About Dying

Journal: 12/24/06—Christmas Eve 2006

2006-12-31T20:05:00.000-08:00

This is the fourth holiday season that Bill and I have shared together and it is shaping up to be no less glorious than the last three, except for the absence of Joann. All of the constants are there—grand intentions, miniscule money and a good dose of the Holiday Spirit(s). Even with the little cash we had and what remained on my Food Stamp card, Bill’s great ability to shop managed to land us the makings of an incomparable Christmas dinner. This year, we have a full kitchen with which to cook our dinner instead of going to the fairgrounds for the free one, and I take that as an omen for the New Year.

I work today and Christmas Day, so Bill decided to make dinner for this evening (late), when I get home. Christmas Day didn’t make sense because I wouldn’t be home until late anyway. I guess its up to family tradition and circumstance to decide which day the dinner works for everyone. At least there will be a couple of presents under the tree when we get together in the morning before I go to work.

The two weeks since we spread Joann at the Bixby Bridge were hairy. At the beginning of this week, I went a little manic (or a lot, as there really isn’t any middle ground there) and almost committed economic suicide by quitting my job for a couple of months. However, sanity quickly returned and I realized that what I really needed was to get more money into my hands and break this cycle of poverty. I’m doing that by moving Bill into my apartment so I don’t have to pay his rent. Neither of us sees any real problem with that, as we spend all of our time together when I’m not working anyway. That move should give me an additional $125.00 a week that I can forward to buying things I need, like a couple of new shirts, expanded medications my doctor wants me to start taking and maybe a feeling of actually getting somewhere in life instead of being trapped with nowhere to go.

The holidays have been good to me in other ways as well. The owners and the property managers both gave me $100.00 bonuses this year and the extra money will help get us through the end of the month (always a crisis-fest) and the end of the year. I was able—thanks to the cash—to buy Bill an actual Christmas gift he wanted, instead of merely good wishes. There was a certain amount of guilt around the present he bought for me (see below).

With all this in mind, and looking forward to a great ham dinner in the making, I bid all of you, my consistent and inconsistent, readers, a very merry Christmas and a good night.

Christmas Started Early

Bill, it turns out, has been planning for the Holidays for months, while I hadn’t had a thought in my head about it at the beginning of the month. After some discussion about what I wanted for Christmas, he offered to buy me a new color printer, albeit, not an expensive one. Apparently, he had been saving his nickels and dimes for six months and had a hundred dollars he could put toward it. My own color printer of three years bit the dust six months ago and I have not had the wherewithal to replace it.

On December 1, Bill drove me to Office Depot in Edgewater Plaza at Sand City where the printers he had looked over were on sale. Originally, I was simply going to look at the low-end printers, the ones that would print color sufficiently well to make business cards and our holiday cards. It turned out that Office Depot was having a clearance sale on medium- to high-end printers that would also print lab-quality photos. I found a nice Canon Pixima for $150.00 reduced to $80.00, and that left over enough of Bill’s hundred dollars to purchase an extended, three-year replacement warranty. Given that my last printer died out-of-warranty and it wasn’t worth fixing (could have bought a new printer for that price), nor could I have afforded to replace it, three years of replacement security on a color printer seemed like a very good deal.

Bill really knew how to cheer me up, considering the impending (December 9) releasing of Joann into the wild at Bixby Bridge. The new printer gave me a new project to concentrate on—creating and printing our Hanukkah and Christmas cards.

Christmas Tree 2006

What would our holiday cards be without a picture of Bill and I in front of our Christmas tree? The next day (December 2) we went to Cardinalli’s tree lot, a block from my apartment at the back of the fairgrounds. Bill found a nice four-foot fir at a reasonable price, $22.00 including the base with watering bowl attached. The way Bill told it, he convinced the owner that it was really a three-foot tree of the same price and the owner never caught wise to it. Thanks Bill, we are poor as church mice this season and every bit helps.

We were at the lot assisting the motel property managers in finding their own tree for the lobby and they had brought their pickup truck. After they finished locating a tree, both trees went into the bed of the truck and we unloaded them at their respective places—my apartment and the front lobby.

I went to work and Bill got busy with decorating the tree. He does better when no one is around and he can take his time. We used Joann’s ornaments, same as we had on all the trees before, but the lights turned out to be a disappointment, as they didn’t light up this year. Bill bought a new set of lights; lights that had sixteen twinkle variations, and he used those to great effect.

By the time I came home, the tree was up and twinkling, laden with Joann’s ornaments from her past with many more left in the box. All the trees we had before were five feet and a lot bushier, but try as Bill did, there simply wasn’t space on our smaller fir to place them all. The only thing I didn’t really like were the new lights—the twinkle was nice, but there were only red, green and blue bulbs. The non-functional set also contained yellow bulbs that I thought brightened up the tree more. In a couple of days though, I would salvage some of the yellow bulbs from the "dead" string and swap them, in equal amount, with some of the red, green and blue bulbs to get that brighter effect.

Memories of the First Snug Harbor Christmas

With Christmas Eve upon us and I sitting at work on an uneventful night, there was time to reflect on Christmas’s past. Joann’s not being here makes it lonely for me, but Bill’s presence mitigates the loneliness some. I miss her laughter, the energy she put into trimming the tree with Bill, the "almost as good as a fireplace" moments where we would sit on the couch bathed in the light reflected off her Christmas ornaments.

Our first Christmas the three of us spent together in the greatness of Snug Harbor was magical. None of us had had an actual tree in years, and our first year in Snug Harbor gave us that, as well as many presents, most not materialistic. We were friends, allies against personal poverty and homelessness, feeling a non-alcoholic warmth that only those who stand together can sustain.

This year, we have a tree again, and there is a present or two under it. This year though, it’s just Bill and I. No feminine laughter, only the memory of Christmas’s past. I know the dinner will be wonderful; I sniffed at it every time I went back to the apartment and the time memorable. Just not as memorable as those in the past when there were three.

Journal: 12/13/06

2006-12-13T18:21:00.000-08:00

All right, I can’t blame my friends; I know they were being polite. After all, you really can’t tell a nut-job that they’re a nut-job. It’s not polite, and the nut-job won’t listen anyway because he’s ALWAYS right. Right?

I have only myself to blame. No one else, no outside parties, no mystical "higher power," like Fate. Just me. Only me. All me. My bad.

I’m supremely thankful that I still have friends. People who actually give a damn about me and have enough sense to steer clear when I’m wearing my nut-job hat. Like Rose and Bill. Maybe David (Joann’s son) too. I count him as my friend, I hope he counts me as well.

It took me eight months to make the connection. By normal people standards, that would be considered retarded. Okay. Call me retarded, emotionally downs-like (I don’t want to give a perfectly respectable syndrome a bad name by association though), morally hydrocephalic, intellectually miniscule. I deserve it.

In my defense though, there are certain things you learn only from first-hand experience. Immanuel Kant would have called it "practical reason," "a priori" (relating to or derived by reasoning from self-evident propositions), things that need to be experienced and through that experience, we learn. Freud would have called it "Napoleon Complex." What I wound up with was "a posteriori" (relating to or derived by reasoning from observed facts).

Who knew that keeping your dead wife in a box on the living room table for eight months was a bad thing?

Obviously, not I, but apparently everyone else knew. Rose says that that was the reason she hasn’t been over to see me for eight months. Bill candidly states that he lived through it, but I can see veins throbbing at his temples when he claims that.

I thought that I was carrying out Joann’s wishes. I believed that this was normal mourning, grieving behavior. I can just hear the shrinks chortling over that as they draw up the commitment papers. A genuine, class-action internment in a nice, comfy room away from all the bad effects of reality.

Geez guys. I’m really, really, really sorry for all the horsey stuff I made you people slog through. I am wiser though. Not any smarter, maybe, but a hell of a lot wiser. Not to mention greyer.

Acceptance

Joann is free now, and I can finally wrap some closure, acceptance, around her passing. Sunday and Monday went along fine, slipping past as smoothly as oysters on the half shell. Yesterday, was another thing altogether. Rose pointed out that eventually stuff like this comes full circle and bites you on the ass. At the moment, I have a band-aid on my butt the size of Texas. Sorry, I don’t mean to malign Texas, but after all, aren’t you the people responsible for Dubya? You elected that fool enough times.

With closure, acceptance and a day of binging on booze and rock music, comes the return of normal bodily functions, like breathing. It also gives me some distance.

I will always love Joann for who she was, one of Monterey’s Florence Nightingales, a woman who simply couldn’t stop helping others, even though she was in trouble herself. She loved purple, kitties, anything stray on four legs or with feathers.

And, she loved me. For that, I’m immensely thankful.

Moi?

Where to now? It’s different being alone again. I don’t want to be who I was pre-Joann, I don’t know who I am post-Joann. At least, not yet.

Turn the page, get a clean sheet. I can be who I want to be. Not many people have that opportunity.

I do.

Journal: 12/09/06

2006-12-10T21:23:00.000-08:00

When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurly-burly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.

—William Shakespeare (1564–1616), Macbeth, act 1, sc. 1, l. 1-4 (1623). (I attempted this quote after spreading Joann’s ashes. It refers to the three Musketeers of Snug Harbor: Joann, Bill and I.)

David, Joann’s son, and Michael arrived today at about 2:30 in the afternoon, ending several hours of anticipatory waiting. Actually, they were right on time, my edginess was more about the upcoming trip to Bixby Creek Bridge and the spreading of Joann’s ashes than any real frustration with David or Michael. I was just being impatient, a worrywart and my usual "control-the-universe-by-force-of-will" thingy. Just a measure of how much I wanted this event to come off, needed it to be real, realizing somewhere in the recesses of my head that this could be the defining turning point of the last eight months.

When they arrived, we went up to the Front Desk and I checked them in. They had had a long trip from Sacramento and it had been raining, I figured they needed a moment or three to take a break, and I was right. Half an hour later, after I changed into something fancier than my usual jeans and Hawaiian shirt, the four of us (David, Michael, Bill, and I) were on the road to Bixby Bridge.

The rain held off, though there were drizzles, and the driving was easier than it would be coming back. I have not been down to Big Sur for several years and somehow I had it in my head that the bridge was only a few minutes south of Carmel. Actually, the drive took half an hour, though it seemed far longer. Must have been the anticipation thingy again. I idled my time stroking Joann’s urn and taking in the sweeping vistas of gorgeous coastline and windswept sea.

Goodbye, My Love

Bill, having been through this once before with his friend Bernie, knew the exact place. David did as well, because he grew up around Big Sur. Michael and I, well, we relied on their guidance and trusted that they knew what they were doing.

The place of ashes, so to speak, is a promontory overlooking the Bixby Creek Bridge and the sea. Once there, and without a consensus plan, everything sort of fell into place. I knew that David and I needed to do this together. For this to work, for us to be set free, we both needed to spread Joann’s ashes.

I went first, the wind lulled a bit, and I gently fed Joann’s ashes into the weakening blow. It wasn’t a strong wind and several clumps of ash fell to the ground, leaving three small splashes of ash on the deep-red soil overlooking the bridge.

David went next; grabbing the bottom of the plastic bag half-filled with ash and flung them out of the bag high over the creek chasm. As he started that motion, a great hurling effort, the wind picked up and not one of his mother’s ashes touched the ground.

David and I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next or maybe just savoring the moment that we set Joann free. We both needed to speak, speak about and to Joann. I had started spreading her ashes; it was only fitting that David should speak to his mother first. He spoke a beautiful poem, like a prayer and snug to the moment, into the wind that had suddenly picked up to near tropical storm strength. I went next, speaking the first lines of Macbeth, harking back to the days that the three of us, Joann, Bill and I, moved into Snug Harbor, and the promise that we three would be together again, in time.

Into the gale, looking toward the sea that Joann loved, I said, "I love you, Joann," David said "Goodbye Mom." I would say goodbye later.

David and I were the main actors in this little drama, Bill and Michael our seconds. Joann, one with the world once again, the four of us piled back into the car. David wanted to go a little further down the road to the River Inn, for memory’s sake and that sounded like a good idea.

Rain started drizzling, the wind was at our backs and all was right with the world as we set out through the old-growth redwoods standing sentinel.

Rocky Point

By the time we left the River Inn and headed north to the Rocky Point Restaurant and dinner, rain was coming down in angry fistfuls, ground fog reflected the car’s headlights like a white sheet. Michael, who had never driven the Big Sur highway under these conditions, discovered that this was a white-knuckle challenge. All of the car’s windows fogged except for the front and rear, Bill and I in the back seat could only peer myopically at the road ahead of us as we scouted for errant deer. Lucky for us, deer, as it happens, have better sense; they do come in from the rain.

The four of us were early for our reservation, but the weather kept people away and we did not have a problem being seated. I had never been to the Rocky Point Restaurant before, so this was a new experience, regardless of our reason for being there. That it was dark outside in no way diminished the wonder of it for me, a spectacular piece of Big Sur history that I have read about but never visited.

David ordered the prime rib, Michael the petit fillet, Bill the trout and I the lamb chops. The food was excellent, but the most striking feature turned out to be the baked potatoes. They were simply huge. These tubers occupied half the plate. I don’t think I have ever seen potatoes as large as these anywhere, certainly not in a supermarket, and not in a restaurant either, that I can remember.

There was little talk, David spun out a few memories of growing up in Bug Sur for Michael’s benefit, Bill and I mainly listened. Yet, there was a comfortable camaraderie amongst the four of us, a silent but tacit knowledge of having taken a hefty personal step forward.

Once, when I went outside to smoke and visit with the rain, I reflected on how the downpour was taking the three splashes of ashes down to Joann’s beloved sea. It was, I thought, fitting, and all was well with the universe once again.

Searching Through the Remains

The drive home was far less treacherous, the rain had abated somewhat and ground fog came only in infrequent patches. The Monterey Peninsula, Michael called it on the road back "civilization," but to those of us who truly know the place, the civilized work in corporations and the uncivilized write books and paint pictures. We like it that way.

Once back at the motel, David and Michael retired to their room, as Bill and I did to our respective abodes. We all needed a breather before the next step in the cosmic play of making Joann, and ourselves, whole.

Alone, I could finally say "Goodbye, sweetie."

An hour later, David and Michael came back to my apartment (somehow, no longer Joann’s and my apartment) to begin the dissection of Joann’s remaining belongings. I figured that I could leave Bill to nap a little longer before I called him, and that decision worked out well. Bill didn’t need to be there while David made his choices, but Michael needed to be there for David’s moral support.

I placed all of Joann’s remaining belongings by "her" side of the bed; I think that made it easier to have everything in one place. Turns out that many of her belongings were things that David had no real attachment to. However, he did take the pictures that were on her memorial because they were of his grandparents, and the purple quilt off my bed that his (great?) grandmother made. There were also some CD’s of hers that he liked, as well as her gold cross. He left the clothing for me to recycle, which would mean into the Dumpster.

After the "picking," I called Bill because it was obvious that time was running short. Everyone was tired, I had more work to do and I must give Bill the chance to serve his freshly baked mince pie. We shared some conversation; I got David’s address so I can mail him a Christmas card. I also told David that I would put all of the pictures I took of Joann across the three years we lived together on a CD and ship it along with the card.

Hugs all around, and David and Michael were gone. Time for themselves, space for David. They will leave before I get up tomorrow and that is okay, by dawn, this place will probably not resemble the place they knew. Bill stayed around for a while, lending his own moral support to me for the next phase.

Cleaning Up

Immediately after David and Michael headed for their room, I got busy deconstructing, reconstructing, saying my goodbyes to the other two ghosts of Snug Harbor.

Deconstruction came first—the soft, clothing items I wanted to save of Joann’s after David’s picks went into a large, plastic storage box. In the same box went the teddy bears surrounding her urn memorial, the Pink Pantheress I bought her for Valentine’s Day (the day she came home from the hospital for the last time) and stood sentinel on her urn for the last eight months. Also, her Christmas ornaments that adorned her memorial for the season; I removed the batteries from her sleeping teddy angel (snoring thingy) and it went into the box as well. Her urn, empty now, went into the storage box first (although I’m not sure why) along with her favorite sweater and woven red blanket she curled up on the couch with throughout my years with her. Her costume jewelry was carefully laid on top, mementos, not to be viewed, but to be kept as a loving reminder. Box closed, until further notice. Deconstruction done, plastic storage box went under the table with its fellows, beneath the Christmas tree, a present not to be opened soon.

Continuing my whirlwind, Reconstruction came next. The lilac bed comforter and pillows of the same stripe were bundled. Clothing from her suitcase and other, non-recyclable, leftovers of her went into the same bundle, carried with great haste to the Dumpster. Her desk and portable typewriter remain, furniture that I can use in future, or give to David when he has space and if he wants them. Until then, I will keep them, the typewriter because I used such a machine in the hoary old days of the Sixties, the desk because I like it. In a final act of reclaiming my space, I put a motel bedcover over the sheets I sleep on, solidifying the concept that I sleep alone now. I’m okay with that.

Last, but not least, it was time to confront the other two ghosts in my house. The portrait of John Woodruff that hung over the memorial of Joann’s urn, came down and a painting by Bill took its place. John and I didn’t have a conversation, I merely told him that it was time he went his own way, as I have to go mine. The portrait photo of Mildred, Joann’s mother, which hung over my desk, received the same treatment, an explanation, a promise of a continuing place in my heart, and an assertion that it was time to move on. They were both important parts of my life, a segment of living that is now consigned to the pages of books I write, not to be carried on my back for the rest of my life.

Empty Nest

Bill is snug in his bed across the way. I have no tears left that haven’t been shed over the last eight months. There are no more ghosts hanging on my walls and when I mutter to myself, I’m talking to me again, not a memory.

There is a feeling that I have not had for three-and-a-half years, a distinct sense of aloneness, a solitary note finely pitched with sadness, but a whole note, neither wailing nor dirge.

Tomorrow will be a different day, and I’m looking forward to it.

Journal: 11/29/06

2006-12-10T21:10:00.000-08:00

National Novel Writing Month is over, and so is another stage of grieving. The current novel writing effort was grueling, though I saw it as a task that had to be done, particularly for my own sanity.

About Dying: A Memoir (54913 Words)

This year, instead of writing about the aspects of my life that I love the least, most of my readers knew that I was writing about the eight weeks I took care of Joann in her final days. Essentially, I relived not only those eight weeks, but also our entire three years together, arranged as flashbacks of the significant events in our life together, interwoven with the daily narrative of Home Hospice that I kept on this blog. It was a "novel" idea, I thought, using my blog as the outline for the book, an idea I will use over again.

However, though I was in possession of the outline, I underestimated the impact of going back over history with a fine-toothed comb. Setting out on this venture, I realized that there would be some emotional issues I would have to deal with, issues that I had not come to grips with yet, but seriously needed to as part of my "closure." In some small way I have managed, as the benefit of writing this book, to deal with some details surrounding Joann’s passing and my own immobility for so long afterward. I know I am a better human for having come this far, almost fifty-five thousand words, with Joann’s memory, but I’m not done yet—with the book or fighting through my depression over her loss.

I know I have a long way to go still. This is the first book attempt in five years that I feel like I really want to finish. It was one of the goals of the blog to present Joann’s and my experiences, both sides of the coin, so to speak, to others in the same situation, and the book serves this purpose also, maybe in even greater detail that the blog itself. I also recognize that going through the process of finishing the book is yet another league or two down the road to my being able to live without her in a productive and satisfying way. The two go hand in hand, leastways, that’s how I envision it.

In terms of getting the book ready for its first editing cycle, I am only half complete. To make it saleable I need to add another fifty thousand words to what I already have. That won’t be hard, so far I’ve really just written the main narrative, now I need to put some life into the characters, detail the stories better, and make the whole thing flow smoothly.

It was an alternately exhilarating and depressive experience, this year’s book writing, on many different levels. I feel that I have made progress both in my writing by having something that actually resembles a book, and through the cathartic process of grieving. I’m not finished with either, but I am comfortable with the progress I’ve made.

Journal: 11/23/06

2006-12-10T21:01:00.000-08:00

The day has arrived, and I’m up early. My part of the dinner is making the yeast-risen rolls, and they require time to thaw and rise. The turkey needs to go in the oven before ten o’clock, otherwise it won’t be done for dinner by five o’clock in the evening, our carefully strategized dinnertime.

With all that in my sleepy head, I arose at 8:00 AM and made the rolls ready. Cloverleaf’s this year, but the last time for them as well. Cutting the frozen dough balls in half just about wrecked my hands—another sign that the MS is becoming a serious problem.

After I finished, I called Bill to wake him for the turkey-stuffing party. Weighing in at twenty-three pounds, I thought it would take both of us to wrestle it into position to stuff. In the end though, Bill managed it by simply spooning in the stuffing. Bill made enough stuffing to make some outside of the bird, but we were both surprised at the amount left over. Over half of the prepared stuffing remained.

Turkey went into the oven at 10:00 AM, and we set off to Safeway and the eggnog. I needed to buy some Lactaid for my lactose intolerance as well. Not much keeps me away from the eggnog at this time of year.

Safeway was on the way to Rose’s place, whom I promised I would share some ‘nog with. What holiday would be the complete without visiting family? Anyhow, she didn’t want to come to dinner, so I figured that a short visit was the least I could do.

Back home and after a short nap, the turkey came out of the oven. The rolls, nicely raised with only a little damage from being stuck to the paper towel covering them, went into the oven. Naturally, I forgot to check the oven temperature and misread the heat on the package. They came out okay, it just took longer and the bottoms weren’t what they should have been, but delicious anyway.

Regardless of missteps—none catastrophic—Thanksgiving dinner went on the table at the time planned. Pictures to memorialize the occasion were taken and as a last minute decision, a place wasn’t set for Joann. This would be just between Bill and me.

Thanksgiving 2006

This is the first Thanksgiving since Joann passed away. I went through the day with my memories and a little sadness, but it wasn’t the heart-rending event I had imagined. Sure, a few tears were leaked, the occasional sniffle heard. A toast to Joann said, a silent prayer given. Nothing more was needed, or necessary.

There are many things I have to be thankful for this day. I’m thankful Bill is healthy and enduring well, that Rose is still on the Peninsula and my good friend, that I have a job and can pay the rent. Mostly, I’m thankful that Joann is still a part of my life, and that I have the support of my friends. All things considered, I’m doing well.

Journal: 11/22/06

2006-12-10T20:54:00.000-08:00

The holidays are here and Snug Harbor glows with anticipation. I worked the day, but tomorrow is time off for the feasting.

Turkey Day Pre-Game

The turkey is thawed, out on the counter, mince pie is being baked and Bill has done the stuffing to where it is ready for the bird. Tomorrow is the day and everything is set.

Yes, the Holidays are here and the three of us couldn’t be happier (Joann is included in this). Wondrous, memory-inducing smells permeate the home, recalling a time of grandmothers and family.

With the coming of Thanksgiving, the doors of Hanukah and Christmas open. Grown men turn into children once more, however briefly. In that spirit, I will sleep the sleep dreaming of sugarplum fairies dancing in my head.

Journal: 11/17/06

2006-12-09T12:07:00.000-08:00

Six days left before Thanksgiving and excitement fraught with anticipation is building between Bill and I. This is our first holiday in two years that we have spent in our true home, Snug Harbor. Last year, while the motel renovations that laid waste to the original Snug Harbor were progressing, ultimately yielding Snug Harbor II and Bill’s own room across the tarmac from it, Joann, Bill and I were living in two single-bed rooms elsewhere on the property. The holidays were simple that year, none of the elaborateness of our first two holidays upstairs in the big apartment, but we made do.

Last year, Thanksgiving was a trip across the street to the Monterey Fairgrounds and the free (donations accepted) turkey dinner put on by the Rotary, Kiwanis and other assorted charities. Although we three felt a little strange about partaking of a meal meant for the elderly, indigent and homeless, we gave a small cash donation to ease out discomfort and were thankful for a dinner on the scale of one’s we used to cook and serve for ourselves in our own home. The experience reminded us of whence we came two-and-a-half years earlier and we could give thanks for the relatively minor inconvenience that brought us to the fairgrounds that year.

Ultimately our new places were readied, a new kitchen built from scratch, and home cooking once again became a central event in our day. At least the three of us were together last year for the holidays, regardless of our circumstances. We weren’t homeless, though it felt like it upon occasion, we were just in a holding pattern between homes.

The Turkey Arrives

Today Bill brought the turkey home. Much like thanksgiving in our first two years in Snug Harbor, great amounts of detailed strategic planning have gone into this year’s feast-to-come. Every little element has been picked up, stared at from every angle, sniffed at, weighed and when satisfied or appropriate changes made, placed gently back into its respective position in the grand scheme of Turkey Day. It is during the holiday dinner planning for Thanksgiving and Christmas that we are revered (or reviled) for the sheer degree of our anal perfectionism, and the amount of time spent accomplishing it.

Remembering feasts of the past, Bill wanted to get our turkey early and solidly frozen so it could spend five days in our refrigerator thawing at a temperature guaranteed to keep bacteria at bay. We didn’t want to wait until the last minute because we fanaticized about a twenty-five pound bird and experience told us that two days before the big day, everything in the store freezers would be well picked over yielding only scrawny, twelve-pounders or worse. The Bill and Scot shopping philosophy goes like this: when the price is right, buy the biggest. At Safeway, the price was right; any turkey over twelve pounds cost only eight dollars. Additionally, we have the will to eat and freezer space for, six months of leftovers.

The turkey weighed in at twenty-three-and-a-half pounds, the same as we’ve had for past Thanksgiving dinners. Bill even worked with one of the meat-counter people a couple of days ago to make sure that the right bird would be waiting. I helped him take it out of the car’s trunk and put it into a pan, and even shrink-wrapped, I could tell that this turkey stood a good chance of being the best one Bill’s ever cooked. Homemade Thanksgiving this year looks to be a reality.

There is always a counterbalance to euphoric expectancy and that is reality; much like gleeful Christmas suspense to children is mitigated by the knowledge and earnest counting of the school days left to slog through before opening presents. For Bill and I, it is that this year he and I will be by ourselves. Joann and Bill’s friend Jeanne will be absent from our table, but not our hearts.

Journal: 11/12/06

2006-12-09T12:05:00.000-08:00

My NaNoWriMo 2006 effort moves forward. Where before I thought I would stay behind the point where my word count should be until the last week of the competition, today I realized that I am actually maintaining a fairly steady pace and am exactly where I should be. Cause to, if not celebrate, at least relax a little.

Out of Sight, Not Out of Mind

Thoughts about Joann are still distracting me though, and I have been trying to find a way to change my environment so I don’t feel closed in.

Certainly, I took on a large project when I decided to turn this blog into a novel. When I relocated Joann’s memorial, it wasn’t to put her out of my sight or mind, it was to simply reclaim her side of the bed. That was an act of simple reassertion of my space, and a tacit acknowledgement that she was no longer physically central in my life. A minor bit of rearrangement, a little bit of sleight-of-hand.

However, turning the blog into a book, complete with back-story and hindsight-driven commentary, requires that I, once again, immerse myself back into the indecision, pain and turmoil of the days when Joann and I went through Home Hospice together. Keeping a grip has not been as easy as I originally imagined it would be.

I am also of the mind that I will remain this way for a long, perhaps very long, time. Just because the decision has been made to spread her ashes doesn’t mean a remedy comes as part of the package. In some ways I think more about Joann now than I did before I decided to spread her, but maybe that’s just my imagination under the influence of writing the book. Maybe not. Only time will tell about that. Meanwhile, I struggle through the jungle of memories trying to bring order and some sense to history.

Journal: 11/07/06

2006-12-08T20:50:00.000-08:00

Things are moving along and it looks like Joann will be getting her wish soon. Otherwise, my life paces relentlessly onward, flat as a glassy, windless sea and about as interesting.

Date for Scattering Joann’s Ashes

Several days ago, I called David Shorey, Joann’s son, and discussed the idea with him that it was time to spread Joann’s ashes. I guess enough time has passed since her death because he seemed to be ready for the concept as well. Time is distance, and distance is a good thing whether running away from or moving forward. For me, it seems to be a bit of both when it comes to Joann.

Today I received an email from him proposing December 9 as the date for spreading Joann’s ashes. I replied that any date worked for me and that was as good a day as any. I figure I can take off any time I need to, so long as I get enough notice.

With this decision made, I feel a small amount of relief. Over the last couple of weeks, since the lengthy discussion with Joann’s memory (or ghost, whichever) I have become ever more certain that this is the right thing to do. I simply do not know how much longer I can hold onto the physical remains without driving myself crazy or stressing out. At the present, in my mind she remains mired in some undefined limbo, like a body in my closet, dead but still there. I desperately need to get her out of that state and into a concrete memory instead of paddling my boat in circles in the middle of the River Styx. It’s not about kicking her out of the apartment; it’s about completing her process so I can begin mine.

I welcome the promise of the next month, as much as I dread the coming of Thanksgiving, but having a lot of time to condition myself to spreading Joann’s ashes doesn’t seem like a bad thing. In the meantime, there are many details to work out and a continuing email conversation with David to facilitate it. Like a slow train wending its way along a mountainous track, I can see the light at the end of this tunnel. I just wonder how much daylight I’ll have before the next tunnel arrives.

NaNoWriMo 2006 Update

So far this year, no NaNoWriMo-killing, motel-related incidents have cropped up. Writing has been a daily, full sailing ahead, sort of project. I started out with a story, an outline (this blog) and a determination to bring Joann’s story (and Bill’s and mine as well, by association) to the printed page in a few months. I haven’t always been consistent with my word count, sometimes hitting my daily allotment, sometimes not. In the end though, I’m confident I’ll make my fifty thousand words on time.

Moving the novel along isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. There have been a few teary days in the beginning as I revisit painful times and places, remember the trials of having to completely reverse my way of thinking about Joann’s disease and what I could do and not do anymore. Guaranteed there will be many more of these times ahead over the remainder of the month, but it is also a cleansing act I do now, and I’m the cleaner for it.

Journal: 11/01/06

2006-11-27T20:31:00.000-08:00

November is here and the lunacy begins. First up, my writing nightmare, later my dream Thanksgiving kills my new book effort—or not? Which will work out best, I wonder.

NaNoWriMo 2006 Begins

Every year for the last five years I’ve waited with baited breath for the beginning of November and National Novel Writing Month. Now, it is finally here and once again, I will blurb out fifty thousand mostly random phrases in hopes of starting December with the structure of a new novel. I have four previous such efforts taking up space on my hard drive waiting with the patience only inanimate, immaterial objects can, for their editing into something viable and possibly saleable. Yet, November remains the magical month, because maybe this November I won’t simply say, "Mission Accomplished" and sink back into the lulling routine of my eventless life without ever changing a word of my new, hard won manuscript.

November is like that for me, initially hope abounds that finally I have a story I won’t lose interest in thirty days later, only to be ended at the finish line successful but feeling drained, my creative mind sucked dry of inspiration and inventiveness, my muse flat as road-kill on a busy trucking route.

Lemming-like, juiced with caffeine, determination and maybe a storyline, I expectantly approach the abyss of crafting yet another drivel-filled novel. Soon enough the euphoria will wear off, as it always does, and the prospect of pounding out another seventeen hundred words will cause me to regret getting out of bed each day. I will remind myself that this happens only one month a year and, with great sighs of resignation, do my best at getting my daily word count, and possibly a shred of plot as well.

I just love the writing life of a proto-novelist. Quiet please, delusional writer at work!

Journal: 10/25/06

2006-11-27T20:29:00.000-08:00

I’ve been having a rough couple of days and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the approach of Thanksgiving, or the Holidays in general, or the formless feeling that I need to make some sort of substantial change to my life to move it along. Maybe take control of it? Anything, but spinning my wheels mired in this numbness. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Joann and where she is in my life, how she relates to my life. This all has to do with putting her somewhere else in my continuum so I can start to move on.

General Assistance Check Arrives

The General Assistance check arrived today and it was a great relief to be able to look forward to paying my own way for little things—like medications, smoking tablets, bath soap and my mailbox—that make life more bearable. Now I have a chance to stop begging Bill and Rose for the extra fifty or sixty dollars I always need to get through the end of the month.

I received two checks, one for the month of October and a partial one for the last ten days of September starting on the date I applied. These will cover a large number of personal necessities I couldn’t get with Food Stamps and have had to put off for lack of actual cash. This takes a little pressure off my otherwise stressed-out life.

Joann and I Discuss Her Situation

I know this sounds a bit crazy, but here goes …

For the past two days, Joann and I have been talking. Now, I talk to Joann quite a bit in my normal, daily routine, I’ve simply replaced talking to myself with her as the object of my rambling conversations. I find that it helps solve me problems if I can hear my thinking on them. Getting the auditory feedback is an important part of my being able to visualize a problem, or remember events, places and people. In fact, roaming around the house muttering to myself is a major component of my ability to write—by "hearing" the things I put on paper, I edit what I’ve written. I’ve always been this way.

Since Joann passed away though, I’ve started talking to her aloud in aware ways. I tell her "good morning" when I get up and "good night" when I finally go to bed. Occasionally I’ll sit and hold a one-sided conversation with her to sort through some kind of problem I’m dealing with—more of a "seeking to maintain connection" with her memory than anything else. Never, though, has she answered back, nor would I have though to expect it.

Until two days ago. Recently I’ve been going through a period of frustration with my inability to move my life forward. Periodically I find myself tangled in webs of annoyance when I surface from my life and take stock of where I am in the moment. For eight months, from what I can see, I haven’t moved an inch from where I was emotionally—or financially—when Joann died.

In those eight months I have tried to live up to the promises I made her and feel that I have accomplished most of them. I am taking care of myself both physically (by seeing a doctor and taking what medications I can) and economically (I might be broke all the time but at least I show up for work every day, tolerate my bottom-of-the-barrel job, and keep Bill safe). Although things haven’t improved much in terms of quality-of-life, I also have avoided making things worse. I’ve heard stories from several other people about a sudden escapist flirtation with drugs, alcohol and homelessness as the result of losing their spouses. Thankfully, I managed to dodge that bullet with only a minor foray into binging on beer for a couple of weeks after Joann left.

I didn’t realize what the real problem was until I had a dream about Joann that seemed so real I couldn’t deny that she was trying to tell me something.

She was trying (so I believe) to tell me that it was time to get my life back—and that she was "tired of living in a box."

The box is her urn, the place where her ashes reside. After she came home from the mortuary, I constructed a memorial for her ashes next to her side of our bed, the urn surrounded with teddy bears that she loved and her hospital icon—a sleeping, white teddy bear with golden wings and her head on a pink pillow—that she called her "Angel."

The "Angle" is a battery powered, stuffed animal that snores whenever it is moved or there is the slightest vibration in the room. Every time Joann went into the hospital over the three years she fought her disease, the "Angel" went with her. She believed in the mystique that she would always come home so long as the "Angel" was with her.

She did always come home with her "Angel."

Bill and I called it the "snoring thingy," because of its level of annoyance when it was home. It turned out that the batteries kept the bear’s motion sensor going for over a year, and even stuffing it in the hallway closet didn’t buy us any surcease. Even Joann would get tired of the "Angel" interrupting when she wasn’t supposed to.

Sorry, I got a little off track there.

Anyhow, I became obsessed with this dream and the message I felt it represented. The message paralleled the subconscious fears I have had about my promise to Joann about keeping her ashes until I was, eventually, cremated and spread with her. In the back of my mind I suppose I feared that I would lose her urn somewhere along the path of my life and never be able to spread her properly, creating a sort of catch-22, afraid to move on for fear of losing her tangibility. The dream seemed to be giving me a way out of this dilemma.

Unfortunately though, I wasn’t ready to turn lose of any part of my grieving, certainly not her ashes in the wind. In long, rambling, beer-stoked discussions with her over the next couple of days, I kept telling her that I wasn’t ready yet. She kept telling me that it was time to move on and that would only be accomplished by taking her to the Bixby bridge and doing the deed. Anyway, she assured me, it was what she wanted; so long as I guaranteed her that I would join her there, at the same spot, when my time came.

To me, that rationale seemed only a minute modification to my original pledge to her. As soon as I emotionally accepted the new undertaking, and by that time, I would have done anything to get this cyclic conversation over with, I started to feel less anxiety and depression. Finally, I thought to myself (not aloud), there is a way to move on; merely by reducing the intense stress I was feeling by attempting to fulfill a promise I believed I wouldn’t be able to keep.

Marriage is a compromise and, regardless of her condition, I’m still very much married to Joann.

After things settled down, I reviewed where in my life Joann is, compared to where she should be. I don’t think there is ever a good answer to that question, because she will always be central to my being. She is, and will remain, one of the central threads in my life’s fabric. The operant phrase here is "one of," and not the "only" thread in my existence.

Looking around the apartment, I decided that it was time to move her memorial somewhere else, away from what once was her side of the bed. Not to put her urn out of view, but to make a statement to myself that I was now the only one in the bed. I felt I was taking the first step, a very necessary step, to reduce my dependence on her memory. A reduction, I came to understand, sort of a weaning, integral to shifting the balance of dependency from her back to myself.

There is a small hallway between the main apartment (remember, this is a studio apartment) and the bathroom. Clearly visible from anywhere in the apartment, it seemed like a good place to move Joann’s memorial. In a brief return to fantasy, I also noted that she could watch me, unobstructed, from there as well.

I made the move last night, carefully reconstructing everything as it had been by her side of the bed. Afterward, a sense of accomplishment washed over me as well as buoyant relief at having solved one of my greatest problems affecting me about her death. I welcomed the responsibility she placed on me originally, of being the keeper of her ashes, but in the end, I was more relieved of transforming that specific responsibility of possession into the responsibility of future mingling. I am doing everything she asked of me, now I can do this, in order to continue building my life safely and productively. That way I can guarantee I will return to her.

Journal: 10/18/06

2006-11-19T08:59:00.000-08:00

I have to keep reminding myself, it was the tortoise that beat the hare. Life is still mostly like that, along with other tweaks to my thinking.

My COPD?

I’ve been thinking about my recent diagnosis from Natividad hospital. I’m still mulling over the COPD verdict and am struck by the fact that I now have a medically accepted judgment of the same disease that Joann died from. Or, at least a variation thereof. Joann used to tell me that virtually everyone is dying of COPD in one form or another; hers was emphysema (from childhood pneumonia), complicated by anemia and heart disease—although it was the emphysema that killed her. For me, it is also emphysema (from smoking). Other issues that have disabled me—in the doctor’s opinion—have to do with my MS, neurological condition, lower and upper back conditions, and hypertension. Nevertheless, it feels a bit spooky to be lumped in the same class as Joann, who is no longer with us.

I suppose I’ll get used to it, I’m just not happy about it. From personal, in-your-face experience, I know that COPD is not reversible. On the other hand, I also know that living another twenty to forty years is not out of the question. It isn’t that I don’t accept it—my body tells me every time I take a breath that I’m in trouble—it’s the irony of the situation that makes it so bizarre.

General Assistance Is Granted

I received the letter today from Monterey Social Services granting me General Assistance. Coincidentally, the rejection letter from Social Security also came in the mail. I wonder how this will play out, given that General Assistance depends on doing manual labor, which I’m physically unable to do, or applying for some form of government support and being accepted to that. After all, I signed papers promising to repay the county when my SSA came through. Maybe I can develop another alternative in the near future.

Meanwhile, the monthly $133.00 will help with my medications. I have to get a glucose monitor and test strips so I can lay a baseline over a couple of weeks for the doctor, and there is my Tramadol and Advair inhaler. Small things, yes, but important in their own way.

Fifty-Cent Raise

The owners of the motel gave me a 50-cent raise today, starting at the beginning of this week. Usually, a raise from these people is meaningless, as everything I make here goes to rent. This time though, I get to keep the fifty cents an hour. Doesn’t sound like much, but compared to nothing a week, this $27.00 a week seems like a lot, and just at the right time. I’ve been getting a bit desperate.

It works out to about $110.00 a month, but that keeps me in bath soap, deodorant and other necessities of civilized life. Add to that the General Assistance and for the first time in months I don’t have to beg for loans from my friends that will not be repaid in the near future. I guess all the complaining I’ve been doing recently paid off, just a little.

Journal: 10/14/06

2006-11-14T21:26:00.000-08:00

Everything looks better after a night’s sleep, so they say, and it might be true. A night’s distance and a hot shower help put things in perspective.

Feeling Better about Yesterday

Now that I’ve had my little flash of anger and fit of depression, I’m feeling much better. I get frustrated with the system because of my job situation and unavailability of services. I keep thinking that if I could nail some of my physical problems I would feel better and be able to accomplish more. At the same time, I also know that I’m caught in a poverty cycle that will be almost impossible to break in the near future. After all, I live in a town without opportunities other than picking lettuce or working a front desk.

Looking on the pragmatic side, I’ve got a doctor who will look after me, though she can’t do anything except give me the occasional free inhaler and write prescriptions I can’t pay for, but it’s a start. I have to figure out what to do next, maybe apply for some program at the county hospital in Salinas. Lately I’ve seen ads on TV about programs sponsored by drug companies that aim to reduce the financial burden for people who can’t afford medications; that is worth exploring. What I really need though, are some X-rays and other tests run to see how far downward I’ve progressed in the last nine years since my surgeries, and where I stand on my increasingly crippling neurological disorders. My doctor can’t order any of those without some support from insurance or the county though.

Still, I did achieve the final requirement for General Assistance and that $133.00 a month will help pay for some medications and the tools I need to get off cigarettes—again. I have a nice, stable place to live, my job isn’t as terrible as it once was and Bill provides the food. The rainy season is coming, so, it could be worse.

Dumping Cigarettes—Again

The first time I stopped smoking was on April 10, 2005. I stayed off cigarettes for a full ten months, until Joann became so sick the last month before she died—and required so much of my time and effort—that I returned to cigarettes because they were cheaper than the nicotine tablets I used and gave me something else to do with myself.

Nicotine tablets worked for me where patches and gum hadn’t. Nine years ago I tried to stop smoking prior to my back surgeries and, even with the aid of patches, couldn’t get down to less than three cigarettes a day, no matter what I did. Later I tried gum, but the technology was in its infancy and tasted so bad that I tried chewing tobacco until my mouth went numb, and then I went back to smoking anyway. At that time I was an "indoor" smoker and going through three packs a day.

A couple of years later, realizing that I had to do something about my breathing, I started smoking exclusively outdoors. This cut me down from three packs to fifteen cigarettes a day within a two-week period. I have managed to stay that way ever since.

When Joann, Bill and I lived in Snug Harbor, I began having trouble climbing the flight of stairs to our front door, and even more problems carrying up the groceries from our extensive shopping trips. Joann, moving ever closer to the end of her own life, became worried about my health and nagged me into trying to quit smoking once again. This time I used the new nicotine lozenges I read about and discovered that they actually worked. Within two days I was cigarette-free, and never looked back for ten months. I wasn’t actually following a stop-smoking regimen, I simply replaced the source of nicotine. I told myself that sooner or later I would actually quit the lozenges, but I guess the motivation was never really there. No matter, it kept Joann happy and I could haul myself up the stairs with greater ease.

Its been nine months since March of 2005 when I went back to cigarettes and though I’ve stayed an outdoor smoker averaging fifteen cigarettes a day, my body is screaming at me to at least get back on the lozenges. Propelled by the reality that I now have to use a heavy-duty inhaler twice a day and that things can only get worse, I’ve finally capitulated and decided to make a committed return to the nicotine lozenges.

I couldn’t have picked a worse time for this enlightened endeavor—the lozenges cost twice as much as cigarettes do—but knowing I will get General Assistance that I can use to cover part of the cost, moving back to lozenges seems feasible. Anyway, Joann is nagging me about my smoking again and I did promise her that I would take care of myself in her absence.

Moving On from Here

The events of the last couple of days illustrate to me the width and depth of the chasm separating my current life from that of life with Joann. There are so many differences, small and large, I have come to accept as normal now; that it takes something as derailing and exasperating as trying to get medical support, to remind me how contented I was before. If I were to look at it, I would have to say that I haven’t begun to remake my life. I am still sitting here in the same place I was the day after Joann died, and don’t seem to have the will to move on.

The concept of building my life again is as foreign to me right now as death itself, and equally as immobilizing. Even writing these pages is an exertion, where in the beginning it was a freewheeling act of liberation and renewal. That is one reason I quit writing this blog daily, though I should not have stopped, just to keep in touch with myself.

Maybe my being mired in this mud-of-life is because I’m still in Joann’s past, unable to move forward through an invisible wall of memory. I keep expecting things to get better, for myself to feel better, to become more active, more proactive in setting and pursuing goals. Instead, the farther Joann sinks into the past, the more distance there is between me and my present self.

I don’t know how to move on from here. A change of town isn’t the answer because Monterey is my home. Switching jobs isn’t attractive because I would lose my apartment and all of its perks. Every one of those things constitute "running" and this is a problem I will carry with me no matter where I go.

I guess that’s where I’m at.

Journal: 10/13/06

2006-11-14T21:10:00.000-08:00

There are days that just aren’t worth waking up for—this was one of them. Moreover, Friday the 13^th doesn’t bode well either.

Appealing Denial at Social Security

Bill and I made the early morning trek out to Salinas today to file an appeal of my social security claim denial. This, I knew, would be a fruitless attempt, but I wanted some questions answered and I had to complete this step before I could qualify for general assistance from Monterey County. I chose the morning hour because I work today at the front desk in the afternoon and couldn’t afford to be late, and usually getting to the Social Security office early guarantees a quick in-out timeframe.

The main question I had to ask was: Why was my original claim application put under Joann’s name? The answer was surprising, if a little disconcerting. Apparently, since my original disability in June of 1997, I hadn’t been on the government’s radar. As far as they were concerned, I haven’t worked since then, and certainly at no job where taxes were withheld. Joann’s own social security was more recent, and I was entitled to it when I turned sixty anyway. To qualify on my own behalf, I would have had to work (on their watch) within a five-year time-period from the date of application.

As for the denial of my claim—no matter how sick I am I can’t be working at any type of job making any type of income. This puts me in something of a quandary. Social Security won’t even look at my medical results, which, (the doctors who examined me said) qualify me for disability payments and medical support (Medicare), unless I live in a shelter. Catch-22. I’m too old to start living on the streets and have adjusted to the concept that running water and a toilet are things no one needs to have to hunt for daily in city parks. Summation: I’m not giving up my home for the right to be sick. As it is, I already have to pay for taking a sick day because that day doesn’t go against my rent.

Frustrated and Ineffectual

So, the events of the day has left me feeling frustrated, ineffectual and a little angry. The frustrated part comes from knowing the end result of the endeavor, if not the reason. The ineffectual part comes from knowing I’m unable to turn the course of future attempts to my advantage without putting myself at a large disadvantage first. Obviously, having a stable roof and functioning toilet are going to win out over physical pain, leastways for the next couple of years or until something puts me in the hospital again.

The anger part is just the idea that I’ve had to go through all this in the first place. On a working day. On Friday the Thirteenth.

At least I did complete the last requirement for my general assistance application to the County and that should be coming through shortly. The additional money will help pay for some badly needed medications and other necessities I can’t get any other way without begging from friends.

Journal: 10/01/06—10/10/06

2006-10-21T21:29:00.000-07:00

The six-month anniversary of Joann’s transformation from form into memory passed remarkably smooth this month. It was only toward the end of the day, before I went to bed, that I remembered that six months had gone by. The date itself didn’t trigger a day of pain or sadness, as it usually did. Is this a sign of personal recovery and putting Joann into a new place in my existence where she can live in my heart without distracting me from my life? I would like to think so; any sign of healing is a welcome one.

This is a cumulative post covering the first ten days of October. The order is in roughly the order that main events happened, but musings are random. I will try to make this kind of a post the last one; the combination posts covering several days are long and only serve the purpose of providing "catch-up" information to my readers when I didn’t feel like writing for long periods. I may still don’t feel like writing much now, but the journal post centering on a single day that captures some main event of the day, tells the story better. Less muddied, so to speak.

Remembering What’s Missing

For a brief while, I felt as though I was regaining control of my life again. I even went so boldly as to think that the six-month anniversary of Joann’s passing was less painful than other months before. Yet, I find myself slipping back into the pathos of missing Joann. This must be another stage of grieving, because its not like the emotions I felt before.

Sure, there is still the gaping hole in my heart where she used to be. Yes, I’m still going through cycles of depression but they don’t stop me in my tracks like they did in the first six months of her passing, I just can’t seem to write about it as much as I used to, or need to. Or, write about anything else either. I live within my established framework (get up, shower, go to work, zone out on the web for nine hours, go home, spend a couple of hours with Bill, eat dinner, go back to bed, repeat), but that’s all I seem capable of doing. Lately I’ve managed to pull myself out of my malaise long enough to see my new doctor, apply for general assistance, and keep the people at social services happy so my food stamps don’t disappear. I don’t see this as progress though, merely the "treading water" lifestyle I’ve adopted since Joann died.

This round of grief-thinking is taking a different form. I get caught up in remembering the things I miss about having a stable relationship with a woman. Considering that my life with Joann was the only stable relationship with a woman I’ve ever had, all of my thoughts return to her. This is why I believe that this is yet another stage (forward or backward?) in my grieving process.

Where before I was in a constant state of general loss, this time around I’m fixated on the attributes of my relationship with Joann that are missing. Like, her touch, the scent of her hair, the kiss when I came home after work, handholding when we went for walks, the hugs we shared when either of us was crossing a bad patch, and the ones when we weren’t. These are things I’ve never thought about missing from someone before, but these days it seems like they are all I can think about.

I don’t know if this is a sign of another kind of pain, these memories evoke sadness, not soul-wrenching longing. Sure, I’m still depressed, and maybe to the point of immobility sometimes, but I still keep thinking I’m doing better. No miracle cures here, just the directionless plodding of the forlorn.

And, the holidays will be arriving soon, a veritable playground for all those unruly memories that trigger poignant emotions.

Second Visit with Dr. Trotter

October 6, 2006. This was a follow-up exam. Dr. Trotter checked me over and I discussed a couple of things with her that we missed on my last visit. She also took my blood sugar and it was a nice 95, my diabetes is agreeably under control, and I’m still doing it by diet. She said that she couldn't do much more at this point than check me over and issue prescriptions until I found some funding from an agency of some type. This I knew already, but she did say, ratcheting up the urgency, that there were a few things, tests and such, that needed to be run for her to get a better picture. At least I know she is on my case and after so many years of not having a regular physician I could consider my "family" doctor, Dr. Trotter is quite a comfort.

I know I am going to have a hard time dealing with Social Security and other State agencies, so I listened when Dr Trotter reminded me that there is a program at Natividad Hospital for people like me without income or insurance. I’m planning to make the trek to Salinas to apply for it (the MIA program) as soon as soon as I get some free time and the right day off (like a Monday instead of a Sunday). I’ll also have to wait until my certification for the County’s pay-based-on-income program comes through. As of this visit to Dr. Trotter, it hadn’t and the County sent me a bill for the first visit ($98.00), but I think it will shortly. I’m getting used to the gears of government grinding unhurriedly.

Exam at Natividad

October 8, 2006. I switched my day off from a Sunday to a Monday so Bill and I could make the trek to Salinas for my General Assistance exam at Natividad Hospital. The results of this exam, if showing that I’m disabled enough; get me out of having to pick up garbage for my $133.00 a month in County-sponsored General Assistance. It will also be further proof to other agencies that I have enough, long neglected, health issues that I may qualify under other programs for some form of medical support until I can get my own. I’m still under the impression that if I can feel better (without all those nasty neural and spinal issues) then I will do better at making my economic life a better place to be.

The exam for my General Assistance application didn't take long. After running a few tests, the doctor set my limitations where we thought they should be. Essentially, he gave me a full disability rating, noting that I shouldn't be riding public transportation, and shouldn't even be working (fat chance there, I’m too old to be living in a shelter). All of this was faxed to my social worker and I dropped another copy off at her office on my way home. I even got a copy for myself that I could give to Dr. Trotter and use to apply for the MIA program at Natividad Hospital later.

National Novel Writing Month, Fifth Time Around

For the last four years, the month of November has represented the one time of my year where I pull together all of my thoughts, ideas and ramblings into an outline for a new novel. November is National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo for those who get tired of mouthing the whole title. NaNoWriMo is an informal competition with one’s self to write 50,000 original words in the loose form of a novel (chapters and paragraphs). It is also a very public competition because your daily results are posted on the web and compared with other participant’s progress. It is a wonderful opportunity for the aspiring, yet nonproductive, novelist to shame themselves into spewing reams of illiterate, plotless prose in the hopes that, in the end, their muck will resemble a work of fiction, if to no one other than themselves.

The only "prize" is the novel at the end of the month. No money, no kudos except from immediate family and friends. However, to those of us who absolutely must write their every imaginative thought down on paper or computer, this is an opportunity not to be missed. As a result, I have four uncompleted, unedited, unsold works of fiction taking up trophy space on my computer. Yet, I live out the year for the month of November. Every year I dream that this will be the one year I will actually follow through and complete a novel in the months after November, instead of archiving it on my hard-drive in some faint hope that inspiration will strike again in January. Or February. Or March.

Lemming-like, I have signed up for my fifth year. My motivation is that in order to have the satisfaction of "winning," you must write 50,000 words by the end of November, and I find that this is a great motivator for me to actually spend some structured time writing, a task I seem incapable of achieving any other of the eleven months in the year.

As with every November, I believe that this year will be different. Unlike prior years, my life is stable; there are no unforeseen (so I hope) fiascos on the horizon as in the past years. November, since the advent of NaNoWriMo in my life, has proven to be the one month I could count on the Fates to take my life and run it through the shredder. It is almost as if the Fates won’t give me a break for a month so I can do something I want to do. So, I’m dreaming that this November will be different, if not better. I might even come out of November feeling as if I’ve really accomplished something. That would be nice for once. And, as usual, I have a plan.

Journal: 09/07/06—09/20/06

2006-09-23T23:10:00.000-07:00

Five months on from Joann’s death, there is not much else for me to say about it. I’ve been through all the whining, moaning, gnashing of teeth and other anxieties several times now and I think it is time to turn my attentions to where they belong—namely, myself. Joann is gone and I have accepted that (albeit, with much drama), there is nothing I can do about it and no amount of pining away is going to bring her back or make me feel any better about my loss. Furthermore, I feel like I’m beginning to break one of my promises to her: to take care of myself.

My general depression seems to be lifting somewhat, maybe a result of the new medications I take for physical pain, or the distance in time from Joann’s death. Whichever, I’ve started feeling better in the last two weeks than I have in several months. The fog and lassitude seems to be drifting away. Finally, I am interested in things again. Not as well focused as I normally am, but certainly more so than anytime in the last five months. At least I can string thoughts together again instead of their randomly popping in and out of my brain with no apparent pattern.

Its not that Joann is any less a part of my life—her memory and spirit will always be with me in significant ways—but that I have started to heal the emptiness of her being gone. This healing wasn’t something I did consciously; it was a natural process of my psyche repairing itself, asserting its will to survive undamaged. Suddenly, the fog started to clear and I’ve begun to look at things around me with new eyes. Like the changes of the seasons, they always sneak up on me. One moment its summer, the next its autumn, and somehow I missed the change in between.

As my psyche heals, so my spirit emerges from hibernation. I have started to feel life again. I get up in the morning refreshed and ready for the day, harboring anticipations instead of expectations of drudgery. I am in control again, or at least I’m regaining control by degrees. Any control is better than no control and being able to choose my own direction, no matter the degree, is liberating. Sure, it is an ongoing process that will take months, or even years, to complete (if it is ever fully done), but I can already tell that in the end, I will survive this. Maybe in a different form and as a slightly different person, but any changes in the fundamental "me" are for the better and represent gifts from Joann that I can treasure.

Today, I am doing the thing that three months ago I would have denied I could ever do: I’m moving on. At one time I thought that getting on with my life would be tantamount to forsaking Joann’s memory and was something I was loathe to do. I have since learned otherwise, that keeping Joann’s memory should be a comfort and support as I explore new projects, a warm cloak to don when I get lonely, a friend to talk to (yes, I still do that upon occasion) when I’m lost and searching for direction. Her memory shouldn’t be a millstone or boat-anchor in my life. She wouldn’t have wanted it that way, nor could I survive under that weight.

With all this in mind, I pause for a couple of posts to consider the events of the "Dark Days," those three months of depression from June to September. It was during that time when my life changed irrevocably, going from the secure and comfortable routine of my life with Joann to the rapid, downhill slide into relative poverty and deep depression. It could have been worse, I wasn’t homeless or without food and clothing, but I was penniless within the life-framework I established with Joann. Things seem to be changing now, I am still in economic turmoil but I’m looking at life with a different eye.

The next two posts will cover that period from June to September. The links for the posts are below. Check back to see when they are clickable, otherwise they will appear as normal posts.

The Dark Days: Part 1

The Dark Days: Part 2

Journal: 07/01/06—09/06/06

2006-09-08T05:43:00.000-07:00

I’ve been looking at this page for the last two months wondering what to put on it, or if I even had the energy to scribble my thoughts on it. The end date kept advancing as the weeks spun by, 7/10/06, 7/20/06, 7/30/06 … and on and on. Now it is the five-month anniversary of Joann’s passing, and I still haven’t pulled myself out of my doldrums, but at least I’m writing a couple of sentences. Maybe I’ll finally pull a post together by the end of the day, there is, after all, so much to tell, just not enough will to do it.

Bill tells me that after a hiatus of three months, effectively, I need to keep this first post short. He thinks that shorter posts are more readable and maybe they are. At least to people who either don’t have the time to read a lot or those who don’t read much as a matter of course. People with time or the interest will, I believe, read a post no matter how long it is, so long as it is informative and maybe a little fun. In the case of this post though, it ill be as long as it needs to be, just like any other writing by someone trying to explain an absence from his or her life. The length of a story (or chapter) is as long as the story itself.

If there is a plan for this post, and I think there is not, it would be to start from now and work my way backward, explaining things as I can. That might make for a lengthy post, but my friends and constant readers whom I have deprived for three months (the last post wasn’t much anyway, just showing signs of life) will suffer through it, each in their own way. No apologies here.

Reality, as it is, dictates a series of short posts, if for no other reason than my writing attention span is short. At the moment, at least. I believe that I am better served by not pushing myself to set goals I may not be able to complete. I’ll just try to work within the framework I can instead of stressing myself out by loading myself up with unrealistic aspirations. For instance, it is important to post something now, rather than wait while I write a novella covering the past three months.

What Happened …

Poleaxed by the second anniversary of Joann’s passing. There is no simpler, clearer explanation for what went at the beginning of June. Where I thought I had been ticking along just fine—thank you—dealing with my wife’s death, that delusion finally found its way home.

On many levels, all at once, I ceased functioning. To my credit, I did not dive into a "bottle," I managed to get to work every day and stay there for the required nine hours, and I managed to get the basics taken care of, such as applying for food stamps and Medicare. Beyond the needs of survival though, not much else happened. I withdrew from everyone and everything, like some hurt animal hiding away in a dark place waiting for recovery. Death never entered my mind.

I recognized the onset of my depression because my body withdrew from me as well. For several years, I have had my own set of physical disabilities stemming from back surgeries (lumbar), arthritis, raging carpal-tunnel disease and the potential for upper-back issues like spondylitis. During the time of Joann, I dealt with most of my pain issues by way of over-the-counter medications and because having Joann in my life seemed to reenergize me. On June 7 though, I woke up in the morning virtually crippled. The adrenalin I had been living on since Joann came home into home hospice vanished overnight. It was as if the Fates gave me two months to deal with Joann’s death (not all of that went well either), and not a day more. Although I was able to retain my daily schedule, over the next couple of months my pain grew and I had a major onset of arthritis nodules while neural control over my arms and hands became progressively worse.

I’m doing better now. After a midnight run to the local hospital emergency room a few weeks ago I was able to secure a prescription for pain medication (Tramadol) that works for most of my creaks and groans. My concentration is better and though the depression is a constant friend these days, it isn’t taking my life away from me anymore. I found a way to see a doctor through one of the programs administered by Community Hospital that is a pay-based-on-income scheme (I have no income at the moment, so medical support is free). This program should keep me in medications until my Medicare application is processed (more on that later). My first appointment is on September 8.

That’s about it for now. I want to get this piece out without overloading myself. I can’t believe that five months have gone by without Joann. I guess I’ve lost track of time, what with the distractions of pain and depression. I’ll paint in broad strokes for now and fill in the detail later.

New "Donate" Link

One of the side effects of Joann’s demise was the complete loss of any financial income for myself. I worked for our rent and Joann’s disability check paid for the other things in our life. When the income stopped, so did the bank account and everything associated with it. One of those things was my personal web site that hosted the page the "Donate" button linked to. With this posting, I have corrected the link to go directly to my PayPal account instead.

Picture Upload

2006-07-18T00:33:00.000-07:00

Journal: 06/06/06—06/30/06

2006-07-01T02:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers;

I know it has been three weeks or more since I posted to this blog. Hindsight is a great way of revealing discrepancies in one’s thought patterns, or their view of the world at the moment. At first, I thought I stopped writing because I didn’t have anything else to say, at the time. Then, someone told me that I probably needed space and time to process. I jumped on board with both those ideas and found that they, as well as I, were totally wrong.

I stopped writing, to the day, on the second month anniversary of Joann’s passing. Where I thought I was making progress in rebuilding my life, turned out to be the beginning of my grieving.

Overnight, on the 6th of June, an intense, deep depression set in. As the ads on TV say, depression hurts. In my case, depression hurts my body, sometimes crippling. My life simply stopped. There were no dreams of future, no energy to do more than maintain the strict regimen of paying the rent. There was no concept of ‘what to do next.’
It was a delayed reaction, probably. I thought I was through Joann’s death, but I was far from it. I don’t think I was cavalier about Joann’s passing, just about my ability to handle it.

This post is to let my Constant Readers know I’m still alive and slogging on. It is also to let you know that I will post once a week, at least. In the meantime, I have several issues to catch up on, so expect more of this in a couple of days.

I thank all of you who have stayed with me.

Scot.

WriterByTheSea

Journal: 06/05/06

2006-06-09T21:31:00.000-07:00

I was up at 7:30 AM and by eight o’clock, Bill and I were winging our way to Salinas and my appointment with Social Security. Originally, I had planned to make the Salinas jaunt and the other errands in Monterey as a single trip. Bill decided, and wisely so, to break the trip into two parts, with some time at home for a bit of lunch. When we finished everything late in the afternoon, I took a well-deserved nap before dinner. All in all, I completed everything I wanted to do and also set the main task for next Monday.

A Lot of Joann-Related Things Accomplished

Dealing with Social Security was the big task of the day. I filed for Joann’s death benefit and for my own disability income. Joann’s death benefit wasn’t a problem and it should appear in my bank in a week. As far as my own disability status is concerned, and as far as the government knows, I’ve been "disabled" since June 1997. That was when I first took disability for my back surgeries and I’ve been in that status ever since. This is good news, because it also let’s me become eligible for Joann’s survivor insurance, or my own Social Security, whichever is higher.

Achieving my own Social Security income isn’t a "quick fix" for my current financial problems and I never thought it would be. The whole process will take about six months, including visits to doctors and other evaluations. Meanwhile, I now have enough documentation from the federal government to apply for services, such as food stamps, at the local level. Apparently, applying for Social Security, coupled with my disabled status, opens some otherwise closed doors. This could give me some relief in the area of groceries and personal expenses. Applying to the county is a project for next Monday when I’m not so rushed, as that process could eat up a half day.

On the way back from Salinas, Bill and I stopped by Grocery Outlet for a bit of shopping. Grocery Outlet is the area’s super-low price grocery store, but because it is in Marina, it doesn’t make much sense to shop there for only a few things. Bill watches local grocery stores for sales and we eat well, but Grocery Outlet just doesn’t offer the selection of other, closer stores. This was why Bill wanted to take a break before going on the remaining errands—we bought some frozen things and they would all have melted.

After a quick lunch Bill and I headed downtown for more errands. I needed to stop by our mailbox and reassure them that even though I’m late paying my quarterly bill, that I would pay it soon, or at least part of it. It is imperative that the mailbox keeps collecting mail as I need to keep receiving any mail for Joann, and Bill’s pension checks are sent there every month. The mailbox people have always worked with us in the past, but I thought I should put in a personal appearance as a matter of diplomacy.

My jeweler, Gaspar, was next on the list, also because I’m behind on payments. For the jeweler though, I took along Joann’s wedding ring from her second husband (the one before me) to offer up as collateral. I don’t know that he will actually buy the ring, or that its worth much more than I owe him, but as a sign of collateral, I thought it a good move. I don’t owe more than $250.00 on Joann’s and my wedding rings, but I don’t want to have to give them up, or lose my good relationship with my jeweler. Gaspar was the only person who was willing to give me credit to purchase an expensive watch six years ago, and has done so several times since.

I felt it was a satisfying day. I accomplished what I needed to and these all represented large steps in consolidating my financial future for the next few months while I try to figure out where to get the next dollar from.

Journal: 06/04/06

2006-06-09T21:29:00.000-07:00

Another week moseys to a close, but not before scaring me half to death. Rose dropped off her taxes for me to do and left me with $10.00 and the promise of more on Tuesday when she gets paid. I planned to complete her work today because it was slow behind the front desk, but I was sidetracked most of the day. It looks like I’ll have enough beer and cigarettes to get through tomorrow and that’s a good thing, I hate it when I’m short on my day off and tomorrow promises to be a busy day.

Another Week Over

Much of today was about putting the papers together for the trip to Salinas and Social Security tomorrow. There are other tasks on the list for Monday as well, so I went through my list of preparations in anticipation of getting everything done tomorrow with time to take a nap in the afternoon.

My laptop suffered a mental illness today and that reminded me how fragile my position in life is right now. My laptop is the most important piece of equipment I have at the moment. I use it to keep in touch with my accounts, use it to write and post blog entries and spend my slow hours behind the front desk keeping up on the news. In short, my laptop and I are welded together at the hip. Almost every piece of information that is important to me or my existence is on the laptop’s hard drive. Losing the laptop would be catastrophic to whatever small part of my current lifestyle I have left.

The laptop also represents potential; it is my main tool for getting work outside of my time on the front desk. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to take small, odd projects like Rose’s taxes that provide extra income. Whatever work I find in the future will most likely be done on the laptop in my spare time. No small wonder that when I installed a new piece of software on it today, and it stopped performing some critical functions, I became a bit panicked after all of my best technological skill failed to revive it completely.

Luckily, I back up the laptop on a regular basis, usually weekly for a complete backup and several times during the week for a file backup. This time though, my disk image backup was fourteen days old, although I was able to get recently modified data files off the system and onto the file backup. It took me until 3:00 AM this morning to fully restore the laptop, but I wouldn’t have been able to sleep if I hadn’t. Aside from the stress, the four hours of sleep I will get before I have to get up tomorrow is going to make for a wearing Monday.

I’ll post this later, as writing this post was a test of the laptop’s resurrection.

Journal: 06/03/06

2006-06-05T02:35:00.000-07:00

Spring is here and so are the June bugs. I saw one this evening after work, it was chilly outside and the bug was on the ground, on its back and listless in the cold. I turned it over and it slowly crawled under Bill’s car, a relatively safe place, unless a cat found it. I imagine that in the morning when the air warms up it will recover and go on about its business. What surprised me was that the bug was huge, at least three inches long. Having done my good deed for the day, I returned to my evening beer.

Remembering Joann’s Home Hospice Decision

An article in today’s newspaper triggered memories of the discussions I had with Joann about her decision to go through home hospice. "Late-life chemotherapy under fire," in the Monterey County Herald, June 3, 2006, talks about the increasing tendency of patients at end-of-life to submit to radical procedures even though there is no hope left. The article discusses cancer patients as the primary group and what a waste of professional time and effort additional procedures are when death is a certainty.

One point leapt out at me in the article, that the number of cancer patients entering hospice care in the last three days of life also increased. "’That’s like a waste of the whole hospice process,’ which stresses preparing the patient emotionally and physically for death." This thought triggered a memory of Joann’s decision to do home hospice.

Before Joann came home for the last time, we discussed what she wanted to do when it came time to quit doing "recovery" things. These dialogues took place many times over the year before she came home in February and entered home hospice. Every time we talked about it, she said that she would rather be comfortable than be supported by machines. When she came home that last time, there wasn’t any thought of putting her into an actual hospice either for the "last three days," although the VNA offered it as an alternative if I couldn’t handle it. She only wanted to die at home, around those she loved and cared for.

I can understand fighting to the end, but there is a point where it is pointless. When all normal support measures fail and the patient isn’t responding to treatment, then it is time to shift gears and let it go. Joann understood that. She had a collection of doctors who were honest with her and as a former nurse; she well knew the state she was in. There wasn’t any point in fighting anymore, as she had done for three years. The choice was hers and she took the best way out she could for herself and all the rest of us.

She was also right about something else: it is tougher on those who remain than those who have moved on. I know I will make the same decisions for myself when my time comes.

Journal: 06/02/06

2006-06-05T02:27:00.000-07:00

Still in my euphoric mood from yesterday and having caught up with my blog posts, I approached the day in good spirits. Rose wants me to work on her taxes and she may be able to give me a little cigarette money for the work. It beats offering to weed her garden on Monday. I started the process of combining this blog into one, readable piece as the first step in writing the new book (see below). This Friday turned out to be a slow day and I’ve had plenty of time to work on my own personal projects.

Assembling the Blog

It’s kind of like scrapbooking. Today I started assembling all of the individual blog entries into one document. This will become both my outline for my new book, and a repository of all About Dying blog entries in one readable presentation. Aside from using it as an outline (blogline), I’m not clear yet on what I’m going to do with the resulting collection. Maybe I’ll include annotations and clarifications to make it a more complete piece of work. That’s for some future inspiration though, in the meantime, I’ll have all of the blog in one spot.

I read these pieces as I assemble them into their chronological order. It is like taking a stroll through history, a history that I’ve lived and remember all to well. All of the details are there though; my increasing distance from Joann’s death and all that went on before it might have censored some of the uglier memories from daily thought, but reading through the blog entries brought it all back in Technicolor, all at once. Not that I don’t remember everything anyway, it’s just that my memory has become more selective in the slideshow it presents me with these days. I still flash back on obscure details, such as the suppositories, when something triggers the memory, but those events are coming less often.

When I write a blog entry, I write it as a dated, individual piece of writing. These are stored in their own folders relating to the blog itself. Keeping these posts separate makes it easier to transfer them from Microsoft Word into web pages. The rules for web pages are different from word-processing documents, but MS Front Page 2003 is quite intelligent about it. After saving the post as a web page, I then post them to the web itself. This process has proved useful because web-based tools for blogging have extreme limitations and I can better manipulate the way the posts look on the web by using web design software. However, it has left me with folders full of individual posts.

I got about halfway through the assembly process today and will continue over the next couple of days. It should be complete by Tuesday at which point I’ll start thinking in terms of the book itself. In their current collected form, I am careful to not edit the posts in the assemblage. I think it is important to preserve the posts as they are posted to the web. I don’t edit any web-posted piece in order to preserve the accuracy of the writing itself, including typos and grammatical errors, as those errors may reflect my emotional state that day.

One thing I have found is that most of these posts are really boring, just the day-to-day motions of a life in repair. When I start work on the book I’ll look at combining posts or dumping some of them that are just reports of an empty day. After all, I want the book to sell, not be a compendium of triviality.

Journal: 06/01/06

2006-06-01T21:55:00.000-07:00

June is here and with it, a sunny day that would have been good for pictures at the beach if I weren’t shackled to the front desk. Luckily, it was "Monterey sunny," where the temperature stays in the low sixties and the marine layer makes an appearance for a couple of hours before burning off in the afternoon. Days like this one are a big part of the reason I fight so hard to stay on the Monterey Peninsula. I didn’t even mind going to work today.

The Day Gets Off To a Rousing Start

I needed a haircut really bad. I hadn’t been to a barber (yes, I use a regular barber, a nice 79-year old Pilipino named Ray who cut hair in the Navy) for almost four months. Three months of barber abstinence is my usual time limit, but with all that went on in the last couple of months and the lack of money, four months of unruly, sprouting hair was beginning to seriously obstruct my vision, not to mention the annoyance of brushing it out of my face countless times a day. I don’t know how women with long hair put up with it.

I was desperate enough to get my hair bobbed, that last night I asked Bill if he still had his electric clippers and, if so, would be take a stab at cutting my hair. Not only was my mane out of control, but also I couldn’t see myself showing up for a job interview looking like a wild thing. During these financial troubles, preserving whatever credibility I have left is of the utmost importance. This haircut was important!

Bill had other ideas though. Overnight he grew feathers and, unknown to me, hatched an alternative plan. To hear him tell it, sometime during the night he balked at actually cutting the mess of hair I had grown. A slight trim, maybe, touching up errant hairs, okay, but not such an intimidating weed-whacking as I sorely needed.

I got up this morning at 10:30 AM ready for him to go at my hair, but he suggested that we go to my barber instead. He had taken $15.00 out of his account for the purpose, so to the barber we motored. I was ecstatic. Where I once envisioned an Iron Curtain sort of scalping, I was going to someone who I’ve used for over five years and trusted. I was willing to settle for a sheep shearing from Bill, it would have done the job, but I knew that my barber, Ray, would make me look presentable, no matter what.

I was right; Ray did his usual, diligent job on my head. Ray is used to the volume of my hair because I always go to him with tons of it. I don’t think he has ever had the occasion to simply "trim" my hair in all the time I’ve been seeing him. Afterward, I felt much better, money problems put aside for the moment and invigorated by knowing that I looked presentable as well as competent to any potential contributor to my income. I fairly swelled with confidence. This was a great and satisfying start to what I otherwise had expected to be a dull morning.

Journal: 05/31/06

2006-06-01T21:54:00.000-07:00

After yesterday’s decision to find a second job, today I feel more at peace with myself. At least I have a direction to go in instead of sitting around wondering what to do next. The answer was obvious to any outsider, but it took me a long time to give up my pride and submit to the demands of fiscal reality. I know I can’t keep begging off the people I know, as limited a group as that is, and I have to start picking up some of the slack Joann left when she died. Although, Rose did bring me a couple of packs of cigarettes today so I won’t have to face that hurdle until Saturday.

Leaping Into the Writerly Life

In my newfound spirit of "direction," I finally settled on an approach to finishing one of my erstwhile books. I decided that my idea of combining the unedited book "The View from Snug Harbor" with the events in this blog is especially viable because Snug Harbor covers exactly the same period in time as the "flashback" pieces would if I turned About Dying into a book. At the moment, I still think that writing a book attached to an active blog is a great idea. Add to that the fact that both of the important pieces, the novel and the blog, are already written but need to be combined and intensely edited, this becomes an eminently workable idea.

This book idea is something I’ve been tossing around for some time without any real idea of where to start. However, it comes to me that the first step is to take all of the blog postings, which I have in MS Word format, one post per file, and combine them, top-down, oldest post to newest, into one new document. This new document, tentatively called "About Dying: The Complete Blog" would serve as the outline to the new book. From there, it is just a matter of cutting up Snug Harbor into the appropriate pieces and marrying them to events in the blogline. (Did I just coin a new term? Blogline: a web log used as an outline?).

The combined blog may have some other uses also. I could give it out to friends and relatives, or sell copies to those who want to read the blog from the top down. That’s for another time though.

This is something I can be very impassioned about doing. I’ve wanted to do something to memorialize Joann ever since she passed away and I can’t think of a better way to do it than by putting her battle into novel form. She and I had always thought that the blog would be for others to learn from as well as promoting my own sanity after she left the world. Right now might be just the time to make that happen. It’s a beautiful story anyway.