. Before he could go, I asked him for his schpeel. He happily launched into it. He was an amazing orator. Difficult as it is for me to speak in public, when you ask me about the Ostrich Eggshell and the San women, I become eloquent as well, but this young man! Wow! He had a gift. The socks he produced in India were the finest quality and made in order to benefit the workers. He told me he wanted to set an example in the fashion industry of meeting Fair Trade standards. In addition, each sock design gives back - books for children, HIV AIDS treatment for women, planted trees, etc...What a great idea. Conscious Step had a brilliant marketing message. But before I got to ask him more about how he chooses the charities, he asked me the single most engaging question I've ever been asked. "So what is one piece of advice you would give start ups?" Without hesitation I said, "Be true to your mission. Don't waiver from your initial idea." As I saw his one product - socks - one type, five designs, I was envious. He had one single message to deliver and he did it well. I elaborated, "People will tell you to diversify. Don't. Just keep doing this." Which is what I think more and more I should have done.

I should have stayed on target and worked with the San with their ostrich eggshell beads. Instead, true to my personality flaw, I wanted to please everyone. I opened a store and bought and bought and bought.

No, I should have had the conviction and the business acumen of these young changemakers. They didn't just want to lead with their hearts. They were surging forward using their heads. Business skills were the gifts these young entrepreneurs had and that's why they will succeed.

As the social innovation jewelry CEO turned to me after making a sale, "It's so awesome here! People actually get it!" I looked at her standing there, jazzed, eager, and so very smart about how she was going about her socially conscious business. I looked at her and I totally agreed.

The Inconsequential Consequences of Feeding Baby Birds

I've started to tune them out. Noisy little buggers, these baby birds. But oh so cute!

We've raised a few individual and a few clutches over the years. Hungry and demanding and often times too weak to carry on.

The first time we cared for a baby, it was before we even had babies of our own. Peter and I were living in Manhattan at the time. On a fishing excursion, he looked down and found a baby on the ground. He/she had no feathers for identification. And no mom to be found.

Sure. He should have just left him/her, but he didn't. He brought him/her home to me.

We hand-fed Lemonhead, which is the name we eventually would call "her". Seemed fitting as the spikey tubes would later unfurl into yellow and brown feathers easily identifying her as a Baltimore Oriole. But at first, her huge eyes, bald head, and skin-wrapped-cartiledge for wings made her too adorable to resist. And like the birds we have today, "she" needed constant feeding which we gave her. I believe, Peter even brought her to work to feed her during the day. I honestly don't remember, but I picture that happening.

Soon, Lemonhead was ready to fly. She would demonstrate by fluttering about in her box. That's when we transferred her to a cage and taught her not only to forage for food on her own, but perch on a makeshift branch. Regularly, we would open the cage and out she would fly. At first, quite wabbly, we were sure to catch her. Back then, she had plenty of room to fly, glide, soar and just as much room to come crashing into, down onto, or through for a landing.

One day, I let her out and she attacked me. She came straight for me, landed on my dress and proceeded to peck at me. I was frightened and a bit hurt. The scratches would heal but why would she not like me all of a sudden?

When Peter got home, I told him. We opened the cage and I showed him. She did it again and again.

Peter laughed. By now, we were pretty sure she was a Baltimore Oriole. As Peter explained it, she was doing what she does best. She was hunting for insects and sipping from flowers. I was confused until he pointed at my dress. Sure enough, it had huge brightly colored flowers and the baby bird was trying to feed herself.

Time to let her go, I guess. During the weekend, Fourth of July weekend as it so happened, we went back to where Peter had found her and set her free. She flew beautifully. A short time later, we went to the area again. Peter went there to fish, but I went to see if I could catch a glimpse of Lemonhead. No. Another time, Peter did go and saw an oriole. We'd like to think it was her and she was happy and healthy and at home along the river bank. We will never really know. But we'd like to think we helped in some small way.

The irony of that situation was that, while Peter was perfectly happy to care for a baby bird, turtle, snake, rabbit...whatever, but he didn't want children of his own. We were in marriage counseling when this came out. I was horrified. And even more so when a few months later, I would go to the doctor and find out I was pregnant.

Well, the day we released Lemonhead was the day I was far enough along to start telling family and friends. Symbolic and joyous. We looked forward to the future and a human baby to care for.

And wouldn't you know it? Our daughter, the one I was pregnant with at the time we raised and released an Oriole, wants to be a wildlife rehabilitator. Over the years, she's earned a reputation for herself. When there's a sick or hurt wild animal, her friends and our neighbors know just who to call.

So, while she's up at SUNY ESF's Cranberry Lake, taking summer field study courses for her major, she got a text. She texted me. "Do you want to take care of baby birds?" How do I say no? And here we are, with baby birds.

As per usual, one is large and healthy, the middle one is doing well, and then there is the runt of the clutch. This one has some feathers, but not many. "He" cannot seem to support himself on his legs. He doesn't stand because his legs are splayed out. One leg and wing even seemed broken. But he's hungry and so along with his brothers or sisters, we feed him. He lifts his head, eyes open and aware. He scrambles around the box, mostly to get away from the bigger siblings who peck at him and sit on him. Do the bigger birds truly try to kill the others so there is more food for them? I think this is pretty obvious.

We've had them for several days. I was thankful that we could help in our small way, particularly after finding the clutch of eggs that fell and broke behind the house. These guys seemed to be a way for us to make good.

Today, as I fed them, I noticed the little one kept falling asleep. This was not a good sign. As the other two clamored to get fed, the little one would lift his head but then put it back down. As his eyes closed for the last time, I watched as life left him. That's all I could do at this point. Just watch him die.

I know, I know. This is a baby bird who probably wouldn't have survived this long. I know. It's a baby bird with many to take his place in the world. I know, in the nest, the others would have probably killed him. I know. I had only known him for a few days. I know all of that. But I cried anyway. Not like I did when Chelsea my 9-year-old shadow-of-a-dog was hit by a car and killed. No. But I shed tears nonetheless.

Tiny, fragile, and maybe to some, inconsequential, a life is a life. I hope he knew we were rooting for him. We were hoping he'd defy the odds and survive. That we wanted to see him grow feathers, grow strong and fly. I hope his existence would have mattered in the world. I hope he knew he mattered to me.

I hope for every life, there is someone in this world who will acknowledge that existence and mourn for its loss. I hope. And today, like every other day, I hope for another chance to do what I can to make someone's life a little better. I live in hope. . .

Expectations, Eggshells, and an Eerie Email Encounter

We had a great trip to Charleston, SC. We finally made it to the Sweetgrass Basket Festival. From when I first opened my store, people would tell me I had to see the baskets made in this country. Not understanding the difference, I actually applied to vend many years ago and was told the festival was really about the Sweetgrass baskets. I understood.

This year, with no storefront, but still wanting to buy ostrich eggshell to support the San I had worked with, I applied for a booth not to sell baskets, but the ostrich eggshell beaded jewelry.

This is the year of the San Bushmen. This is the year I concentrate on marketing them. (OK, with some marula on the side).

Are they ready? Can I do this without impacting their lives negatively? Will I be able to meet the needs of the retailers and the San women? I sure hope so. After over 10 years of trying to make this happen, is it finally going to happen?

I was sitting at my computer thinking about the trip. No, we didn't sell that magic number that I told myself we had to sell in order to make the trip worthwhile. And so, I wanted to approach some retail stores. At least then, I knew I did what I could to recoup some costs and to help the sustainability of the project.

Getting ready to send out some emails, I got one instead.

I sat there reading it and smiling, then crying. If there was ever a doubt that there is someone watching over me, let me remember this moment.

This is what the email said:

" I just needed to tell you that I was truly impressed with your display of ostrich eggshell necklaces and other items this past Saturday (June 6) at the Sweetgrass Basket Festival in Mt. Pleasant, SC. I did not get a chance to converse with the young man at the display as he was busy with customers as I was passing through so I picked up your business card before leaving. I have read your information online and it is so touching. I do have a SC retail license and am so interested in retailing the necklaces. I have just located to the Columbia, SC area from Charleston, SC. Please let me know what information you need so that I will be able to receive your wholesale information. Thank you and have wonderful day."

You can't make this stuff up! If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.

Legacy

My dad was a doctor. Typical Filipino, he wanted all his kids to be in the medical field. Nope. Not a one.

But now, my daughter is taking Wildlife Conservation Biology and loving the science of it all. At a 6 week Field Study program and she texts me what she is learning. She tells me things and I wonder, 'Is she speaking English?' She told me today, "I want to do this for the rest of my life!"

My dad would be so proud!

Choosing A Life of Abandon or Abandonment

The other day I woke up and realized for the first time that Peter loves me. Sure, over the course of our nearly 30 years together, I’ve seen it. When he made me a cake for my birthday, when he holds a branch instead of paying attention to his bird dog Vicky while hunting, when he tells me he loved what I had just written. But have I believed it? I don’t know.

The short but resounding “idea” “voice in my head” “feeling in my soul” I felt the other day was overwhelming really. “Peter loves you.” it said, showed, made me feel. It instilled a genuine belief that Peter would never leave me. It radiated the idea, the wonder of how much Peter actually loved me. Me for me. How I know he would be lonely without me? That he won’t have the same outlook on the world and wouldn’t have the same impetus to do things if I were not there to share in it with him.

When the kids were younger, toddlers, they gave us everything. No, not that, more like their boogers, empty juice boxes, showed us things as if it didn’t exist unless they shared it with us. “Look mommy, a dog.” “Look mommy, Aunt Carol’s here.” “Shit, mommy! Right? Shit?” Macallan asked me as she tried to confirm the correct useage of the curse word. They hadn’t known life without us, because without their knowing it, we gave them life, afterall.

Did they fear that they wouldn’t exist without us, like oxygen? Did they think because I never left their side, that when I was gone, life as they knew it would disappear, thus the crying? Did they think, this is my trusty, soft, little-blanket? Was I the disgustingly dirty, stained thing Macallan gripped tightly to her face, unable to fall asleep unless she had it? I think I was that for them. Am I that for him?

It would be stifling if I didn’t feel the same way - that I enjoy his compay; that I need to tell him about things that happened when we are not together; that I can’t sleep unless I am touching him.

He said, I better die within minutes of you because why would I want to go on without you? Or as I believe he really put it, “It would suck without you. “

There was a time early on in our marriage when I wondered why he went away so often. Hunting, fishing, and he couldn’t tell me when he would be back. ‘Do I wait for dinner for you on Sunday?’ He couldn’t tell me. I was still in the deepest of my abandonment phases. It would take us nearly 25 years together to realize, he went to do those things because he enjoyed them. He didn’t do them to get away from me. Big difference. (Straight out of “Out of Africa, that whole scene, something we wouldn’t realize was an issue with us until years of therapy. It was like a punch in the stomach when I saw it on the big screen with Robert Redford as Peter and Meryl Streep as me! This was not a concept only we suffered through. Oh what a relief! Not!)

When I was three, my mom and dad left for the States to start a life for all of us. Several weeks later, when the house was prepared, my grandfather was supposed to bring us to them. My brother, sister and I were only going to be apart from our mom and dad for a few weeks. But the weeks went by and still no plane ride to be with our parents. Months disappeared and we were still in the Philippines. Finally, my brother had gotten severely hurt, did our grandfather finally realize he couldn’t care for us and ensure our safety properly, or did my mom’s threat of returning to get us herself warrant our actually boarding that plane? It would be a year before we were reunited with our parents. A year where they missed out on key developmental progress and impacted profound emotional scarring.

Just about every day, I text my daughter good morning and good night. Ok, over the past two years that she’s been in college, we’ve missed a handful of days, but even after she took her first trip abroad without us, we have only gone a day or so without a word from each other. 1.) I want to make sure she’s still alive. 2.) I miss her company. I think I feel the way our kids did when they were younger. Is it worth noticing/experiencing without them to share it with?

Well, that’s what love is. Not just between a husband and wife, but with your kids or anyone, really. God, we went the weekend without our recently adopted elderly rescued dog, Clark, and several times I found myself saying, ‘Clark would have loved this hotel, this walk, this other dog.’ ‘See, we could have brought him! ‘

I wasted so much time questioning Peter’s love for me when I could have just been basking in it. Instead of the fights asking for reassurance, I could have enjoyed that stroll through Paris on our honeymoon, that last day together in Turkey when we were living apart, and the three years in Botswana.

Since yesterday, I must say I still get fleeting glimpses of his wandering eye, his flirtation with coworkers, his condescending tone, but they are what they are. I know he loves me. And that’s for real, and for me.

The insecurities that result in the other actions, that’s all about him. Those are his failings, his self-inflicted punishments, his need to reassure himself about himself. That has little to do with me.

What he gives me far outweighs those cracks in his armor. As my knight, a dream we shared during our honeymoon, Peter was hurt and I was there to help him.

Well, just as in every other aspect of my life, my helping helps and heals me, too. The sooner I realize that, the better.

How we live our life are choices we make. We get to decide whether we live a life of abandon or a life of abandonment.