Made it through a birthday with all my fingers and toes, assorted other limbs and organs, wrote a long ass entry which I decided not to post. Not that Haredawg Drools (is that who I am here?) has quality control or anything. It was reflections on the last year and wasn’t exactly for public consumption. I’ve been public enough about the hardships; I’ve been keeping the joy close to my vest. Not entirely my idea but I agree with it.
What I put in the Box is completely up to me, but I never signed a No Entry UnPosted clause (or, as the social media attorneys like to call it the NEUPC. I kid; you don’t need a social media attorney, do ya?). Despite the way it might seem, though, I do not live entirely in my own head. Ok, the parts that are attached to the head do, but, those parts are pretty much at the whim of the ambulatory bits. I know, you’re thinking it’s the other way around, and you might have a point, but the head isn’t exactly unified or there wouldn’t be that nagging little voice you “hear” from time to time telling you to zig when you really want to zag.
I have a meeting this morning with the rehab staff. Oh, wait, did I mention my dad was in the rehab wing? Physical rehab. Nobody is in recovery up in here. Heh. I realize that sounds, um, arbitrary. I like it that way. Someone will posture about a return home, I’ll state my inability without a 24 hour nursing staff, somebody will take notes. My dad will say things like “I’m alright” and someone will think he is participating and ask him what he’s alright with.
I’m a little scared of having the responsibility again but I think that’s unlikely to happen. Mostly because of money. The home would rather have the bills than a 24 nursing staff in the home. I think on the physical rehab part my dad will demonstrate incredible progress (they had him in a wheelchair for a few days, he can walk) dementia wise not so much. Sure he recognizes people and things, he also has periods where he is non-responsive. The question isn’t what he’s capable of doing so much as what he is capable of initiating; not very damn much. For instance, it’s really hard to tell if he’s incontinent or has forgotten what to do when he feels the urge to use the can. Rehab has had him in adult diapers.
At home he had the diaper wadded up and was hugging it like a heart pillow or teddy bear. I did explain it to him on intake. I didn’t expect him to remember, but he was out of it so I don’t think he was catching it as I was speaking. I’ve tried explaining a few times since, even when he was fairly cogent I got the “I’m Ok, I’m alright” that, in cases like this means “Stop talking to me about that”. I’m Ok I’m alright often means something, often as not it means ‘something is wrong I can’t articulate what’.
T’any rate it ain’t all slow march to the grave around here for me. There is a bright beacon, a lighthouse, that keeps me from crashing my ship on the rocks and brings me in safe to harbor. Bearable is a high water mark and she makes it beyond bearable, almost magical (that’s not hyperbole or flattery, wait, no, it is, but it’s not in my usage in this case, it’s also not a bunny in the false bottom of a top hat). And when my ghoulish work is done here and I leave Michigan, hopefully for the last time, I think I will not be going alone.
My experience here suggests maybe I won’t be going back to Oregon either, or at least Portland. I don’t think I could bear the city with all my personal ghosts of used to be. I understand, for instance, that Powells is going out of business. It’s a land mark, A book store that takes up a large city block and has several satellites, and seeing Portland without Powells is a bit like seeing Lansing without Fisher Body, motor wheel, Diamond Rio.
Was it Thomas Wolfe with You Can’t Go Back Home? Seems a little too modern, but, yeah, let’s go with tommy the wolf. It’s that things change, as they should, but they do whether they should or not, and you change, and the gap between where you left and who you are when you return, is broader on both banks of the river of time. I realize it’s been a long time since I read either tommy the wolf hearted or the book I have a nagging suspicion I’m actually thinking of (something by someone other than tommy the wolf pawed). The point quite possibly was different. Doesn’t make what I’m typing any less true. I loved my ghost Portland.
Isn’t really the city I miss though. My kid and his family, I miss them, I miss the gorge, I miss the Oregonian attitude. I had a real live epiphany in that gorge and yeah maybe I could have had it anywhere, but I didn’t. The gorge itself changes but very very slowly. Sure they could build a rest area or tear one down or other such mankind type of things, but the gorge is primal, and thousands of years of wind and water carves an inch off a rock, bends the direction of a tree; it doesn’t close down Powells.
Shit I got things to do. This entry isn’t all that postworthy either, but, you know, fuck it. I’m spent.
Loading comments...