Without oxygen

Without oxygen, 

our cells die and our organs 

stop their functioning. 

 COVID19 haiku   

“This disease is different from what we typically see, and its severity has unsettled even our most experienced doctors. One man arrived and had to be intubated immediately; his blood-oxygen level, thirty-eight per cent, was the lowest any of us had ever seen. 

(Greater than ninety-five per cent is normal; eighty per cent is alarming.) 

We have seen other patients with levels in the sixties or seventies. Another patient’s levels plummeted to below twenty per cent in the few seconds it took us to connect him to a ventilator. "

https://www.newyorker.com/science/medical-dispatch/a-boston-hospital-nears-its-limits

Previously, in this blog we looked at two forms of "drowning." Both of these posts are more metaphoric than clinical, or they may be accurate.  I'm not a brain scientist.

This post was about depression, and how we can drown in our own self generated darkness. 

http://www.densemilt.com/2011/06/another-way-of-drowning-in-your-own.html

The first post that discussed drowning was in 2009, three years after the death of my father from congestive heart failure.  As the heart fails, and the lungs fill with fluids, so one drowns in your own body. 

http://www.densemilt.com/2009/09/like-drowning-in-your-own-body.html

April 2 happens to be the 14th anniversary of the death and loss of my Father.  Our parents make such an impression on us, and when they go, there are holes that never get filled.  There are places in our hearts that never get comforted.  And yet, there are also memories that won't get forgotten for some time anyway. 

What are your favourite memories of your parents?

Feel free to leave your answers in the comments, or you can email me at lesgoodman66@gmail.com

They Burn Witches, Don't They?

Do you remember the movie They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? From the novel by Horace McCoy, it tells the story of survival, endurance, and exhaustion. Can these star-crossed lovers survive the marathon? “Is it safe?,”hissed Laurence Olivier to Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man. No. It is not safe. 
Will we survive the pandemic-probably. But I may lose my mind first,
Stress Is A Killer. And I am stressed.  
Still working, for which I am so grateful as financial ruin is not something to consider in your sixties. It is a marathon they say. My bank callled to remind me to come in for investment counseling, and I said, Have you seen the news? The stock market is crashing. 
Oh yeah, they said, the best time to invest. Buy low. Sell high. 
Makes sense, but there lurks a dread that this is just another trick to take the last shreds of security away. Fuck finance, let’s dance!
So we keep dancing .
Six feet apart. 
Do you think air sex is next? 
Truly strange times. 
Inside the fortune cookie, a small piece of paper. 
You crack the inedible treat to get to your future, your fortune, the gooey truthy centre. 
It says, breathe. 
Inspiration is the taking in of breath. 
Shallow breathing in these times of pandemic. 
Don’t touch. Barely breathe. Wash your hands for twenty seconds. 
I must confess I have always been more of a ten second kind of guy. 
So I wash twice. 
Wash, lather, rinse. REPEAT.
Repeat or repent, sinner. 
Are you a repeat sinner? 
Who isn’t?
But concentrate kid. Keep your eyes on the bouncing ball. The prize inside. 
The fortune cookie crumbling in the crackerjacks.
Did you touch it? You just bought it. Can’t put it back. Wash, spray, disinfect. 
I went shopping for food last night. A young couple reached for the last bottle of whipped cream. 
They put it back, I lean in.
They reconsider and it is still in there hand. I want that cream, but you know.
They touched it. They keep touching and dithering. So cute these young people.
So touching. So much touching.
There are many small worlds in our big world. Many views and theories. 
I keep getting so many informative videos from “friends “. 
Except most are filled with fake news. Mistruths. Lies even.
Or just misguided, well meaning? 
Which in another tune was amusing. Now it could be deadly. 
I am writing this on a phone, which keeps autocorrecting. 
Phone was just turned into phobe.
Which sounds like fob. No keys anymore,  only fobs.
Fobbed off. 
Do you feel a little fobbed off?
Just tell the world to fob off. 
And keep dancing.
It’s almost happy hour.
Somewhere. 

To My Mother - on what would have been her 99th birthday

On March 13, my mother would have been 99 - had she still been alive. 

When I remember my mother I long for a conversation with her.   She would have been 99 years old tomorrow.   She left us about 6 years ago, but in reality, she was not herself for many years before her death.  
After my father died in 2006, my mother seemed happy for a while, living alone and independently in a new apartment.  My eldest brother Pat would drive down from Kent, Washington to have lunch with her at Applebees.  That was there favourite.  Mom  would have some kind of shrimp and rice dish, if I remember ( and I really don't trust myself on this.)  But for sure they would share a Blondie with ice cream and some kind of caramel sauce for dessert.  We would visit her, and she was busy with her volunteer work doing hospice work.
After a while, we noticed small things at first.  She needed some help with the cleaning, and my sister would make her some meals for the freezer; all she had to do was defrost.   We would try to help cleaning up when we came to visit, but she would get agitated and cranky if we tried to throw out the papers.  "I haven't got to them, but I will."  Later, we would try to help downsize and her response was similar.  What about all this yarn and dress patterns from the 60's?   Do you use that anymore?
Well, I might get to it.  Don't touch it please.

When at age 49, I had a heart attack, my mother, before the dementia set in, was by my bedside holding my hand, her little boy in bed. I've written before about her hands. Her hands were so soft, worn down and worn in from all the children, the laundry, the dishes, the endless cleaning that a house of seven children would bring.  

Those were the same hands that found me in Atlanta.

One day my brother Pat came to visit and found her on the couch.  She had been there for some time. She was alive, but dehydrated.  
My mother often had these small strokes, called TIAs, also called transient ischemic attack.  Essentially they were mini-strokes.  She had probably had one, and couldn't get up.  
The place where she lived was a retirement home with assisted living when one needed it.
They also had a medical facility with beds, nurses etc.   My father had died there.
They moved Mom to the medical facility, and we came down to move her belongings to a smaller unit that had more medical assistance.
Unfortunately, when the time came for her to move in there, she was beyond that stage.  She would have to stay in full time assisted situation.   
I am probably forgetting lots of details.   Sad to say, I actually forgot the year she died, and had to ask my brother.  
I suppose we should have seen this coming long before, the forgetfulness, the insecurity with change.  But she had kept it all together when my Dad was alive.  They both probably covered for each, conscious or not.  
Anyway, she went from living with him as she had done for over 60 years, to living alone, to living in a long term care facility.   She moved to Atlanta to be closer to my next youngest sister.  She was across the country, so visits were not easy.   
When we would visit, her decline became more obvious, as dementia progressed to Alzheimers to Parkinsons.  Still, she would gift us with her occasional laugh, what I took as recognition and a conspiratorial wink, making me think that just maybe she ws still in there, not completely lost, but struggling to get to the surface of her congested mind.  
Today our society is shutting doors, cancelling events, and general panic and hysteria compete with science and reason, and we try to control this viral pandemic. How will we react if the people we love get sick?
I remember as a young child, lying in bed with scarlet fever, chicken pox, or measles (both German and non-German) my head burning with fever, and the bed spinning, and the room coming in and out of focus, the kind gentle hands of my mother, so cooling, so soft wiped my brow, brushed my cheek, and held my hands.
My mother sent me to school with the measles.  I came home with a fever of 104.  She sent my sister to school with a fractured arm.  Seven kids.  She was run off her feet.  She wasn't perfect.  Hell, nobody is. But how I still crave the caress of my mother, wanting wanting always waiting and wanting more.   

I remember her reading to me as a child.  Hush hush. Who whispers. Who dares?  Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.  James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree.  Took great care of his mother.  Though he was only three.  James James Morrison Morrison said to his mother, said he.  You must never go down to the end of the town, if you don't go down with me.
Both my parents went down to the end of the town without me.  They are gone for 14 years and 6 years respectively.  My eldest brother Pat died two years to the day as my Mother. He has been gone for 4 years. 

But life goes on. I have much to be thankful for.  The love of my life, who still seems to like me, which after 41 years, is no small feat.   My dearest daughter, to whom I read those same verses.   My beautiful sisters and brothers, and so many friends who are like family.  

My mother and father met in the war.  Their favourite song was I Walk Alone.  It is a sad song about the one left behind.  He had gone away with navy, and she was also in the navy, but stayed on shore.  When he returned, she claimed she didn't recognize him.   But I guess they got reacquainted, as they had seven kids, and they had kids, the kids had kids and on and on.  

I guess it's time to finish this thing.  I'll say good bye, but good bye is too good a word babe. So I'll just say, fare thee well.  And next year, we will salute her 100th year.  

What’s the frequency, Kenneth?

WHAT'S THE FREQUENCY, KENNETH?

So much waxing and whining about the good old days, the days of our youth, the Olde Vancouver, as if time should have frozen in the 80's.  Do you really want to revisit or relive the 80's?  Wasn't once enough?   Check out some of those asymmetrical hair styles and tell me you want that back.  I didn't think so.

Yes, it was a grand time, a golden age if you will.  And it was exciting, and we were young, and burned through life like a wildfire.  But fire season doesn't last forever.  Life goes on, change happens, shit happens, sometimes the wood works, sometimes you need an iron.  And don't get me started on irony and satire, which rarely work today, given the fragmented, divided  and very  compartmentalized times we live in.  Nobody "gets" the joke anymore.  The audience is not laughing, in fact, the audience didn't even show up.   It may be the bane of my professional career that I quit golf in my teens.

What do you suggest on this hole, my good man?  

Well, you seem to be mired in the sand, sir.

I would suggest a wedge, chip on up to the green, and putt-putt-putt away.  

Works like a charm, just like a dream.  

Well wake up because it only works like a dream because you are sleeping.    

It's not a contest with a prize at the end.   Life is more of a contest with a surprise at the end. Happy ending?  And they all lived happily ever after....It is certainly not a given.   

My grade 11 math teacher Mr Kagetsu hammered home his personal philosophy like it was a religion.  He would write on the blackboard everyday, the words "HARD WORK MAKES A HAPPY PERSON".  Those words may be trite, redundant, but they sure were true.  We laughed at his Dad humour, but he was right. Happiness is not a given, it is hard work.

Some days are better than others.  Some lives are better than others. Some girls mother's are bigger than other girl's mothers.   Life is not fair or equal and it never will be.   To expect such is a bad recipe for unhappiness and depression.  

Relationships are hard work.  Love is hard work.  Take it from a guy in a 40 year relationship.  Nothing happens without the spark, but a good fire requires fuel.  At some point, fire needs  wood to keep the flames burning.  But toss a big log on a fire, and it works as well as water to put the fire out.   Random Acts of Kindling are what the doctor ordered.  

I was struck today by just how many friends I have on the old social media who are no longer with us, i.e. they are deceased, nix, null, dead and gone.  Literally "waffer thin." As I scroll through all the many names, looking for living friends to invite to a recent "event",  I really had to be so careful so as not to invite the departed to the party.  Hell, some of those cold bodies would be more fun that the warm bodies that won't come anyway.   How does that nostalgia work for you when you are ashes on a beach?

We have to respect the past, remember the past, honour those who went before us, even honour the "us" that we were before.  But it is a special kind of blindness to desire to live in the past.  

I strive to create something new, something better, always better.  Ask me what song is on my mind, and it is usually the one I am working on right now.  

We have a new song we are building, called Pumpkin Spice Latte.  We have written a great riff that progresses, but never resolves. Musically there is a tension; lyrically, there is no chorus per se, but it keeps coming back to a"self-help"primer.  Let's throw caution to the wind and call this the chorus.  Even though the progression underneath is the same as the verse.  These verses I have recycled from old song fragments, cobbling these tales of bad luck together like Frankenstein's monster.  Sort of adversity with a "Greek chorus" disguised as a gooey centre of modern advice. 

Get with the program 

Throw a pity party 

Laugh like Seth Rogan 

Have a pumpkin spice latte 

Get rich-drive a Mazerati 

Get to lecture by Dr. Gabor Mate

Hopefully it all will work out in the end.  Still in the workshop.  Dad won't let me drive it yet.  Needs some more work, son.  Hopefully it doesn't end up as the sonic equivalent of a bachelor's self made meal.  Even Savage Dad Rock needs a timeout now and then.

But don't you see - the end result doesn't matter.  It is the process that keeps us going.  It is the simple joy of trying to create something new.   Whether it sprouts from within, or is delivered from above, who knows?   

It could all be a waste of time. Pissing my life away, playing to crowds of 20 when I could be rich and unhappy.  I guess I would rather be wasting time on trying to create something new, than moaning on about how great a time I had 20, 30, 40 years ago.  

What's the frequency, Kenneth?  

 

Suffering in Silence

Toodles is resting.  She just had another toe amputated for cancer.  This is her fourth amputation, two on one paw, one on another, and now this one.  She is wobbly but resilient.
One thing about Toodles is her silence.  She rarely barks.  You know it is serious when she does. She barks about once a year.   Which is compensated by her partner in Crime, Maisy.  She is a silent sufferer.  Her face is hard to read the emotions.  We project what we think she is thinking,which has developed into the Toodles voice.
For years, we have made up the Toodles voice, which in our imaginations is close to that of Pinky from Pinky and the Brain.  Maisy is the Brain.  She is the evil one, the terrorist, the terrier. Little Miss Bossy.  Toodles is the Recalcitrant Poodle, She Who Always Brakes, the pure breed without papers.
She is the undocumented Pedigree Standard Poodle.
Toodles was the runt of the litter.  When we got her at 8 weeks, she was 4 lbs.  Not much more than big eyes, fur and bones.  And poop, which she loved to eat.  So hungry that she ate her own poop.
I have jokingly called her My Sub-Standard Poodle, as she is a bit smaller than a real Standard.   More of an apartment size dog.   Even at close to 50 lbs, she thinks she is a lap dog.  "I's only a little dog." We think she says in the silly Toodles voice we made up.
My daughter named her Toodles.  That was a phrase my wife's father always used when we would leave, Toodles!  As in Toodle-OO.  Toodles the Poodle.  The comic potential was always a part of being a poodle parent.
Her disposition is sweet, but relentlessly solicitous.  She nudges you with her wet nose, until you pet her head, tell her she is beautiful, etc.  She does that with all of us, and any stranger that comes to the house.  She insinuates herself, until you accept her advances, or have to actually push her away.  Which is only a stalling method, as she always comes back to try again.  No does not mean no to this poodle.  No means if I just wait a bit, they will forget how obnoxious I am.

Toodles also has a dark secret and shame that she likes to keep hidden.  We think she walks upright in the apartment when we are away.  Nothing is safe from her inquisitive search.  Her special predilection is panties.  Panties from females.  She has eaten the crotch from underwear for years now.  We think that she considers herself a French Designer of Crotchless underwear.  Recently, she expanded her repertoire to men's boxer briefs. My daughter says Toodles is now gender fluid.   It is a new line of open-face boxers for the man that is always ready to "show and go".  Not everyone's taste, but unlike my female housemates, I saw the ingenious method to her madness.   These could come in handy some day.  Or so I thought, until getting ready for work one morning, when I reached into the drawer to grab yet another pair of black boxer briefs, only to be surprised the one I selected was the Open Face, which can be a bit "drafty", and certainly not appropriate for a work environment, where keeping your junk secure and hidden is a prerequisite.  Still, I did not throw them out.....

We are not sure of the reason for the cancer, although apparently it is common in black dogs, in particular Poodles and Black Labs.  Everyone has their weaknesses, and the toe is Toodles' Achilles Heel.  Still, she is a noble beast, and a  proud warrior (beware squirrels- here comes the Mighty Poodle-Hunter).  I would write more, but there is a wet nose nudging me.

Floating, buzzing, ringing in the new you

Floaters appear to us as black strings, webs, spectral films, dots and specks.  They float in our field of vision as we move our eyes, in particular, after a certain age.
They are constantly moving; you can't follow them as they appear to move away when you try to focus on them. 
These ghostly friends are caused by changes that occur as we age, as the jelly inside our eyes becomes more liquid. 

Tinnitus is the high pitched, constant, non-stop ringing and buzzing in our ears competing with normal sounds around us.   Every day, it seems to get louder, more insistent.

So here we are.  Floaters in our eyes.  Ringing in our ears.  Short term memories missing, fleeting or faulty.  Introductions are made, and by the time we have gone around the circle, there is no idea who these people are, what was said, and why you are even standing there.  

What about the hair that grows in all the wrong places,  requiring Herculean daily efforts to hold back the conversion from man to wolf in daylight hours?

Is there something we can take?  Some kind of tincture, potions, creams, sprays?  Go ask Gwyneth.

We have pills to reduce cholesterol from building up in arteries, pills to hold back the evil thoughts and hopefully control the chemicals in our brains from pulling us under the black water we are soaking in, pills to boost the thyroid, adrenalin to suppress the appetite, and everyday, there is more gas, grease, blood, excess liquids, accumulation of fluids and fatty deposits.

Yet no pills exist to remedy shallow bank accounts. We have dope, but no hope.

We have creams for fungus, creams for the sun, creams for pain, creams to remove hair, or help hair grow.  Lubricants to make it wet, made it hard, make it go away.  Wax to hold things in place.

We have sprays to freshen up, to disinfect, sprays that also hold things in place. Yet we no longer have places, we refuse to know our place.  We go where we are not invited, and we don't leave when asked.

We have scents to replace the one's we generate.  But no scents to give us a sense of wonder, a sense that we have less sense that we need in a world that is ever more senseless.   

We have drinks to give us energy, drinks to take away the pain, drinks that cause only pain.  

And we have weed.  We have weed killers.  We have buzz killers, we have bug killers, we have pesticides, herbicides, parasites, fratricide, suicide and more sides to be on. Did you want an extra side with that?  We have insides on the outs, and outsides that we try to control like insides.

We have drugs that kill, prescriptions to fill, drugs that help increase our fertility, drugs that help maintain an erection, but no drugs that can reduce collusion in our elections.

We have printed today's post in large print.  

Public Swimming Notes

I am at the public swimming pool.  There are parents here with their children.  These parents, some of them are dressed like children themselves.  It is like there are larger children watching over the smaller ones, except the large children have stretch marks.  A woman rubs sunscreen over her pale pierced belly.  A man is sleeping in a fetal position on a plastic chaise lounge, his knee resting over the armrest.

There are men with more hair on their backs than on their heads.  Generally, the women are more attractive than the men; in that they have made an effort of sorts.  The men, not so much.

Children are everywhere screaming, riding the foam noodle, beating each other with foam paddle boards, firing water cannons at strangers.  The lifeguard announces that if anyone is parked in the ballpark parking lot, they will be towed after 4pm.  It is already 4 pm, so panic ensues.  Immediately five men line up in front of the lifeguard to go over their own personal situations, explaining where their exact parking space was and questioning if the announcement still affected them.  No one had listened to the more general message other than to register the "what's that?"  Something about parking and towing.  Hey, am I getting towed? The men want a personal ruling on their particular situation.  

It is interesting how the women who wear the skinny bikinis with the slim bottoms, you know, the ones where half their ass is pouring out of the bottom, are constantly readjusting, hitching up and pulling down, daring the small piece of clothing to cover more space than it is physically designed to cover.  Yeah, they want to show off their cute little butts, but not that much.  Most men are sporting the long shorts favored by the California skate punks.  The trunks match their backwards ball caps.  Tattoo R Us are here with a stand, offering permanent tattoos to children.  Parents are lining up to get their kids tattooed.  You must be under this height to qualify.

There are a few short people with signs who are protesting this unfair discrimination.  The preeminent sound in the air is screaming.  As a parent of a child who is already grown up, I wonder if muzzles would have any effect.  I can already hear the protests against the muzzling of children in public spaces.  To muzzle or leave unattended in the car in this abnormal heat.  

A young Chinese man is wearing skintight long shorts with noticable bulge as he exits the water.  He tries to adjust his suit, and failing this, proceeds to do a few pushups in the shallow end of the kiddie pool.  As I look down to write this, and then look up, he has vanished into thin air.

Another man is jumping on one leg, while shaking his head to the sides, to release the water in his ears.  A young toddler is dressed in a full body suit with sun bonnet.  Obviously, the mother is terrified of the sun.  If there was any way to further cover her child, she would be first in line.  

It is always interesting to watch the new arrivals to the pool, after you have staked out your space.   They look around in vain for a space, then try to change out of their summer clothes, to reveal the bathing suit beneath.  Undressing in public has its own painful shame, featuring the one-legged dance to reinforce modesty while asserting the social fears of judgement.  Is this what they look like at home?

After about an hour in the sun, with a few dips into the cool shallow wading pool to cool down, we pack up to go home.  The last challenge is deciding which entrance to the changing rooms to take.  There are no signs above the doors, but if you look in, you see WOMEN.  Ok, I don't go in there.  Next entrance says MEN with smaller type that states Trans People Welcome.  Which is ok with me.  But as I walk down the aisle, I see women and men and children, and the whole segregation of the sexes that I have grown up with has descended into anarchy, where anything goes.  Basically, people dry off their wet clothes, putting their dry clothes over the wet ones, as this is the new compromise.

At the entrance, I wait for my wife who has found some kind of place for a shower.  I wait at the entrance, looking at the signs for fees.   Adults are $6.40, but if you buy a pass of 10 tickets, it is $48.00, but if you come with people who you can dentify as your "Family", the admission is $3.70 each.  Clearly, there were gaps in my education.  Math used to be more straightforward.  A man at the counter is asking about the towing.  Yes, cars are towed after 4 pm if you are parked in the ballpark parking.  Yeah, that is where I am.  I say, it is 4:30, so you may want to get out there soon.

Later at dinner, we discuss a friend who teaches creative writing at the University.  They have students who bring their translator to the meetings with the professor.  This is an English creative writing course.  One would think that English was a prerequisite.  

As I prepare the perfect gin and tonic, sweating in my apartment, looking at the dogs spread out on the cool laminate floor, I ponder the dearth of creative math classes that we so clearly need to navigate  this new world.