Things are quiet. I haven’t been to the hospital since Wednesday. The Mister left for work Thursday and won’t return until Monday. His brother knows how to reach me if he needs me. I’m available, but I’m not volunteering…

The Mister had a voicemail on his cell Friday night from the hospital. They said Mrs One Eye kept getting out of bed and they had to restrain her with a posey vest. I have not heard if they will transfer her to the physical therapy wing or not.

I spent a few hours sitting with her Tuesday and Wednesday so the guys could eat lunch. Tuesday she was fighting really hard to overcome the effects of the anesthesia and regain lucidity. Sheer determination overshadows concealed rage. I’m concerned she will become more physical as time passes.

As I sat with her, I read from John Steinbeck’s, East of Eden, and wondered, “How would Steinbeck write about this family? I could envision lengthy poetic descriptions, the setting of stage, and geography, but I could not conceive of a plot, at least not from Steinbeck. For there really is no plot, it is simply a snapshot in time, like Brett Easton Ellis’s, Less than Zero. A complex cast of characters with no direction and no motivation only an unknown destiny.

Thursday I relieved myself of nervous energy. It’s weird, I can maintain focus, and keep a cool head when needed, but sooner or later a valve has to release pressure. So I cut the grass, hauled away yard debris, washed and waxed my ride, and cleaned the pond filter.

By Friday my body betrayed me. Too many consecutive days of sleeplessness, and and improper eating. After a poor lunch choice (strawberry milkshake) I laid on the sofa for two hours with a pounding chest and no energy because of a sugar crash. Today, I concentrated on being active and eating better. My eyes are too fatigued to focus, so I’ve taken out my contacts to rest them. Tonight I am tired, a good tired, not exhausted, so the pendulum is swinging the other way….for me, for a while.

I was pacing on the deck this week while Patches was outside. I keep him confined indoors most of the time. I know there are plenty of cats with no front claws, who made excellent hunters and savvy explorers, but he isn’t one of those. He’s not very confident and I suspect he has depth perception issues.

In between plant sniffs and marking the rail, he would return to me to rub against my bare legs and mark me as his own. Occasionally, if he ignored me for more than a few minutes he would return, fall at my feet, and roll from left to right so I could rub his belly. While I was scratching his ears and rubbing his chin I couldn’t help but think how much my dad would have liked this cat.

My dad passed away twelve years ago, six months before I turned twenty-one. He was sixty-three. Dad was an affectionate man and told us he loved us often. Considering he lost his own father when he was two, he was a remarkable parent. His male role models included older kids in his neighborhood and my grandmother’s business partner. I can’t attest to his fatherhood skills when my two older siblings were young, but when they were adults he was always there for them.

Dad liked animals. He didn’t have many pets growing up. His mother was raising two children on her own and running a full time business, long before the single parent boom that followed decades later. She didn’t have the time or energy to care for a cat or dog.

By the time he married, dad had little experience with animals. His technique for showing affection left little to be desired…by the cats, that is. He implemented a method which I affectionately referred to as, dribble, dribble, dribble, sand, sand, sand. He didn’t know how to stroke a cat. He would begin by patting the cat on the head, the way you would a dog. A gentle dribble to the head like a basketball player. Then he would rub the cat, with the same stiff motion you would use to sand wood. The cats weren’t enamored with his technique, but they would ask him for attention if no one else was around.

With the exception of myself, Patches prefers men. He likes the way they smell and he likes their big hands. Not one to shy away from visitors, he often falls at the feet of men and waits to have his belly stroked. Then he sniffs their pants and marks their shoes. I believe, he would fall at dad’s feet, and roll from left to right until he sanded his belly.

English Landscape II © 2000

As promised last week, here is the second in the landscape series. Obligatory Technical Information: The base media is viscosity monoprint. Details were added with colored pencil and oil pastel. Color may shift depending on your monitor settings.

As a teenager, it was so easy to fall into the role of martyr. Part was a product of youth. You ARE the whole world between the ages of twelve and twenty-two (hell, maybe longer). Part was my disinclination to talk about what troubled me. Ironically, when I found myself with a trusted listener it was much like a having a captivated audience. I misinterpreted a sympathetic ear as friendship built on the foundation of drama, and I would be disinclined to let go of my pain. I was a passive aggressive attention whore. It’s difficult to admit, even ten years later.

Today, I’ve no interest in being a martyr. I’ve managed to climb down from the cross and recycle the wood for better use. When I consider sacrificing another tree for such selfish reasons, I try stepping outside myself to gain a better perspective, before trotting to the garage to fetch the axe.

It’s difficult coping with painful situations when there’s no one to shoulder the accountability. Hurt is more satisfying when there is another person to blame. By pointing to a culprit, you have the RIGHT to proclaim yourself the victim, making sadness easier to accept.

When unfortunate things happen for no accountable reason, some question spiritual beliefs. Surely they are being punished for wronging the gods or sinning against their fellow man. Sometimes life just happens, but we aren’t willing to accept it.

When I got the phone call Monday, it took longer to get my wits about me than I would have liked. Based on past incidents, I programed myself to believe I would only be picking up the pieces from my in-laws after 10 PM. I know, that’s stupid, but so far, it’s the way the year has played out. At three PM I wasn’t emotionally prepared to be the person they needed me to be.

Fortunately, I wasn’t able to walk out the door at that EXACT minute as the ALF (assisted living facility) staff wanted. I took the time to throw my personal effects into a backpack, and faced another delay re-installing the top on my jeep, allowing me plenty of time to mumble obscenities under my breath in private. When I reached the hospital the nearest parking spot was conveniently located in bumfuck egypt. This provided an excellent opportunity to walk off nervous energy and remind myself, “This is not personal. This is situational. They need you with a clear head, not a bad attitude. This is not about you. Think about the big picture. This is the way things are going to be for years to come, you better get used to it now.”

I recognize this is not my pain. My hip is not broken, and my mind is in tact. I am not engaged in the push pull battle of adult child versus aging parent (yet). I am a member of the audience, seated rather uncomfortably in the coliseum, watching the horrors of the Roman circus unfold before my eyes. I offer my support, but it would be deceptive to confiscate their hurt and market it as my own.

I sympathize, but I refuse to mirror the emotional responses of the others. It makes me extremely uncomfortable when people search my eyes for specific emotional responses. They are disappointed by my pragmatism. There are enough martyrs here, and deserving ones (no, I’m not being sarcastic). I’ve spent an obscene amount of time re-hashing this online and regret this won’t be the last post on the matter. I want to make it clear, my role is far easier than my husband’s, his brothers’, and his parents. I regret their pain and offer my support, but imitating their torment won’t take it away.

Most of you know, we’ve hit the tri-fecta of surgeries. I received the call Monday afternoon, which is a huge improvement over the three AM announcement for the previous surgery. She was admitted via doctors orders, bypassing the emergency room wait, alleviating a little of the usual stress.

Whenever Mister Hombre goes to work, there is always the possibility that something like this will happen. I’ve been preparing myself mentally, for a while. I believe Meno coined the phrase “anticipatory grief” which applies appropriately here. Don’t misread my pragmatism as a lack of concern, my goal is to be level-headed, and strong on the family’s behalf. There is enough pain and hurt to go around. I don’t have the power to take it away. I try to focus on the areas I can make a difference.

I have a distinct coping advantage over Mister Hombre and his brothers. These are not my parents and I’m not afraid of defying them (the antagonist in me enjoys it). By the time I married into the family, the good old days had past. They were just a pair of crotchety, bitter, demanding, self-entitled seniors, but I don’t believe they were always that way. Over the years, I’ve seldom seen them happy. Their happiness lies in the glory days of tired stories, satsuma crops, and good food.

Life has thrown them a few curve balls, and their bitterness is understandable, but it does not make them beloved. Mrs One Eye simply cannot control who she has become, holding her accountable is foolish at this stage of her dementia. It is difficult for me to dismiss my past hurts; those I experienced when she was in her right mind. One of my character flaws, is my ability to hold onto hurt longer than necessary. I am not so callous as to be incapable of forgiveness, but forgiving for the same transgression repeatedly….As the saying goes, “Screw me once shame on you, screw me twice, shame on me.”

And now I am left with no closure and no choices in the matter.

Marching on… Remarkably, she has been appreciative the last two times I waited with her. When it’s just the two of us, she been calm and appreciative of the companionship. She’s still confused, but she’s more passive. For now we have a good rapport in her mind. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman. Maybe it’s because I listen more than I speak. Maybe she remembers that I’m not going to take shit off her. Maybe it’s because she thinks I’m someone I’m not. Maybe doesn’t matter. I have no choice but to ride this wave, I don’t know where the surge originated, but I know better than to waste time questioning it. Eventually this too will crest and I will become one of THEM.

The evolution of ideas is peculiar, and seldom a natural, linear progression. It’s like carving a cedar block. You have an idea, but the grain of the wood is not without influence. Often you compromise your original design, but the finished product is stronger and more fluid than your initial concept.

When I write about personal things, I struggle to stay on point. It’s easy to wander aimlessly from one item to another. In my mind it’s all related, but if you aren’t living in my head, it lacks continuity. I’ve struggled with chronology and whether or not it is important. It establishes a time line that lends itself to context, but it isn’t necessarily the order in which we regard things.

As a kid, I read an article that said something to the effect of, don’t tell a child he doesn’t feel a specific emotion. Instead of telling him he doesn’t hate, ask him why he hates. The article went on to explain, feelings in and of themselves are not right or wrong, they’re just feelings. How we act on those feelings is the pivotal point.

My family struggled with feelings, and I believe most families do. To defend myself against hurt, I kept them contained. I did not deny them for what they were (sometimes in all their ugliness), but worked toward some semblance of resolution. I still struggle with the resolution. When you express your feelings freely, you are vulnerable to the judgement passed by others, and I just wanted to remain below the radar.

My husband and sister both visit Claw~less. I disclosed it, because I wanted readers, comments and dialogue. I didn’t consider the possibility of things going to Hell in a hand basket, and my needing an outlet to cope with it. I love my husband and I can talk to him about most things, but his family and the way they make me feel isn’t one of them. His family is structured differently from mine; the pecking order, the secret decoder ring rules, the denial, and the desire to please. It’s like trying to understand the mating rituals of a different species. We are all more prone to understand our own unique brand of insanity.

He knew I was starting the second blog. He observed me making preparations, penciling ideas, and developing logos. Initially, I wanted to follow the dream of professional blogger with scintillating stories and advertising space. But the goal changed course and evolved into a journey of self-discovery. Since the goal change, I asked him not to visit the new site. I didn’t expect him to spend much time reading, he hardly looks at Claw~less. It’s an outlet, I need that he doesn’t understand. Just like he needs to play computer games for hours on end, and I don’t understand.

It wasn’t a decision I took lightly. It’s difficult to ask the one you love for space. I knew he was hurt by my request, and I tried to explain, I need more than this city offers, I have no intentions of maligning his family. I discuss issues as they relate to me. I explained the need to contemplate my emotions, and by him reading it out of context or long after the fact might result in misdirected feelings over things past and resolved. I love him and I trust him, but I don’t think he really understands why I need this.