Getting closer...

As I sit here on a Tuesday afternoon, I ponder what life will be like once I've turned 50. Not that I'm expecting a major change, but I think I'll talk about it until my birthday and then after that never discuss my age again. A good thing, I think.

If someone asks, I'll just say, "Older...period".

Depression

Why are the holidays always so damn depressing for me? Every year it seems. I just can't figure it out. I mean, here we are...a day away from Christmas and I'm feeling like shit!

I guess a couple hours with a therapist might be in order.

I can't help but remember who is not here, who is gone, who had an impact on my life...especially the holidays. On Christmas' past and all that.

There is no question about life changing and furthermore the need to grow where life wants you to grow but really.

Fuck the turkey, fuck the shopping, fuck the crowds, fuck the gifts (not that I"m giving any) and fuck everyone else for that matter.

It might make a difference if I weren't trapped into the life I'm in. If I had someone special in my life to share it with but I'm a bit beyond my father. Playing this waiting game, if you will.

All for now.

A Snow Job!

Have you ever felt sucker to a con job? Maybe got swept up into circumstances by people who are very well trained to do just that? Well, I just have.

Let me start at the beginning. On Monday, November 16th, I reacted to a new medication my physician gave me with a very sever skin rash. I drove myself to Prompt Care, kind of a Quickie Triage without the ER Room run by the same kind folks who operate our local hospital.

They also listened to my lungs and found I was quite congested, which I was, and provided me with an Aerosol nebulizer treatment. They told me to stop the med’s that gave me the rash but if my cough didn’t get any better I should see ER, (or my physician, for which I knew would be impossible outside of my December 2 appointment.)

On Wednesday night I went to bed kind of early for me and didn’t wake up until 3pm the next day (approx. 14 hours later). I woke feeling awful, coughing, gasping for breath, feeling lousy. My Dad coerced me into thinking that I might want to go to the hospital. From around 3 until maybe 5 or 6 PM, I stumbled around, in a daze, actually thinking I should go to see a physician. I finally found two matching shoes, grabbed headphones for my iPhone and got in the Exploder. I weaved and swerved irradically all over the road to the hospital, where, Thank God, I made it without endangering anyone’s life.
I stumbled in. Immediately was checked in, turned to be seated and was called to come in. The intern’s ran towards me, where I guess I literally collapsed.

I was laid down on this really comfortable gurny, only it was like a big settee, a deep maroon leather, with the same color drapes. The fellow on my left had cut his hand and was scheduled for surgery and muttered on aimlessly all the while the staff scurried about me. Thermometers, BP, Cap on the finger to determine the oxygen level in my blood, which, was around 83 or so. (The commencement of Oxygen). I remember someone introducing me a Dr. Amos and I was just engulfed with interns (or smooth salespeople). One offered to get me something from the cafeteria, I had no idea of the time because my watch went in my pocket for the IV drip that was started. An intern or something came back with the driest egg salad sandwich I ever tasted. Then the primary, dark haired intern asked if she could swab my nose. I asked what for? But not before I had a swab in and out of each nostril. Was it DNA? (Later, I was told it was for MRSA, which, if they had asked I would have told them I’d had multiple times years ago). (Probably the combo, MRSA/DNA was more accurate).

Then the subtle suggestions began. “Wouldn’t you feel better here tonight?” “We should really take a better look at you, you’re lungs appear very congested. I may have even been given an albuteral nebulizer treatment, it’s such a fog. (Something in the drip, perhaps?)

It was from this point on, I have no idea of what possessed me.

Firstly, I’m in the Ugliest Plastic Walled hospital run by Adventist Health, the organization that pushed behind the scenes for the closure of the county’s health facility and hospital. An organization that has taken over this community with it’s Doctor’s, nurses, specialists and senior citizens. This building is so hideous, I seriously feeling like blowing chunks when I see it. When I’ve taken my father there for blood draws, it’s like a friggin factory. The senior’s all line up, waiting for their name to be called, then get ushered into the “drawing room”, which can accommodate maybe 6-8 phlebotomist’s at once and all the senior’s know each other and chat amongst themselves. I think I even had blood taken there once to my dismay.
They use the “one big draw” procedure, where all the blood is drawn into a pint size syringe and then squirted into individual tubes. I don’t think this is even a proper procedure anymore even but it keeps the lines moving.

This is the organization I wrote letters to the editor about years ago. They, by the county’s closure of the Old General Hospital moved their vacancy factor to a much lower figure. Of course, they then had to take Medical people, all of them. And those patients are generally kept out of sight, off to the side. Recently, I wrote a blog about them, originally as a letter to the editor of our paper, which was rejected “because they didn’t want to present a positive or negative picture of any county corporate entity.” They also have the Law Enforcement Department lab processing, which I might add is quite lucrative.

Well, I must have succumb. The sweet dark haired intern whispered in my ear there was going to be a $75 co-pay, which they would happily bill me. And off I went past two or three deputies, having coffee into an elevator opening, onto a dark floor into a darker room with only a male nurse-like person, all wearing masks, and shifted into “the hospital bed”.

After being made familiar with it’s plethora of features, none of which I used other then the call button, I was questioned by the nurse like man and every answer entered into his laptop on wheels.

I drifted for awhile, asked for water, and the man nurse told me he’d have someone get me some. Later a young masked girl arrived with water. 3 am… 4 am… 5 am…, every now and then someone would come in, test the finger for oxygen and leave…with the machine beeping and blinking. On went my call light. Off went the machine. Then the IV machine. They did something, blinking, beeping. On went the call light, off with the machine. Then the oxygen machine again.. Each time the response time became considerably longer. There, out of the blue, a young Indian boy came to draw blood. He looked around for somewhere to poke and not being able to find anyplace, I asked, “For what?” He said something, I don’t remember now, but knowing my bloodwork, I knew that particular test took a couple days to run. It needed to be cultured, etc. I said, “No.!”

He of course ran out with his tail ‘tween his legs. Mainly because he couldn’t find a vein if he had to due to his lack of experience

Then breakfast, something to look forward to. I don’t know how to make an omelette shaped like a flattened football, with a flattened potato-tot, on top of a piece of the same shaped toast look less appealing. And the taste was horrific. I drank some milk.

A new nurse came in. I told her I hated it here. She asked, “the loneliness?” I agreed “that and more”. I later found out that because I answered “yes” to Fever and Night sweats meant possible TB exposure, which in turn meant “Solitary”.

Then there was a hush and “Dr. V” came in. He was at least 7’2, Indian, probably Mumbai, American educated as I detected no British accent. His name badge read his full name but he preferred to be known as the Main Doctor. He asked why I had refused blood work and told me they would have to take two points, culture them and wait.
I told him of my travel plans to see my dying mother in Colorado. He appeared sympathetic. (Although at that moment I couldn’t even conjure the thought of the preparation necessary to go, shopping, cooking for Dad, packing, driving to SF all night. Could I do it?

At that point, I lost it. I told him I had to get out of there. I told him I was leaving in two days to be with my mother, I had no time for this. This was all bullshit and to let me the hell out of there. His face shifted from a “false caring to a false disappointing look”. He again asked if I really needed to go. I solidly told him, “Yes, I did”, I said. He said he would see what he could do and left the room.

Then more of last night every now and then someone would come in a test the finger for oxygen and leave…with the machine beeping and blinking. On went my call light. Off went the machine. Then the IV machine, they gave me more antibiotics They left, then the blinking, beeping. On went the call light, off with the machine. Then the oxygen machine again.. . and on and on.

Then a lovely young Sales Rep came to me with my brand new “Nebulizer” (which I had to pay for 80/20). She showed me all the features, an on/off switch. I then asked her how I was to take this thing on an airplane. She said she knew they could fly, but thought maybe some paperwork might need to be filled out or something. I said, “Have you noticed the airline climate in which we live today?” She looked at me with a bewildered, “Huh?” I asked her how much this would cost and she quickly submitted Medicare would pay 80%. They thought of having to check in a “Nebulizer” with United Airlines, not coughing or looking sick on an airplane or be thrown off in today’s climate ran constant in my head.

Then back came the checkout nurse. More papers to sign, doctor’s orders, a prescription list.

She asked if I wanted to walk or a wheel chair. I opted for the wheel chair. I’m glad.
She wheeled my past 6 or 8 rooms of extremely elderly sick looking people, past the nurse’s station and to the elevator. (My room had a South East looking view overlooking a lot of room top to Mt. Duckwalt in the distance. I never looked out.
I am still appalled that I was in this place, this place where I promised myself I would never go.

Finally, discharge time. I drove straight home and laid down. The thought of driving back to Bertelli’s Drugs was completely out of the question for Friday. While I did find out when I called they do deliver, 24 hours notice and it was too late for today and not on the weekends.

Saturday morning I drove to Bertelli’s. $268. No, no, no! All I had wanted the night before was a strong antibiotic and some prednisone to open up the lungs. Instead, this is what I got.

My hospital pharmacist’s list read as follows:
1. Tamiflu – for the H1N1, which I had been told by them I didn’t have. $85.40
2. Levaquin 750 mg – the antibiotic. Medicare didn’t pay
so they called in a substitute - I remember having this before
but never so expensive. $250.00
3. The substitution: Avelox 400 mg./7 days. The substitute med. $ 99.00
4. Albuteral .84% $ 58.00
5. Atrovent neb. $ 28.00
6. Prednisone 10 mg./9 of them (descending 4 – 1, I altered the dosage) $ 7.20

I opted for items 3 and 6 to a cool $99.

I thankfully now realize, that had I opted to not admit myself and actually drive home, I would have been arrested as I backed my Exploder out of the parking lot or drove back down Hwy. 108. At the time, I didn’t even think of a taxi, which would have been safe.

I also now realize, I was profiled. Under 50 (just), Income (disability, but income), Insured). The perfect target. I could pay. And pay, I’m sure I will. I felt so ill on Friday having lost time in preparing for my trip, that is: grocery shopping and meals for my father, making sure he had enough food in the house and his needs were taken care of, I knew that with only Saturday afternoon, I could only cancel my trip to Denver, thus saving the Airline Ticket value for future use.

Quite interestingly enough, my father, who had been sick (I think I actually caught it from him), wasn’t getting better. On Monday, the 23rd, we made a Tuesday appointment at his VA Clinic. His diagnosis: Pneumonia. Medication: A hand held Albuteral Nubulizer (with more coming in the mail) and Amoxicillin 500mg/10 days Cost: Under $10

So…both of us have been diagnosed with Pneunomia, and look at the difference in treatment.

I also wonder whether the nebulizer treatment I received three days earlier at the Prompt Care used new tubes. They did mention I had some sort of fungus growing cultured from my lungs. What is the normal incubation time?

Tomorrow, Monday, December 1st I will look into returning the Nebulizer, after all, it wasn’t used and why charge an already stretched Medicare. I will also go to SRMC and request all records relating to my overnight sojurn: Physician’s ER notes, X-Ray’s, Lab Work. Only because I was told my physician did not have hospital priviledges and I’ll need to take this to him.
This total cost is yet to be known, but

I do know it cost me a precious week with my mother in Denver, which is the largest price I will ever pay. More later…I promise.

It is also interesting to note that if you Google SRMC 95370, you get an advertisement on "How to Become a Certified Nurse"
at, of all places, SRMC - Sonora.

Oh that AT&T...

Well, on Friday, I got a call from a Rep at AT&T. He offered me a really terrific deal. Changing my Static IP to a Dynamic IP and upgrading my speed to just under 6K. For no extra money. I was astonished.

No gimmicks, nothing. As many of you know the problems I've had with AT&T.

So this morning I logged on and nothing. NADA, Nothing. I wondered. The Rep said I'd receive a letter advising me of the change. NADA.

So after trying a couple rounds of reconfiguring both the PC and the MAC, I gave them a call. It seemed they changed over to the DHCP this morning. All without telling me.

Well, you know how it goes. You can either talk to the PC guy or the MAC guy, or the Networking guy and on and on. I opted for the easier and went with the PC guy, Steve. After a wee bit of configuration. (He kept asking me if I was in an IT department somewhere because I seemed to know a lot. I told him no.) we fixed it.

I told him I could handle reconfiguring my MAC and the Airport and Airport Extreme's. He was surprisingly astonished. Anyway, around 2 I was up and running in just about 2 hours.

I sure wish they would let us know when they are doing something.

Death 101

Sometimes it’s just too hard to face the reality of death. I think we instinctively, ultimately know, but just can’t bring ourselves to accept it. I think it’s our nature. It’s a very difficult thing, letting go. But it is something we must do to be at peace with ourselves. And each and every one of our processes is different.

For some of us, it’s easy. Others, it takes time. We must literally watch with our own eyes the physical deterioration in our loved ones. Sad as it may be, we can’t bring ourselves to give up hope. Hope there can be an answer from a doctor telling us just how much time we have. Hope that someone can tell us when our loved one will go and, of course, hope that it doesn’t happen.

While trying not to be pessimistic, I have always felt our loved ones won’t go until we are ready to let them go. For whatever reason, we must be mentally and emotionally ready. It’s almost like giving them permission to be at peace, which in turn comes from us being at peace with ourselves enough to give that permission.

People who are dying hold on for many different reasons. Maybe a daughter has some forgiving to do. Maybe a son needs to say thank you. Maybe a mother needs to tell her children, no matter what, she’ll always be with them. A variety of different reasons as is a variety of different circumstances.

In my world, I do know, well at least hope that in the next life we’ll see and feel their love again. I know I continue to feel the love of my loved ones who have passed in many different ways at least once a day.

The Last Night of the World

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGmqX8EAvrw

No more Chemo...

On September 21st, my mother's oncologist is going to tell her he is ending treatment and that as far as he can tell, the two courses of chemo and one course of Radiation has done little, if anything to quell the cancer

Quite a conversation it will be, I'm sure. This will be a stark reality picture.

As I previously mentioned pain, I didn't discuss a broken heart, which is what I feel. Only to have known my mother for 8 short years. It tells me to act on my thoughts and dreams while there is time. Live each day like it's the last night of the world.

This morning I awoke thinking about the song, "The Last Night of the World", from the Broadway Musical, Miss Saigon.

...like a lonely saxophone. Here's a You Tube link.

Pain

Pain, different meanings to different people. Some of us can tolerate a lot of it some of us can tolerate little. There is no set determination of what level each of us feel.

I know, with my prescribed intake of pain medication, I run about a 4.5. (1-10 being what medical professionals deems to be a scale in which they can equally comprehend with the patient.) My father, who wouldn’t dream of taking an aspirin for a headache runs at about a 1. But my dear mother, who is living with lung cancer, must be at about a 9. Taking 40mg Oxycontin, as well as Percocet’s and coming off of a Fentanyl patch, the pain of cancer infiltrating her body must be unbearable. Mentally and physically.

After having numerous back surgeries, I know how it is when you just can’t get comfortable. When any position feels wrong. When the touch of a gentle hand resounds through you’re body like nothing you’ve ever felt.

For me, the worst physical pain I ever experienced was my Kidney Stones. Every little bump in the car on the way to the hospital resounded like screeching fingers along a chalkboard and knives being hurled into my kidney region. This, of course, was a pain I hadn’t been prepared for. Later on, luckily, with my neck and back pain, I was desensitized prior to the imitation of such anguish.

While I think I’ve have more than my fair share of pain in my life, I can’t help but feel so helpless when my mother must endure this agony.

God Bless Demaral!

A Surprise Visitor

So yesterday afternoon, around 4pm, my father told me someone was at the front door asking for me. I wasn't expecting anyone and I knew it must be someone respectable because all my trashy friends use the side door.

I opened the door and there she was. Politely, I asked who she was. It was Judith. My birthmother's high school girlfriend when she was pregnant living in Tuolumne. I hadn't spoken to her is a couple years. I invited her in. Introduced her to my father and we sat down at the dining room table and had a lovely visit. (Luckily, on Sunday, I made an Apple Upside Down cake, so I cut some slices and brewed some tea.

It seems she had driven from Carson City over the "harrowing" Sonora Pass and was on her way to visit her brother in Oakdale. She had swung by Tuolumne looking for her old "homestead".

I was a very pleasant visit. I had felt Judith held me hostage a couple of years ago by not telling me the location of her "homestead". Apparently, she didn't know as it never had an address.

We talked of LindaMom and my visit in May and before I knew it, she was off.

An unlikely, but pleasant visit on a Tuesday. Thank God for upside down apples on Sunday.

Sundays , Sunday

I still hate Sundays. I think it stems from me as a child, an only child. No one is ever around, or at least around me. I always feel self-defeating, never get any thing done and am completely lethargic.

Somehow, I must get over it.

I also think that the reason people get married (or involved) with other people later in life is because no one wants to be alone. It's quite tragic, really.

Just the thought of someone to curl up in bed with, to talk to about current events or even non-current wouldn't be bad. I don't know.

The isolationism of this county has apparently gotten to me. There is no one here. At least no one I can find. Without obvious looking.

I guess this is just my lot in life. I had way too much fun when I was younger that I am paying for it now. Period, end of story.

Life alone at the age of 49.

My Three Mother's

I’ve been quite lucky in my life to have more than one mother; my birth mother, my adopted mother and a sort of surrogate mother, my aunt. Each has been special and wonderful in their own ways and I wouldn’t have changed anything about them. But as I am in the process of losing the last of them, I can’t help but think of the way they each has passed*. Each different and unique – all distinctively special to them. *or will

My adopted mother, Kathleen passed in1986. All was fine until one Friday morning she felt very ill. Her stomach. She stayed in bed all day, which was something she never did. I remember going down to the house have having lunch with her. I wore a bright red shirt and I remember her commenting on how much she liked it. I ate tuna with red cabbage.

The following morning my father called and said he was taking her to the hospital because she ‘really didn’t feel well”. This I knew was bad because she hadn’t seen a doctor in years. She hated them.

Around 11 am, my father called and said I should come down – they were going to take her to surgery and they thought she had appendicitis. As I hurriedly got it together, I found on the way to the hospital, about 10 miles, there was a huge traffic hold up on the highway. It took me over an hour. When I finally arrived, they told me her blood pressure had dropped so low they could not do anything until they brought it back up.

After seemingly hours because these situations seem to have no definite times, they wheeled this woman, swollen so much I could barely distinguish her as my mother past me.

Upon completion of surgery the doctor advised us that she was very, very sick. It was not her appendicitis but rather, a tumor, the size of a golf ball in her colon that had burst. His outlook was not good.

My father and I took a break for a couple hours as she lie in intensive care and came back to the hospital around 7 pm. There was no change. Her blood pressure remained low and continued to drop.

Around 10 pm, the surgeon came to us and told us that we should prepare to lose her. My father could not believe it. Neither could I for that matter. We stood by her bed for a while. She did not resemble herself. The toxins in her body had caused her to puff up like a blowfish. This was not my mother. At 12:01 am, they pronounced her dead. Acute Sepsis. Colon cancer that could have been detected and treated. The following days were a nightmare. Fine on Thursday, dead on Saturday.

Aunt Theda collapsed during a tour of the White House during the Clinton administration in October of 1998. She immediately flew back to the Bay Area and visited her doctor. Pancreatic Cancer, for which there was no treatment.

Her younger sister, Doris, came from Delaware to be with her. Christmas was hard. We knew the inevitable. She gave me a pewter teapot I had always played with as a child. I knew it was special to her, as her aunt had given it to her. Knowing of her demise she made sure she gave me everything she wanted to. Each day she shredded personal files and love letters she had kept for many years. She had always been a private person and wanted to keep it that way. She arranged her funeral, re-wrote her will, and lived each day the best she could. As she approached her 8th month of the illness, she began to show signs of wear.

On her birthday, June 22, I threw a cake and ice cream party with all of her friends. Over 50 people came that day as well as her priest, who said a special blessing. It was warm and we all could tell she was having a rough time, but she looked fairly well and was the warm, gracious, wonderful lady I had always known.

I saw her about a week later and the pain medication had finally taken its toll. She was not the Aunt I grew up with. On July 5th, she passed peacefully around 5 am.

Knowing I had done the party for her gave me such satisfaction and such a wonderful memory – it couldn’t have been a more satisfying experience.

I gave a heart-wrenching eulogy at her service. As my mother had gone so suddenly before her, I had time to mend any wounds and spend good time with her. Sometimes I wonder if this was a healing for me.

LindaMom, my birthmother, who came into my life at the age of 42, began to fail in December or January of this year. My sister and she didn’t tell me anything until February when they were taking her into surgery to remove her collapsed lung. After surgery, they found she had cancer. Stage 2 – T3. There was a large tumor behind her heart and partially attached which could not completely be removed. Not only was there a diagnosis of lung cancer, but emphysema and a cardiac condition as well.

My sister, Melanie and I discussed her options quite openly. The odds weren’t good. I felt the treatment plan should be thrown away. I think Melanie did too. But Miss Linda was not one to give up. The surgery was rough. Rather than laproscopically removing the lung, they had to dissect it, piece by piece. The surgeon said he knew he didn’t get all of the cancer.

Treatment was the standard radiation and chemotherapy. Would Miss Linda do it? You bet she would. I believe she thought it would be a “cake-walk” and all could then return to normal. This, however, was not the case. Because of the need for oxygen, she could not return to her home in Walden, some 3,000 ft. higher in elevation than Denver. She moved into my sister’s house. Since her first round of treatment went fairly well, she resumed her glass of wine each night. This has become problematic because she has put herself at risk of a heart attack, a stroke or death. At this stage in the game, I really can’t blame her for drinking. I know I would. Her blood levels continue to be nowhere within the margins and the entire family has seemingly been “on alert” since February.

She is sad, angry and of course; no one wants to die. She is certainly not ready to die and this is something she has no control of.

You see, my mother was Miss Linda to the entire town of Walden. She tended bar at the local saloon, knew everyone, cooked Sunday brunches for the bar as well as had holiday meals every holiday for “her strays” as she would say. This was a lady in control. I can’t imagine the emotional and mental pain she is going through.

When I met her in Walden, there was a dance band at the bar on Friday night. I didn’t quite realize it but everyone was out to kind of check me out. Make sure I was good enough for her. They were, and still are quite protective of her.

As of today, she continues to fight. Possibly the cancer has gone into the bone and possible affecting her thought process. Whether it is through denial or anger or sheer exhaustion. My sister has earned her wings in heaven. She is a Godsend. So caring, so on top of everything. Thank God for Melanie.

We can only hope the pain and suffering will not be long endured and her medications continue to kill the pain of this terrible disease.

I’m lucky to have had three mom’s in my life. I spent time I guess I’m thankful that the easy passing’s are behind me. It gives me strength to deal with all that is today. Everyone is different, yet we all have one thing in common…life ends.

My own history since 1991 has led me down an interesting path. I discovered The Center for Attitudinal Healing in Tiburon in 1991. A place where terminal illness is dealt with in a complete atmosphere of love and understanding. I was fortunate to spend a weekend retreat at the Santa Sabina Center dealing with death and love and teaching only love. I trained as a Peer Support Group Counselor for the San Francisco Aids Foundation and led one of the longest ongoing weekly support groups in the history of the program. Death has been all around me for almost 25 years now. I still don’t understand it. I never will but I know I am poised to be the best support I can be during these times.

I pray LindaMom will be free of pain and full of love and know that those around here care deeply for her.

Railtown 1897

My introduction letter to becoming a volunteer at Railtown 1897 State Park. After going through the initial training, I felt I couldn't adequately perform the duties a proper docent of the park would. I gave it a try though.

Growing up in Tuolumne County Led to many possibilities:

At the age of 15, I was performing in a melodrama at Columbia State Park as “The Drunkard”. I also worked at the A. Daguerrian Studio on Fulton and set type at the Columbia Gazette after school. This gave me the early feeling for the activities of a “Docent”.

Upon leaving Tuolumne County, I pursued a career in acting in Hollywood. After much hope and only two pilots, I did successfully star in a production of Pippin and obtain an agent.

During the mid-Eighties, I returned to Tuolumne County, where I worked with my father on his various real estate projects. One thing led to another and I obtained my Real Estate Salesperson’s license in 1987 and my Real Estate Broker’s License in 1990. I also headed an aggressive Education Committee Program bringing the GRI designation to this county. I earned my Top Producer’s Club Award in 1989 and 1990 with 1990 bringing the honor of “Realtor of the Year”.

Monumental changes occurred in 1991 when I moved to San Francisco, a city I had always longed to live in. I occasionally conducted tours of some of the local neighborhoods in the city. This was always a blast because the crowd’s enthusiasm was enormous. My full time work in San Francisco was that of
Sr. Real Estate Project Coordinator for Gap, Inc. Our group handled Old Navy stores, Gap store relocations, lease renewals, remodels and expansions in addition to the new Banana Republic Concept store.

As I was extremely active in my physicality as well as having some congenital spinal issues, I had injured some nerves in my neck region over the years.

After a seriously failed neck surgery, two carpel syndrome surgeries and another neck surgery, I went on permanent disability in June of 2001. I am limited in some capacity that I would be happy to discuss in further detail.

I spent 9 months soaking in the culture of the city of Paris, France and then returned to Jamestown where I currently reside, taking care of my father only a block from Railtown 1897. In fact, we are sure that areas of our home were milk barns, buggy houses, or something or other to do with the old Neville’s Hotel.

I am always “overjoyed” to hear that first train whistle on Saturday mornings. In fact, the experience I would gather as a Park Docent would certainly allow me to enjoy it more fully being that I would certainly be awake by then.

I would appreciate your consideration in this position. Not only would I have a good time, but also I believe the addition of my personality would add a safe and exciting experience for the park guests.

Memories

When I was 23 and an "actor" in Hollywood, I worked for about fourteen different caterers - most of the time, all at once. Small dinner parties, large bar mitzvah parties, parties in tents, parties on rooftops with fireworks, parties in corrals, parties at the Back lot at Twentieth Century Fox, you name it -- I did a party there. Even at the Rose Bowl and in Diamond-Bar, over the old
Los Angeles dump.

I'm reminded that this was hard work yet it provided valuable lessons for me later in life . . . even today.

Today, I resume the role of caterer extraordinaire. It's good sometimes we don't always shake off the lessons of our youth. Let's see some of those lessons might be that cascading fruit doesn't look good. Sushi passed on trays in hundred-degree weather doesn't fair well and you can never pack enough stuff to set the damn thing up.

There is something wonderful about an event. A spirit of nervous excitement by the hostess and the caterer, for that matter and of course, the satisfaction of being close-up to people as they enjoy what they're eating and the ambiance created by the event.

So as I don a crisp white apron, the motto is "Serving Trays Up"!

Cancer! Shh!

It's so hard. No one wants to give up. We are taught to fight the good fight no matter what. But when it's terminal somehow things get complicated.

If I had the choice of a sudden heart attack or massive cardiac failure (similar to Michael Jackson) I'd take it. But to lay in a bed, anguished with pain, having to try to keep up that good face I've always had, I don't know if I could do it.

I think I'd choose to promote cardiac arrest or something similar. I definitely wouldn't want more chemo or radiation after just coming off a series of treatments. That's too painful. It would be a terrible flaw in me to admit that as well.

I've always taken care of people, been in control. Been the "strong one". For my friends to see me in this situation of everything being beyond my control and really just having to let be what will be would tear me up. I'd be angry, very angry. I think the thought of things being beyond my control would devastate me. "What would people think of me?"

While all of the above are real thoughts, until we accept ourselves, our fate and everything that is today, we can't be at peace.

Some feel that the way we die is representative of the way we live. Karma- the thought that if we participate in the cause, it is not possible for us not to participate in the effect. In this most profound way, we are held responsible for our every action, thought and feeling, which is to say, for our every intention. I'm not sure that Karma is such a personal thing, but rather a manifestation of a cause - an outcome. Maybe Karma is much more cosmic that we ever imagined. This thought in itself takes such a weight off of our heart. It enables up to live a "five sensory perceptive" life.

Yes, this post is about my mother. As she walks in denial today, as her life is "beyond her contol" and she desperately reaches for anything that would give her control back. I can only have empathy of the mental and physical pain she must be in. Cancer, shh! It is evil and no one wants to die from cancer.

Cameron Diaz

One of my favorite shows on these seasons is the Bill Maher show. Earlier tonight, Bill had Cameron Diaz on. She was fascinating, of course. In conversation of herself she said something like...

(This is a botched paraphrase from Cameron Diaz’s interview with Bill Maher with my thoughts mixed in. How true it is.

When you come into a relationship another person that person arranges into their head the person you are. People are much more complex than that. We grow, we change, we metamorph into something else. A Person cannot be boxed into what another person arranges in their head for them. It’s impossible to fulfill. Impossible for either person to grow into someone else…which is nature’s way in growing older.

I really really like the concept of this thought. Think about it. I mean, dwell on it for awhile. Just dwell.

Facebook!!! Yeah baby....

Whew, have I been inundated. I somehow got invited on and signed up. Well, I haven't stopped since. 22 old friends == New connections, old high school friends. What an incredible resource.

It's absolutely a boost to my morale to know that there are people out there who knew, know and still love me. Warm Fuzzies galore.

It's also nice to share what has been going on with me over the past 18 years with some people.

Now, is this the Facebook that our glorious GOP wants to eliminate because of the sinfulness? Can't believe it!

BTW!!!

Happy Gay Pride Los Angeles!

Springtime

It’s funny, when you have little to look forward to, it’s wonderful to look back and be thankful that your life was good. Or a least you had a good time in life.

As I sit some 121 miles from where I want to be the social isolation has literally put me in my own little world. I don’t know the fashion, I don’t know where the hot places are and most of all, I have no one to share my thoughts with. Oh I wish for a Café Flore in Sonora. Where onetime, I would sit for hours with friends talking about nothing but just having the feeling of community.
I remember the walks into the Castro my friend and I would take around 4 in the afternoons on Saturdays and Sunday’s. They seem like lazy days now but then they were so full of drama. We strolled along, we held hands. We were playful. We had a good time and the people who saw us knew we had a special bond.

The more the isolation surrounds me it’s easy to see why people just “settle” for someone else. Just because instinctively, we know the danger of being alone in our later years. Not even about having a legacy. Just about being 45+ and having someone to share insignificant things with.

Music takes me far away to a land I where I don’t feel alone. I place where I can sing better than anyone else. Where I am invigorated by the music; the swells, the harmonies; the alliteration. Thank God for music and the wonderful means of expression it brings.

Cancer! Shh!

Why does everyday bring new challenges and heartaches?

On Saturday morning, last week, I received a call from my sister. She advised me that Mom had cancer in her right lung, had given “Life Flight” from Walden to Fort Collins and was awaiting more answers from the doctors as to what the next steps were. At that time her Blood Pressure was 185. While the cardiac portion of the program was not an issue the growth and size of the tumor pressing upon the heart was.

My adopted mother had died of Colon Cancer, my dear Aunt Theda had died from Pancreatic Cancer and now finally, my birth mother was going to die of lung cancer. I guess sometimes you just can’t win.

Upon some testing, they found that the cancer (tumor) was squamish cell, which apparently means slow growing. They will administer three additional tests and if they are positive, they will remove the entire right lung. Apparently her present lung capacity if 20% coming from the left lung. If this tests do not prove well, they will use Chemo and Radiation to reduce the size of the tumor and then remove only the tumor.

Luckily the survival rate for removing the entire lung is 75%. Those are pretty good odds but still not the best.

(While I normally try to make sense grammatically, this time I most likely won’t be.)

Please forgive.

Animal Control

An animal was put down today. And while the owner is angry and sad and has lost a friend, this animal spent it’s life grubbing for food, cowering from logs hurled in the air and scratching severe flea infestations. This dog fought for every bit of food he got while holding up his strong yet boney frame. This dog was a companion to one. This dog was never taught to “down” or “stay” only to “get it”. While It was the third notable attack that brought it’s demise, this animal was encouraged to go after squirrels and for the most part, I think viewed small dogs as squirrels or small game. Surprisingly, the owner never expressed remorse for the victims it thrashed. This animal was taught to curiously defend his Master, no matter what.

It is a fine line we endeavor to define. One of humanity and civility. Of care for our humanity we must never lose sight of. For It separates us from other creatures yet nevertheless deepens the care in which we must take of them. We choose to tame our charge with respect for their anmal lives. Our humanity shines through.

January 4, 1960

A day to remember. 49 years ago.