Aunt Gwen

This is my aunt, Margaret Gwendolyn Buchanan Ethridge. She is my mother's older sister. I have written a few stories about her on the blog because she is my favorite aunt. She lived close by when I was growing up so I saw her often. In many ways she was my second mother.

 She has been in a nursing home for 9 years suffering from Alzheimer's. I really lost her years ago because she had forgotten who I was.  I  visited her every time I went to Florida. The last few times I visited she had become almost unrecognizable and we all knew she wouldn't live much longer. We were told on Thursday of this week she would probably die in the next few days or even hours. She has forgotten how to swallow and weighs about 79lbs. My sister went to see her and said her breathing was very labored and expected her to pass away that day but so far she hasn't. Of course we are sad, but I also feel a sense of relief she won't be in distress anymore.

The Aunt Gwen I knew was always cheerful, kind, beautiful with a gorgeous laugh which made me feel loved, accepted and happy. I'm sure there were other sides to her I didn't know about and, frankly, don't want to know because I want my memories of her to stay pristine, not sullied with tales of woe. Maybe that's selfish of me but she will be gone soon and I don't need to know the sorrowful, gloomy parts. Her illness and what it did to her has been enough. Parts of her childhood were bleak, but she escaped from her previous life. What I knew of her life seemed idyllic, and I want it to stay that way. I do remember the last time she recognized me before she went to the nursing home. She took my face in her hands, kissed me, and told me how beautiful I was and how much she loved me. Then she told me she couldn't remember my name but she knew who I was. I could tell from the look in her eyes that she did.

Aunt Gwen was the one that introduced tuna noodle casserole to our family. She would often invite me over for dinner when she fixed it because she knew it was my favorite food. On one visit I put my face too close to the hot dish when it came out of the oven to get a good sniff of all its cheesiness, and burnt my lip on the dish. I remember her being concerned about me, not laughing at me, and treating the burn with aloe vera. Later, of course, it became a funny story about me and my love for tuna noodle casserole and I was teased about it but when it happened she cared for me lovingly.

I only caught Aunt Gwen in one lie. I was staying with her for a few days when my mom was out of town. I was hungry and asked her for something to eat. She explained we didn't have time because we had to go pick up my sister from school, and I would have to eat later. Then she ran back inside to get her purse and keys. When she returned I noticed a strong scent of peanut butter. It made me even hungrier.  I asked her why she smelled of peanut butter and she told me it was a new perfume. I believed her for a few years then realized she must have grabbed a spoonful of peanut butter, but didn't want me to know since she had just told me I had to wait. It was another incident that became part of our family funny stories, and I would often tease her about perfumes that smell like peanut butter.

We joined a health club together and exercised several times a week. I told her about my first experience trying alcohol and she told me about trying margaritas for the first time. She loved it but was so embarrassed when she got home and looked into a mirror and she had salt on her nose which had probably been there all evening. I loved spending that time with her.

Aunt Gwen's house was a safe refuge at various times in my life. It was there that I learned about John Kennedy's assassination. My mother and sister were there too and it felt comforting for all of us to be together. Another time I was walking to school past her house when a bully from my class crossed over to where I was to rub his hand between my legs. Several of his friends were watching and it was a great joke to them. With my heart pounding I ran into Aunt Gwen's house to get away from them. She listened as I told her about what happened and told me I had to tell my teacher when I got to school. Then she drove me the rest of the way to school in order to avoid them but I think they ran away when they saw me go into her house.

Aunt Gwen's daughters were my role models as I grew up. They used to let me hang out with them while they got ready for dates. And when the dates brought them home I would sneak a peek of them out on the porch that I could see from their living room window. Thus I learned about kissing and making out from them too. Aunt Gwen's husband, Uncle Gene, was also someone I loved dearly. He always seemed happy to see me when I came over. He used to pull splinters out of my hands and when he removed it he would then rub it into my hair because he said it wouldn't come back if he did that. After he died and she found out she had Alzheimer's she would talk to him as if he were there and set a place for him at the dining table. They always seemed like a happy couple who really enjoyed each other. I don't know of any troubles they had, and I want that to stay that way as well.  Ignorance is bliss.

We just got the news that Aunt Gwen is gone now. She died this afternoon. I'm sure there are more memories that will comfort me in this time of grief and sadness. And I will be comforted too by the fact that she is now at peace.

wasps

The wasps have found a way

inside the little yellow house.

I watch from the

safe haven of my blue chair,

as they flit and skim

to and fro

across the wide expanse

of the ceiling.

Their droning buzz

filling the room as

they search…

Sometimes there is only

one lonely wasp, sometimes

four or five.

I don’t know how they get in.

I don't think they know either.

Did you know the pitch

of their buzzing noise

is based on the number of

wing beats per second?

Smaller wasps have more

wing beats so are high-pitched.

Larger wasps have less

and, therefore, are low-pitched.

I often wonder what

they are searching for

as they travel back and forth.

Is it food, a mate, or escape?

They often pause in their journey

Across the ceiling onto

one of the window panes.

I imagine them looking outside

wondering why they can’t reach it 

and how did they end up in this trap

on the wrong side of the glass.

Strange thing is (or maybe not strange)

they eventually start moving

slower and slower

making more stops 

as they travel

until they drop

and fall dead without

ever finding the desire

of their pursuit.

Day #6

"Life is like a frosted window" Photo by Rhonda Boocock

Today was voting day in the general election. As I mentioned I never received my mail-in absentee ballot so I had to try to vote this morning. I wasn't sure about my ability to stand in line so we took my walker to support me and hopefully make everyone pity me and let me move to the front of the line. As it turned out, we were the first ones to arrive so we were in first place. I went to sit in a chair while Paul saved my spot. At about 5 minutes before the polls opened I went back to the door. After standing for a few minutes I suddenly felt extremely woozy and things started to go black. I was sure I was going to pass out. My thought was at least I might be on the evening news in a story about an old sick woman who fainted while trying to vote. A nice human interest piece.  Yes I think about those things when I'm in a crisis. There was a 87 year old woman in Texas who voted for the first time in her life today.. She was on oxygen and brought to the polls in an ambulance. They got special permission to bring the ballot to her in the ambulance. A few hours after she voted she died. It didn't say who she voted for.

 Finally the doors opened and I made it to a chair. There was some confusion about my ballot because I had ordered a mail-in one but when I explained it never arrived and I was told that I could vote normally they made me do some extra paperwork and sent me off to get my ballot and I voted.

Also during the experience I had diarrhea and possibly soiled a few chairs at the polling place. I was mortified!  But decided later I would just consider it my statement about how I feel about politicians and the government. But I voted.

After voting and changing clothes I moved on to the next phase of my illness. Because I can't eat and my intestines are not absorbing nutrients I am becoming malnourished. I have been trying to lose weight for years and this is not the right way to do it. And it causes extreme fatigue and weakness. Hence the almost fainting at the polls. I went to the hospital today to have a PICC line put in so that each night my nutrition will drip into my bloodstream intravenously. My bag of nutrients and a pump are in a cool backpack that I can carry around and still be semi-mobile while it pumps me full of health and energy....I hope. The process of putting in the PICC line was, at least, interesting. They performed an ultrasound on my arm to find just the right vein to thread the line through to reach a spot right above my heart. While watching the ultrasound I turned to Paul and said, "Look it's a boy!" I realized the technicians probably hear that joke a lot and then felt foolish but I couldn't resist. The afternoon was busy with deliveries of formula and supplies. Then the home health nurse visited to show me how to use everything. Yes I'm overwhelmed but hoping for the best. Something that usually gets me in trouble.

One last thought...do we have to call it a polling place? The word place seems so common. Maybe polling salon, polling studio, polling chambers, or maybe den of thieves...something other than a polling place...

Oh, also yesterday I watched the movie Julie and Julia. It's about a woman who cooks and blogs her way through Julia Child's cookbook and ends up with a book and movie deal. I'm not expecting a book or a movie deal but it inspired me about writing in my blog more...and so it goes...

Day #5

I can hardly believe I have kept the blog up for five days now. It doesn't match my personality to continue or finish projects. I am random and routines drive me crazy. I do know some discipline may be good for me...eating, exercise, meditation, housecleaning, writing, paying bills, breathing, etc. But, for some reason, I rebel against scheduling. I am usually late everywhere I go unless my more responsible husband is involved in the preparations. The house can be neglected for long periods of time, unless my more responsible husband is involved in the cleaning. My parents were proponents of routine and order even to the point of planning their breakfasts by days of the week. One week they had their Thursday waffles on Wednesday and kept thinking it was Wednesday the rest of the day. My father hated tardiness. He was the official clock watcher and timekeeper. And he took his job seriously much to the chagrin of the rest of us. My mother cleaned religiously whether it needed or not. She straightened each evening to make sure she woke up to tidiness. Okay, after writing that I may realize why I don't like routine. Maybe inside I am still rebelling against my parents. I never did it outwardly (model child you know) so it has to come out somewhere. Most of my rebellions are covert acts of mutiny and I try to appear cooperative and compliant to the general public.

Today's schedule fell apart before it even started. I had two appointments that I had to cancel because I was too sick to go. I've rescheduled and hopefully will be able to make it next time. I really didn't cancel today because of rebellion. I actually could not leave the house. And I felt it was some inherent weakness in myself that I couldn't follow through. I guess that sounds like a contradiction to my schedule shunning. But you probably should know I am a mass of contradictions. I want to please people, appear reliable and consistent but my feelings don't always match my actions.

 My absentee ballot for voting that I ordered over a week ago did not arrive. I struggled to go to the mailbox and climb the stairs back into the house with the ballot still missing.  So I will have to figure out a way to stand in line tomorrow for hours though I can't stand for longer than five minutes without reaching the point of exhaustion.

Well I should stop now, the day has disappeared and I don't have any idea where it went. I have forgotten to eat so I guess I should try to now. And I don't want to complain...too much. Love to you all! And so it goes...

Day #4

Sweet cherub

With sparkling eyes

Leads me to the light.

Soaring eagle

Lifts me on strong wings

To the healing place

Gentle waters of the sea

Carry me on buoyant waves

To safety

The wisdom of the ages

Support me

As I waver on the edge.

 The universe

Lays its treasures

At my feet.

What have I to fear?

Day #3 (swift, silent, deadly)

photo by Wallace Rollins

We met him on the streets of downtown Chattanooga. I remember it was cold and windy that day. We were there to see a new mural that had been painted on one of the buildings by some famous artist with help from local artists.

photo by Rhonda Boocock

 He was a homeless Vietnam war veteran, penniless but cheerful and sociable. He asked for some money to buy some V8 juice. A very specific drink so I'm thinking he had some vodka and wanted to make a bloody mary. He seemed to have had a few drinks already which may explain some of his animated friendliness. We had no money but he didn't hold that against us and stayed to talk to us for awhile. His name was Ramon. He had an engaging laugh and smile despite being mostly toothless.  He said he was from Cuba and wanted to join the military to fight communism. When he was old enough he joined the Marines and served three tours of duty in Vietnam during the war. Ramon said he was a member of a special operations force known as the Marine Division Recon.  He still proudly wore his jacket from then and stopped talking every once in awhile to point at the American flag sewn on it and say how much it meant to him. As we were talking Ramon's Russian friend showed up. He also told us about Ramon's military career, letting us know what a hero he was. We were already convinced. There was just something about him.  Ramon's friend was a little more interested in what we had to offer them to feed their habit for the night. He explained that people often gave them food but they really needed money to buy things they wanted. Ramon seemed to want to talk more and he patted his pants pocket and told his friend that he had something for the night. Then it was time for them to hurry and leave so they could make it to the homeless shelter before they missed getting a bed for the night. Ramon continued to talk as we walked toward our car and we had a meaningful conversation about of all things, the old tv show about the talking horse, Mr. Ed.  It's been over a year since I met Ramon but I still wonder about him. I hope he's warm, I hope he's safe.

photo by Wallace Rollins

Day 2

Do we get sick days off for this writing everyday commitment? Days to sit in my chair and gaze out the window? Last night and this morning I have been inundated with prime examples of how difficult this illness adjustment is going to be. I think emotionally I am still fighting it, looking for a way around it. And physically I'm just exhausted. At some point I know I will need to embrace it and find my way through it. But not today. Today is lost and I don't think any of it can be redeemed. So let's leave the topic of illness for other days when I feel on more solid ground or maybe never as I'm sure most people don't want to read the ins and outs of my struggles.

So what's next? Politics? Religion? Nah...too much controversy can't be good on a day like today. Happy thoughts are what we need...but then again we could discuss movies. I've been watching quite a few on Amazon lately and there is really not much out there worth spending the time on. Where are the good movies? Recommendations are welcome. My favorite movie of all time is, The Hours, with Meryl Streep, Nicole Kidman, and Julianne Moore. There are three distinct story lines that are cleverly and subtly tied together as the story unfolds. No its not a happy movie. I'm not sure I have a favorite happy movie. Oh yeah, there are the classics like O Brother, Big Fish and Love Actually. But for morose  moods its The Hours for sure. The action in all three stories happen in the span of one day but in three different decades. They are tied together by the book, Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf. But the connections between the three women in each story go deeper than literature, delving into such profound subjects such as friendship, loneliness, mental illness, suicide, etc. Its a movie that provokes feeling and thought not escapism purely for entertainment purposes. Of course I'm sure some would disagree (as a few movie critics did)and would say that the movie is too focused on female victimization and would complain about the nose prosthesis they put on Nicole Kidman to make her look more like Virginia Woolf. And I may even say the nose was distracting but for me the complex plot and moving performances more than made up for the bulbous nose. But I should stop...don't want to tell too much in case one day you find yourself in a morose mood and need to wallow in just the right movie to enhance your gloomy disposition. With a review like that I don't think I'll get a job as a movie critic but I might get my resume ready just in case. What kind of experience do you need to be a famous movie critic?

NaNoWriMo

I committed myself to write something everyday this month. I am not, though, writing 1500 words a day and aiming for the Great American Novel. I will write a poem or a blog post. I actually have a bit of a rebellious side that shuns routine and discipline but I will try. Today there is no poetry in me so it is a blog post.

I haven't left the house on my own for about two weeks. This morning I went for a short drive around the neighborhood to check on the fall foliage and to enjoy the crisp, autumn breeze. When I turned a corner toward home this chair was waiting for me to photograph it.

It could be a metaphor for my life. Either I am beyond repair and have been thrown out to be carried off as trash or I'm still pretty in pink and enjoying being outdoors. Take it as you will.

I had an appointment with the surgeon this week to discuss options for my gastrointestinal woes caused by radiation damage. It seems there are no options and I am faced with the arduous task of accepting and managing a chronic illness.  My mind has been going at 10,000 mph since trying to grasp it all. Why do we always think we can fix everything? It is so disappointing when you find out something doesn't have a fix. Better to expect the worst always so we're not so discouraged with bad news? A wise man told me to take it one day at a time. Family has offered support in helping me manage...but still it is at times daunting to wrap my brain around it.

This was going to be much longer but I can't seem to remember where I was trying to go when I started and though I began writing this morning it is now evening and its starting to get dark and looks like more rain is on the way and being a pluviophile I shouldn't miss it.  And its tea time though that seems to be turning into cookies and milk for me. Which isn't a bad thing either...