SOL21 Slice 5: Distilling advice

 

I am participating in the

 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL21).  

All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 

 every day for the month of March 2021.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for nurturing teacher-writers!

My two-year-old granddaughter ("Frog") was fascinated that I was making a new cup of tea for myself and pouring out the old, because the tea bag had broken. 

"Show me the cup broke," she said. 

I chuckled, "It's not the cup that broke, it's the tea bag." 

"Show me broke."

"Yes, yes, of course," I said, and I showed her the remnants of my drink, pointing out the tea leaves that were swirling in the cup. I absolutely adore preschoolers' curiosity and questions, I love their 'whys,' I love how there is nothing too small to learn more about. I'm always game to explore alongside. 

I continued, "Do you see those little bits in the tea, floating and swirling? Those are the tea leaves. I don't like to drink the leaves, I like to drink just the liquid. The tea bag is supposed to stayed closed, keeping the tea leaves within, while the tea is . . . while the tea is . . . while the tea is . . ." 

I just kept stammering. Frog looked at me with expectancy. She was sure I had more to say. 

I was sure I had more to say, I just couldn't quite get my brain around it. 

I got out the scissors and cut open the old tea bag, to show her its insides, pouring more water over it. We watched the tea leaves float all about. (Frog was delighted by this, and I made a mental note to put my tea bags up on a higher shelf and make sure the scissors are not accessible.) I explained the process again, explaining how the tea bag had broken open, and, for a second time, I was slammed back into my mental jam, trying to continue, 

"...straining, while the tea is straining"

Frog watched the swirling tea leaves in the cup and echoed, as if imbibing my wisdom, "straining"

"Well, no, that's not the word really, it's like filtering"

Frog looked at me, and questioned-echoed "filtering?"  

Oh my, two-year-old parroting is illuminating!! That's not the dang word.

I tried again, "Well, distilling..."

When she echoed "distilling," I realized I had to stop talking. I just smiled at her, weakly. This mini-lesson was going down the drain. Yikes. Maybe she wouldn't tell her folks we were distilling today. 

Word salad.

Word scramble.

Word scurry. 

Frog went back to playing at the sink of faux-dirty dishes and bubbles. There I stood, perfectly still, stuck, holding an empty mug with remnants of tea leaves, thinking through various synonyms, no longer saying them out loud, walking myself through the process of making tea, searching for the illusive word,

residue

percolating

like with coffee grounds

this is tea leaves

It wasn't as easy for me to move on. I simply could not find the word. Wait, how is tea made? What is the word for making tea? I couldn't speak, the word or words escaped me, my tongue was tied. 

decant

pour off

pour away

let sit for awhile

Goodness! It was like I was playing charades with myself.  

This situation was the inverse of one of my regular writing problems, where I find the ordinary word and cannot think of any better words. I've turned into a very contrary thesaurus, one with giant, gaping holes. Can you imagine if I were teaching this right now (wait, why would I be teaching about tea?) . . . imagine, if I were being observed, what the heck would the assessor think of me? 

Nothing.

Got nothing.

So frustrating!!

Later, I shared the story of Frog and "the cup broke" with my husband, asking "What's the word for making tea?"

He looked at me, incredulous - "What? Are you talking about brewing? steeping?" 

Oh, I was so excited to hear this! "Yes! Yes! I am! Oh, thank you! Both of those words are AWESOME. That was driving me nuts."

He laughed, and added - "Welcome to old age! It has a way of sneaking up on you."

Oh, geez.

Unexpectedly, I have continued a theme from yesterday - fearful signs of aging! Ha! It was never my intention for this to be the focus of my blogging this month, but when a parallel weird experience happens, how can I not write into it? Clearly, these are slices of my life this March! 

A woman is like a tea bag - you can't tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.

- Eleanor Roosevelt

SOL21 Slice 4: Connecting pieces

 

I am participating in the

 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL21).  

All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 

 every day for the month of March 2021.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for nurturing teacher-writers!

I figured out how to make a 1000 piece puzzle even more challenging! Spill a cup of tea on it. This lifts the whole picture right up, off of the individual pieces; in fact, it immediately separates each piece into 4-5 layers of super thin cardboard. (If you are game, you are now free to make multiple puzzles.)

Our picture puzzles give us a chance to 'travel' to new places during the pandemic, and we typically have one in process, sprawled out on one end of the dining room table. This one is/was a National Geographic image of Ushguli, Georgia. I received it as a gift at Christmas. When I dropped my tea cup all over it, I was instantaneously moved from serene, calm puzzle-maker into crisis mode: quick, stand up the cup! grab a towel! where are the towels?! quick! wipe the table! save the table! dry the wood! blot the puzzle! oh that doesn't work! it's seeped under! hmm. get out your blow dryer! - oh my goodness! 

are those puzzle 

fragments

flying 

all about? 

yikes.

I am not a good first responder for a puzzle disaster. 

Throw away the puzzle. 

Pause and reflect. 

Dropping my cup of tea mid-process was the most unexpected, surreal, bizarre thing to happen to me - physically - in quite some time. I was holding the cup in my left hand, steady, I believed; using my dominant hand to connect the pieces I had discovered. I have combined tea and puzzles for years, with nary a problem. Both my hands are pretty dang strong. I've never had any issues with wrists giving way, or one hand feeling a little feeble. I wasn't tired, I wasn't rushing about. What the heck?

These things happen.

Hey, I am human - I've caused plenty of spills. Knocked things over. Slipped while holding something. Fallen. However, I've noticed that the older I get, these simple 'accident moments' have layers of extra weight and meaning when they happen. 

I immediately wonder: is this an aging issue? 

Will I one day look back on this moment and say, oh - that was when [.......] began? 

Puzzling!!

Think I'll sit with a cup of tea, and write for a bit . . . .

Tea! Bless ordinary afternoon tea!

- Agatha Christie

Time passes

 

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.

                                                        Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Look at our front yard tree, an Autumn Purple Ash. Just like its name implies, it is October and it is "purpling," the tips of its leaves changing color. The leaves will become deeper and deeper in color in the next week or two, and, if I am lucky, I will see the entire tree enshrouded in purple before all the leaves fall to the ground. We planted this tree some 25 years ago or so, and there have only been a handful of times that I have been lucky like this. Some years, a hard rain or wind will lift all the leaves off before they reach their purple peak, and that's always a strange sensation to know it's another year before the chance will come again. Many years - honestly, MOST years - I've been simply too busy to notice...backing down my driveway, heading to school in the opposite direction from the tree, returning home from teaching after dark. It makes me sad to think how many times I ignored that tree. I think if I had a 'do over,' I would go out of my way to see the tree. I would add one block to my drive, beginning my day by turning and driving in front of my house, and soaking in the "autumn-ness" of that tree before heading off to work. I guess that's another lesson from the pandemic, yes? The varied rhythms of plants and trees during the different seasons are beautiful to observe. 

There are moments in life when I am bursting with a very similar, transitory feeling, much like the tree. Do you experience this? Happy, near perfect moments, where you feel rich, deep, expansive love coupled with the awareness of it being fleeting, it is passing, it is momentary. This is certainly true around celebrations and big milestones, or even when traveling - all times when I am engaged in something significant that is also, by its very nature, passing or temporary. I am thinking more of small moments where I have felt both present and - strangely - nostalgic, such as:

- my oldest son, maybe four or five years old, sitting at the table with me as I worked, practicing writing his name over and over...how he'd write almost a mirror image of his name, backwards and wobbly letters, and how I thought those letters were just perfect and shouldn't ever have to change, but I knew they would...

- laying next to my youngest son when he was about ten years old, reading to him at bedtime, and knowing at any moment, one day very soon, he would no longer need me next to him at bedtime, none of my boys would ever need this anymore...

- listening to my middle son share a funny story from his teaching day, that first year of his teaching, when he still lived at home, and laughing so hard, while simultaneously aware that soon he wouldn't be coming in our house door at the end of the day...

- Tony and I enjoying a hike together, wandering along on a winding path uphill through the woods, having to watch our step very carefully, wondering if we over-extended our abilities...

- my Dad saying "I love you" in his final days, and me wondering, would I hear him say this again...

There are even much lighter moments where I have the same sensation - say, two bites from the end of a most-delicious pizza!

This sensation is at once sweet and wistful. It is the very temporariness of the time - the 'going,' the departing - that adds so much richness to what I feel. I suppose time and experience lead me to this feeling. I've lived long enough to have gained some wisdom from living...I've experienced something so similar before, I 'connect the dots,' I see where it leads, where the moment is headed. It's as if I am in two places at once, present and future, loving and missing. 

Actually, I don't suppose it is simply happy or positive moments that lead to this rich reflection. I can think of negative moments that proved to be, at once, "the writing on the wall" - a foreshadowing of the need to do something quite different, a new path, even, a way out. However, I choose to focus on the happy.

Am I just describing melancholy?

Can one have melancholy about a pizza?

These days, I am almost in sensory overload from these type moments with my granddaughter ("Frog"), knowing full well that this two year old child will be gone in a flash...and watching her laugh with delight

 

as she shakes rainwater from flowering mums, 

as she squeals "Again! Again!," when we roll her stroller  under weeping willow branches that brush her head, or 

as she sits on the side of the road and rubs the leaf of a lamb's ear plant because it is so soft. 

Yes, being around Frog is to be in a whirlwind of these moments, "we're having, we may never have again."

In my house growing up, my Mom would frequently toss out a favorite expression from her high school Latin classes: "tempus fugit" - time passes. Life is change. That was her closing argument, her way of telling each of us to get over something, or to deal with something. "Tempus fugit." What makes me chuckle now is she changed the expression over time. When she was elderly with dementia, she inadvertently inserted an 's' on the end of the original Latin, and would exclaim, over and over "Tempus fugits!" in the midst of most any conversation. Makes me chuckle every time I think of it, and now I often exclaim the same thing, in my house.

Time passes.

Tempus fugits!

My little part of the nightmare

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.

                                                        Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Today's slice is a lament.

My Dad is now under hospice care. I've written about him lots these past few years. He is 91; has been in feeble health due to Parkinson's; lives in a nursing home in Maine (near others in my family). In recent days, he has begun to decline rapidly, spending whole days in bed, not eating much or at all, and complaining of pain.

The goal is to keep him comfortable and at ease. Hospice is so beautiful at this.

I feel so much sadness. Brokenness. Stuck in this fog of uncertainty and mixed-up confusion. Should be there. Can't be there. Don't dare be there. Want to be there. Not permitted there. Hard to imagine him there.

He is dying, all alone.

This past Friday, we received word that there were now several cases of COVID in the nursing home. Not my Dad; to date, he has tested negative for COVID. However, he is being kept isolated, as is every resident, and no one, no one, no one is permitted to visit. 

My head hurts from this grievous puzzle:
To travel to see him means staying with family/friends, and putting them at risk from possible COVID picked up as I journeyed.
There's no possibility of seeing my father for two solid weeks, as the home is quarantined. 
In two weeks, it means having only brief visits with my Dad, and no real contact - though there is something called a "compassion" visit when he is perceived to be in his final days.
To travel back here, afterwards, is to put my sweet little 'pod' at risk - my toddler granddaughter, my son/daughter-in-law, who are expecting a second baby this fall.

Honestly, this is like a nightmare. This is my little part of the enormous nightmare that is happening throughout the world. 

I can still think of so much for which I am grateful.
I know it could be worse, it can always be worse.

I had a lovely Zoom call with him this past week and I look forward to another tomorrow, fingers crossed.

This sucks.

I think I need to not fight these heavy emotions I am experiencing, 
not gloss over them, 
just hurt. 
Take the quiet, the stillness, the emptiness, and hurt.

This little ditty of a poem appeared in my head, so this will be my share today:

so many "make do's"

pretend "must do's"

creative "to do's"

but nothing

absolute do

just so much grey

this day

a make myself do day

no zippety do dah

in a make myself do day

just need to accept

I'm feeling blue day

No Longer Yours

I'm participating in a 5-day "Open Write" on Sarah Donovan's Ethical ELA.  
Today's writing inspiration is from Kimberly Johnson, who shares about Joe Brainard and his writing of "short anaphoristic snippets of memories, all beginning with the words, 'I Remember,' thus defining a new poetic form."

I wrote this poem after a recent conversation with my Dad, who has increasing dementia and memory loss.

No Longer Yours

I remember

your words of wisdom,

“When you’re working hard, and enjoying it at the same time,

it’s wonderful, there’s no better feeling, I think.”

I remember

encouraging you to share

stories of your work.

I remember

you could not recall.

I remember

offering threads,

“you rode your bicycle to the waterfront, to check on the shipbuilding,”

“you shipped out to sea for six months, the day before Mark was born,”

“you served in Saigon, as the war drew to a close.”

I remember

the wonder in your eyes,

your gentle response,

“That’s pretty interesting, what’s going on in that head of yours.”

I remember thinking

these are no longer your memories,
yet,

somehow,

mine.

SOL20 Slice #5: Maya, Pema, and Two Stephens

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL20).  
All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 
 every day for the month of March 2020.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

She leans over the weight machine to adjust the seat position, and her grey hair flows. She leans...just a little too long. Wait, what's happening? Is she okay? My heart races and I stop my own weight-lifting, poised to jump towards her.

Oh.

She's stretching. Now, she moves to stretch her other side.

I breathe deeply, and shake my head at my silliness.

I am surprised by how quickly my mind jumps fearfully towards death and loss these past few months, due to deaths of relatives, friends, and others in my wider circle of community. It feels like I have had a seismic shift in the number of these deep losses, especially when compared with, say, when I was 30 years old. Duh, reality check - I'm getting older. My peers and I - we are becoming the elders.

It's made me think a lot about my health. I think, too, about the meaning of life. I wonder about all the big problems in the world and my little efforts. It feels very much like a time to get real with oneself.

I found I was not alone in these thoughts, this sense that I am entering a new phase of life. There are four of us, friends, women of a certain age, that have been feeling as if we are in a time of great change and great possibility...on the cusp of something new. We are also white, middle-class, straight, cisgender, urban, college-educated, progressive women, acutely aware of our privilege, with a burning sense of 'to whom much is given, much is expected.' What comes next, when you are in your sixties and female? We have one toe into old age...well, maybe a few toes.

We formed a book club! (Lol) We found that we were having a lot of similar conversations with one another - What should we do next? What are we doing now that really matters? Should we retire? How will our relationships with our spouses change when we are both retired and 'around' more? Why are we increasingly invisible to others, yet feeling vibrant on the inside? What enriches us? What do we seek to do? Especially, how might we help the world, build a better future for others? If we had that proverbial magic wand, what would it be?

We are reading these four books:

Letters to My Daughter by Maya Angelou

The Places That Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times by Pema Chodron

Come of Age: The Case for Elderhood in a Time of Trouble by Stephen Jenkinson

A Year to Live: How to Live This Year As If It Were Your Last by Stephen Levine

I've been fascinated by the common threads between these very different books - being aware of our stories, the essentialness of being present and mindful, and recognizing your own wisdom.

We have set a six month limit to our book club, and then we will re-assess its value. Maybe, we'll move from reading into some action steps. In the meanwhile, we're not sure that any one of these books has been the perfect answer to our questions, but the book club is an answer itself. We have our own little focus group, to support and share and wonder. 

Leaving the metro

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Early morning commute. The train operator announces that the next stop is mine, so I get out of my seat and stand at the door, right next to the guy who is first in line. He's a young, fit, good-looking man. I don't stand too close; I am a big believer in giving strangers adequate physical space. Yet, the guy looks at me and jumps a little bit...it's almost imperceptible, but I can tell he is surprised by me standing behind him. Something about his body language, his cursory glance at me, screams he is uncomfortable. What the heck? He inches a little away from me, as we wait for the metro doors to open. This is really peculiar. I don't believe I am crowding him, yet it's clear he is ill at ease with me. He has nothing to fear of a harried, gray-haired lady commuting to her teaching job. I freeze, and soften my bearing, unsure what has made this moment so awkward. Finally, the metro doors open - ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE TRAIN.

I repeat:
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE TRAIN.

Aack!

I am standing to depart from the wrong side of the train.

Ha! No wonder this guy is freaked out! He's wondering why I'm creeping up on him, on a morning commute. He's found this quiet corner near the door that won't open, and up comes this old lady, crowding him, right at his elbow.

I quickly scooted across the train car and out the door, onto the platform...and laughed out loud. This was SO funny to me. I chuckled all the way out of the station.

What a good reminder to myself to give others' grace.
We simply do not know what is on others' minds, what is going on in their lives.

How did I make such a mistake on my daily commute? I take this train most days of the week. It is so strange that I would mix up the exit door of the train.

I am reminded of advice by Atul Gawande in Being Mortal, about the need to focus on one thing at a time...I had been sitting on the train, wildly texting my colleagues about things that were planned fro the day ahead...I was in 'two places at once.' I don't have Atul Gawande's exact quote, but it was something about the need to eschew multitasking as one ages, and instead focus on one thing at a time...the brain isn't as elastic...or was his advice something to do with tripping and falling? Ah, well, the mind is foggy...at least I got a good belly laugh to start my day.

The traveling keys

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

The first incident happened when I went for a jog with my good friend. The keys were nestled in the side pocket of my workout shirt. I remembered my pal beginning the run with some crazy yoga contortions and I mirror-imaged her for a bit, and then we were on our way, down the trail along the creek. About a mile into the run, I realized my keys were gone, and what ensued then was a frustrating and ultimately fruitless, keyless search of the trail, that included -
running back towards our beginning point,
wondering whether those keys were hidden right before our eyes along the path or
had their loss occurred with those yoga moves, right next to the car, or
had they already been picked up by some other fresh air enthusiast and turned into some unknown lost key place,
retracing our steps a second time as we dared to begin the run again,
running our usual distance which had now been increased by two miles due to the slow search of the first mile twice,
returning for a second time to our cars at the starting point,
realizing the keys had entirely disappeared,
a phonecall to my husband, who,
rather than simply pick me up, became obsessed with finding those darn keys, and
me getting cranky at what was becoming a much too long exercise outing in the midst of all the school work I had to do,
back-and-forth about the darn car fob and how expensive these are to replace,
now we wondered if the keys had bounced from me and somewhere further into the grass, and
the hatching of a plan to return again with rakes and to do an-even-more-thorough search of the one mile zone,
except I wanted to shower first, and eat some food, and work on plans,
could we just go later in the afternoon?, and
he putzed and checked his email, and
lo and behold,
a policeman wrote that our keys had been turned in by someone walking the path, and that we had been tracked down by the tiny movie theater membership card that was attached on the key ring, and
did we want to come by the precinct and pick these up?

Those darn keys.

I looked at them mysteriously when they were back in my possession, wondering who they had met in the meanwhile, and why these small pesty annoyances happen, and thinking I should spend some money on fitness clothes with zippers, as my friend suggested.

Then I forgot about the keys and went on with my life. None of this was worthy of writing about, until the second incident. Yes, barely two weeks later, I had this horrible deja vu of missing the same keys, with only a change in location to add any allure or excitement to the chase. What the heck is going on with these keys? With me?

Incident Two involved a school day, an entire school day to replay for the chase. I will spare you that! Suffice to say, I typically metro to work and I do NOT have car keys with me. However, this day involved bringing brownies for the whole staff, to celebrate it being Friday, and I wasn't about to lug those brownies on a long walk to my school from the metro. On those somewhat rare days when I drive to work, I have a tried and true system - once I lock my car, I unzip the small, zippered pocket at the top of the backpack, take out my school keys, put my home keys in their place, and re-zip pocket. Forget about it.
A.U.T.O.M.A.T.I.C.
M.I.N.D.L.E.S.S.
R.O.U.T.I.N.E.
A.B.S.O.L.U.T.E.
N.E.V.E.R.  F.A.I.L.
No need to worry, no need to debate, I can count on this.

Until I can't.

There I was at my car door,
unzipping every pocket of my backpack,
and there were no keys anywhere.
And I was pretty dang frustrated.

Queue the retracing of steps. Queue calling family member - this time my son, also a teacher, who I was going to meet for dinner and I was now running late, "Give me a few minutes to figure out what's going on...I might need you to pick me up and take me home and get the second set of keys and come back here..." Ugh.

I went back into the school, checked at the front desk to see if anyone had turned in a set of keys at some point during the day [No, of course], and shuffled towards my classroom in a fog, thinking I'd check my cubby there...

...when a preschooler wanders into the hallway by himself - never a good sign at 5 pm on a Friday, when they should either be home or in the aftercare program. No adult anywhere. This little guy walked with purpose, cheerily called hello to me [he was not my student, but one in another class, and I was really surprised by his gregarious nature, being so at ease, so early in the school year], and I said,

"Where are you headed, honey?"

He answers brightly,
"I'm getting my water bottle," and he walks decisively down the hall, towards his room, and now I have a new hunt, because my teacher radar is going off madly, and I am following this small being into his classroom, realizing I must make sure he is safely ensconced with the adult(s) he should be with...he looks for his water bottle, and I lock eyes with his classroom teacher, who is just finishing up for the day, both of us wide-eyed and surprised that this child is wandering the school in the late afternoon all by himself at age three, the second week of school.

As he searches for his bottle, in comes his mother, carrying an infant, visibly frustrated that her preschooler has slipped away from her so quickly.

Ahhh! That mystery solved.

I remember my original problem, and I tell my colleague how frustrated I am that I have lost my car keys.

I am standing right at the teacher's counter by the door.

I look down at this counter - and - I kid you not,
there are my keys.

My set of car keys is sitting on my colleague's counter, in a classroom I have NOT been in at all that day.
In her room.
Not mine.
I do not understand.

What in the world?

Incredulous, I was and still am.

My colleague squealed, "I haven't seen those keys!! I did not put those keys there!! Where did they come from?"

This is my version of the 'traveling pants' - these keys have a life of their own. A life of great mystery.

How in the world did those keys end up in my colleague's classroom?
What if that little preschooler had not wandered down the hall at that precise time - would I have ever been reconnected with my keys?
Honestly,
I will never know.
I am not meant to know.
I can only say

WHEW.

These keys are a reminder:

I never have the full picture. In fact, how little a view I truly have of anything.

Life's message:
Grab the keys and get ready to ride.

Too much awake

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

A poem, written in the middle of the night, about being awake in the middle of the night. 

These days,

too much new and unusual exercise -

a long run,

a particularly hilly bike ride,

a novel and strenuous aerobics class,

and I am awake

in the middle of the night,

alert,

aware,

attuned.

These days,

too much drink -

whether wine,

or tea,

or simply water,

and I am awake

in the middle of the night,

nagged,

knotted,

noticing.

These days,

too much conversation -

old friends, laughing and recalling,

new folks, meeting and learning,

colleagues, sharing and debating,

and I am awake

in the middle of the night,

reliving,

replaying,

remembering.

These days,

too much food -

whether savory and spicy,

or chocolate and rich,

or copious,

and I am awake

in the middle of the night,

pained,

polluted,

promising to never again.

These days,

too much noise -

a sudden bump,

a clap of thunder,

an ambulance going by,

and I am awake

in the middle of the night,

tense,

twisted.

transfixed.

These days,

it doesn't take much,

and I am awake

in the middle of the night,

waiting,

wondering,

writing.

SOL19 Slice #3 Aging is painful work

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

Paper cut: a cut caused by the sharp edge of a piece of paper (MacMillan Dictionary)

Tiny, almost imperceptible, and yet so painful. 

Mom died four months ago, in late October.
We moved Dad from their house to an assisted living apartment, at his behest, a couple weeks after Mom died, so that he would have caregivers close at hand. A month or so later, it was clear that he would never be able to live so independently again, and we emptied his house of belongings, dispersing them to family members, giving things away to thrift shops, and throwing things out.

Another month later, we moved him from his assisted living apartment into the nursing home. After a few weeks here, we realized he would never be able to live even minimally independently again, and, the last week of February, we emptied his assisted living apartment of belongings, dispersing them to family members, giving things away to thrift shops, and throwing things out. He will live out his days in the nursing home.

Aging is painful work for all of us.

He is 89, suffering from Parkinson's and profound grief. He and Mom met in 8th grade. He doesn't know how to move on, without. Yet he must.

He lives 600 miles away and I try to visit him monthly, now that he is so alone. Thankfully, my brother lives just a mile from Dad, overseeing his care. He has many visitors - his children and grandchildren.

There are so many small moments that profoundly hurt, like paper cuts.

A former Admiral, he is now powerless.

Used to giving orders, he is now entirely dependent.

Avid reader and television news junkie, he is nearly blind.

Conversations or books on tape are impossible because he is quite deaf.
A keen mind, he has the beginnings of dementia.

A once strong, athletic man, he has lost much of his balance, needing a walker to move, and he needs assistance to get out of bed or a chair.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about:

falling out of bed,

needing assistance to the bathroom,
trying to remember someone's name,

wanting a snack right now, right this very minute - but having to wait,
"Where's my BLT?" he roars.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about.
He is incapable of 

changing into his favorite sweatshirt,

listening to his favorite singer [Eddy Arnold],

making his own bed,
remembering his own meds.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about:

not particularly liking the caregiver on duty,

surrounded by 'old people' [his words!] more fragile than he,

unable to remember the date or time or what comes next in his schedule,
seeing only the vaguest outline of the high school photo of Mom on his nightstand.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about,
Each day offering a little less
mobility,
memory,
sound,
sight.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about:

but he is aware of each,

with heightened awareness,
just like paper cuts.

He shares with me a story:

"I said no to my physical therapist this morning. I don't see why I should even bother. Last night, at dinner, they made me sit next to an old guy. He was holding a baby doll! He was holding a baby doll that looked real, but, come on, you and I know - it wasn't real. Maureen, he was cooing at the baby doll. How did I end up in this place? I was never, ever, ever going to live in an old folk's home. This is hell."

Learning

after all these years

to accept, to be humble, to delight in very small things,

like the window seat in the sunshine,

at the end of the hall,

where he can sit

and savor

all that came before.

I don't know if it is possible for Dad to learn this.

To be with my father, right now, is as if to watch him die from 10, 000 paper cuts.