Even in the Last Quarter there are Suprises

 Life unfurls like a piece of parchment ....


it is said that it is best to unfold ancient letters slowly ...


 to unearth chalices with the reverence of one who digs into an ancient mound without knowing how tall that cup once stood ...


  to begin making love without memory or desire ...


  or, maybe, just with desire.                                         

Writing about Old Dogs?

Dreaming about memory! I kept having dreams that I was presenting the Belgian film,  Ben X, again, this time? with daughter, which we are, indeed, doing 3 weeks from today to an audience of School Counselors and Therapists. An older psychiatrist who visits me weekly was sitting at our table and I had forgotten to bring the film and didn't want him to know. An old estranged friend was due to come, as well. We were students, together, 40 or so years ago in post-professional training institute until he was kicked out of program ... unjustly, I suspect. He never came. He had, years ago, gone on to successful life helping people with issues around death. I had lent the film to my closest friend who lived c. 80 km away from venue. I didn't want anyone to know about my memory loss and how I'd forgotten to retrieve the film for the agreed-upon talk. I had annoying variants of Dream all through the night.

In it, I was stalling by talking about my work in the 1980's. Another shrink was there who had been present (one, though, that I'd never met before) the very day I began thinking about those ideas that led to the work.

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I don't know when I began dreaming about changes in my life. Maybe? I always have. Change is everpresent. Change is the rule of the Universe. But change in the Last Quarter seems often to center on loss of function. I see a lot of people each week who are between 60 and 83 years old. They are my friends ... they are the visitors to my professional office. Most of them drink prune juice! Some take meds that help them pee. Others meds that keep them from dribbling into their pants. Some, like me, have a degree of numbness in their toes and feet. I never knew until the past few years how import the imperceptible adjustments made by the ten toes are related to balance. I know, now.

Memory is maybe most disturbing to people. Word and name retrieval from the aging archives of the mind .... (is that an old Moody Blues song?) .... I have a lost and found in my office for things left behind; it is never empty. Pincer and hand control? Raisins fall out of hands ... glasses meet the faucet in the sink .... glass bowls break on the floor ... arthritic pains are not news, any longer. For me? cardiac arrhythmias were becoming quotidian (thank you, God ... I found a word for "everyday things" ... well, truth be told, "everyday" woulda been better but was momentarily lost) .... a new med has made them less frequent. M's beginning to develop some arrhythmias, as well. Did she catch them from me? Hard to say. What we seem to remember best is that the other's memory just ain't what it used to be! Maurice Chevalier and Hermine Gingold sitting on a bench in the (was it) 1958 production of Gigi singing: "Ah, yes, I remember it well." Well, I remember some of the lyrics to that duet but, to paraphrase my grandparents: "Thanks God for the Google."

Maybe all this relates to going to see my Doc, today ... he must be 45 or so. I think his Dad musta died young because when I and M gave him news I received from an overzealous Derm suggesting I had a terrible skin lymphoma (one of several misdiagnoses I've received over the years), he blanched. I had to spend the next 15 minutes calming down the young fella who I know has a penchant for hypochondriasis ... I worry about him growing up!

Enough for today. Think I'll go and drop some raisins in the kitchen.  

Woof! Woof!

It's already Wednesday ... my last note ... upbeat ... littlest grand-spawn charmer wading into the salty waters perched on Grandpa's shoulders .... the different charm of a kid who has to pee in the back seat of a car in a downpour with no toilet in sight .... Father's day gone ... and GuntherDog Playing his Last Quarter tricks.

Oh! GuntherDog. You're still ambivalent about me ... We rescued you/You rescued us 9 years ago and are still a Mama's boy. The twins were maybe 6 months old then. Their delivery had brought cardiac complications for their Mom ... their older Sister who graduated Middle School just two nights ago was 5 years old and doing the "dog begging thing" that her Mom had done with one of our previous pups ... Shayna Rosa the Wonda Dog. It had been 4 years since Shayna died and it had reduced to every now and then that I had the pleasant delusion that she'd be there to greet me when I unlocked the front door. We relented and Gunther moved on in.

Shayna was one of those special dogs ... not by her breeding, mind you ... her heraldry and her pedigree were undistinguished ... a Shepherd and a Collie? or was it a Collie and a Shepherd coupling in some yard or behind some garage ... no record of her ancestors. Our Bernards were different. They came with records of begats ... and Danny Regensberg begat Carmen of the Doobies ... and Carmen begat .... No. No! That wasn't what made Shayna Rosa special. Shayna had a love for all God's creatures. When our last Bernard came as an 11 week old pup as a gift for our daughter's coming of age 13th birthday, Shayna -- maybe 4 years old -- immediately took on the role of Mom. She cleaned her and taught her how to run under the half gate in great circles and figure eights. When the Bernard developed seizures, Shayna would sit with her until she regained 'reverse' .... the poor pup would walk into a corner and not remember -- momentarily -- how to back out. Mitzie was, one might say, precociously old at moments like that. I didn't appreciate memory loss then the way I do, now. When Mitzie had a final seizure and died on a Thanksgiving night 27 years ago, Shayna Rosa guarded her and refused -- without taking a piece out of my leg -- to allow me to carry her off.

Then, there was Muncasz the Hungary Cat who showed up at the back door looking for a handout. We already had Matyos who was, actually, Hungarian, not just hungry ... who our eldest brought back from his living in Central Europe. Matyos had problems with another cat coming into his domain (Matyos was one of the Hungarian Kings of Yore) and Muncasz took refuge on the third floor.

Shayna Rose knew exactly what to do. She started sitting at the bottom of the stairs and, day be day, edged her way up the stairs ... approximating visits. Then, for a week or so, she'd sit at the top of the stairs, until, at last, Muncasz and she proudly walked down the stairs. Matyos still hated the new cat. He'd look out the window, see an alien cat, and blame its presence on Muncacz ... pouncing on him and catterwalling, as he did. As Muncacz and Shayna Rosa aged, they'd do their duets. Muncasz walking on the keys to the piano and Shayna howling melodically. Shayna stopped singing for a complete year after Mitzie's death .... Muncasz would do his piano key walk ... Shayna would sit nearby silently.

Poor Gunther. What chance did he have to compete with the Great and Loving Shayna Rosa the Wonda Dog. I prefer not to recommend reading to any other creature but if you haven't had the chance to read Eugene O'Neill's Last Will and Testament that he wrote for his pooch Silverdene Emblem O'Neill, I do recommend it.

So, back to you, Anonymous ... While you may aspire to be reincarnated as a dog, I suspect it takes many such rebirths to arise to the level of a Great Dog ... those dog-shaped (and cat-shaped) dignitaries who shared their loving and dignity with us in the First Three Quarters of Life ... and beyondare impossible acts for us mere mortals to follow ... those Kings and Queens who now live with us as ghosts.

Sorry, Gunther, you are doin' a good job, yourself! Couple more incarnations .... it's comin'.  

Aye, Perception ... That's the Rub!

My youngest grandchild permitted me to walk into the waters of the Atlantic Ocean with her perched on my shoulders. It was Father's Day. Two of my six grandchildren were far away in their home .... 500 miles away from where we beach. But four were there. This littlest little girl ... the last of them, I suspect ... perceives grandpa with a degree of suspicion. Our home is still Grandma's home. Grandma's arms and Aunt J's arms are still the warmest besides her parents. Cousins? Especially her 6 year older identical twin cousins are way ahead of me on the hierarchy. How does one choose to perceive the matter.

Hell! She let me walk into the waters with her on my shoulders and shared her Dorritos with me. (For those who don't know Dorritos? They're the antithesis of healthfood. Their multiple laboratory created dyes remain on your fingers for hours after you lick those very same fingers. The little one let me bear her into the waters. It just don't get any better than that.

Father's Day was over ... the other Fathers and their families left the house in Virginia, as well. The twins travelled back North with me and M; they shared the back seat with GuntherDog ... Almost home, one of the twins needed to pee. At 9 -- I can recall it -- that urge to pee is paramount. The road stopped due to construction and volume. Just before that two crazies came screaming by going well over 90 and lacing through the lines of traffic. The skies opened ... One of those Summer downpours. We got off the road and headed towards a department store. M and her Grand-daughter ran off to the front door, coming back a few minutes later ... just about soaked to the bone.

We got back on the road and the girls, after three hours of playing with a computer tablet that their Uncle gave them, got a case of the giggles and low-level 3rd grade dirty words. GuntherDog settled in and we arrived home. Grandpa peed.

Fathers' Day don't get any better than that.

So, thanks for the offer, Anonymous, but one of the tricks of Playing in the Last Quarter is becoming your own dog. Half way home, there was a big fluff-ball Newfie sticking his/her massive head out the back window of a pick-up. So, go Anonymous (may I be so bold as to advise) and become your own dog. Get thee one of those dog smiles ... learn how to shake the rain water off your back like a long-haired Newfie or a St. Bernard and put one of those silly dog grins in your eyes ... go chase your favourite stick ... then take a nap with your favorite bone!

A Visitor?

A visitor dropped by ....

AnonymousJune 13, 2013 at 8:01 AM

Your blogs make me laugh and cry! Why?

 

I don't get many commenting visitors, here, while Playing in the Last Quarter. In my offline world? Mostly people who occasion my office and grandchildren. But yesterday "anonymous" dropped in to say that my writing makes them "laugh and cry." That pithy comment clarified much for me. The psychologists identify many emotions ... some, the Big Five. I forget what they are in part, I think, due to my sense that there are two central ones ... Anonymous identifies them as laughing and crying ... I usually think of them as glee and sadness but the verbs work better for me. Thanks.

 

I've talked about this, before, but it bears thinking about it, again. Dogs are, in my experience, better at it than we people-folk. I remember one of my St. Bernards, Schreber. He was a big fella and stood about two inches taller than I when on his hind legs. On Tuesdays and Thursdays -- maybe in the early 80's -- I'd come home at 9:00 and Schreber would get all happy and excited ... front paws on my shoulders, tale wagging, tongue lapping my face. Dogs know how to be happy. When I'd leave, he'd retreat to his couch ... well, it was actually a family couch but Schreber did a good job of occupying it -- his demeanor would be different ... tail drooping .... not a Swiss yodel seen on his face. "Why are you leaving me? We could go out and play ball. We could eat a turkey, together ... I'd share ... promise ... I promise."

 

I don't know whether it's reasonable but it is my belief that folk who learn early in life how to juggle glee and sadness ... how to feel them both intensely .... continue to welcome both the hello's and the good-bye's that dominate the Last Quarter.

 

Hey, Anonymous! May you continue laughing and crying, as Jack Kennedy might have said, WITH VIGOR! 

 

Thanks for sayin' 'hello' ... Adios!

Are You Ready for the Last Quarter

Well ... pointedly, speaking ... am I ready for the Last Quarter. Past week was not a horror story and, still, some weeks seem heavier (there's a baby boomerism, for ya) than others. Do we got the visceral fortitude or have our innards been partially eviscerated? "Gird your loins," the prophets said.

M has a broken wing ... tear in a bicep. H called and kvetched like me. Two couples came for dinner, B-J and M-R ... B-J seemed pretty good ... M-R was tired like the hosts M-H. Between us we had allergies to all of creation but singly we still had the teeth to carry on. That day, I had presented a very disturbing film about an autistic Belgian High Schooler who gets bullied. An 83 year old, an Overtimer, was sleeping. His maybe-a-couple-years-younger ladyfriend was trying to rouse him. It was a young audience, maybe no more than 60 on average. My youngest child who shares my office came, too. She kept the average down. Good thing her much older brothers stayed away ... Damn, they're getting Oldie and Moldie! I guess I can't change their names or send them back once they begin looking 50 in the face. Ach du lieber! Every store has its return policy.

Next night went to a meeting ... end of year social. G talked of having no memory. K about the pain of watching his lady decline. J, the host, tripped over one of his dogs and had the usual response: blaimed the pooch. Everyone of us still working. Watch out World! You think this kind of meeting is inspiration for the muses who support Zombie cinemas? The Night of the Walking-to-the-Loo?

Where am I going? Who am I tripping over? Shit! Who am I kidding! ... Well! Whom am I kidding?

On the way out, the youngster of the group (her first is just going off to college) started a conversation about some oblique reference made earlier about my having failed to graduate high school. I found myself drawn into talking about my odd early academic career, as if I was some soldier home from the Bulge. "I never took an undergraduate degree, either." ... The old soldier pulling out his sword, as if he could still swarshbuckle ... Pathetic? Laughable? Ah! It was actually fun.

I remembered Tommy Merton's prayer ... well, not the exact words but the general idea: My Lord, I have not a clue of where I'm headed. Ah, the urethral pressures and the fullness remind me each step of the way: H -- you're headed to the toilet ... don't stop ... don't slow down ... and don't pay attention to the look on GuntherDog's face that screams "Dad ... You're such an Old Schmuck." While Gunther doesn't actually talk, he clearly is concerned about HIS future, though not concerned enough to stay out of my chair. He's layed claim to both M and my chair. In the chair, he has that "You and who else look." Ever notice how Last Quarter types have smaller dogs? and smaller meals, too. I think only their bellies get bigger! I think I know where the bit of poetry I wrote for my 60th birthday is hiding. I'll find it but, for now, it ends with its main character, me, pulling out his shpritzer, gleefully peeing and proclaiming his mantra: he who pisses/never misses.

And then there are the few young people who visit my office, bemoaning their 30th or 40th or 50th or 60th birthdays, paying very little mind to my position in the front pew. Gimme a break!

Another H died last week ... like me, he was an HC, but a quarter century older ... an ancient gladiator who plied his trade till recently. Lots penned sweet things about their memories of H, especially in the first three days after hearing of his death ... or passing, as many call it. The messages are thinning, now, ... considerably thinning ...  though some may remember on the first anniversary of his death,

I think Gunther (or is it me) has to pee, again. Bye.

Where Did They All Go

I was sitting in a meeting, last night .... There was one young person ... Couldn't have been a day over 55. And no one was beyond their 91st year. D was missing; he's late 70's and can't walk the path to the venue. B hadn't been at a meeting in a couple of years. S & I had something of a kerfuffle, last month. S is about 90 and maybe I did him in by my harsh comments. M is just 65 or 66 and her car broke down on Turnpike; so much for Ford Hybrids. And K seems to forget or, else, she has other stuff to do. Add to that all the ghosts that we each carry ... While the group meets to discuss problems of childhood, by now and as far as I know, everyone is an orphan.

Not popular to describe Older Adults as orphans. Who was that English child actor (Freddie Bartholomew, maybe) who played the poor orphan in 1940's films. I looked around the room last night and could almost picture the dirty faced kid characters played by him ... Dickensonian types. As far as I know, none of us grew up with a lot and all have lived comfortable lives ... married or widowed, homes with the usual trappings, kids, grandkids who visit ...

So what's the problem? Maybe there is no particular problem Playing in the Last Quarter. Choices have been made. Can't give those kids back and there's no repeating a 50 year old marriage; the math doesn't work.

And, yet, as I listened to myself talk at the meeting, I could hear a stridency ... old soldiers drawing out their swords. I complained about something we were reading. 'Why hadn't the authors cited a conversation that RMB had with SF in 1912? Hadn't that covered these very same points.' I was a little embarassed inside myself driving down a curvy road as I realized that I had not turned on the headlights. Tooling down the road in my two seat convertible ... What a sight! Cantankerous aging fellow railing at the world that is and mourning for a world that maybe once was? maybe never was? ... with his headlights off!

Didn't hit anything! Lucky.

Funny! Who/What turned this man to lore?

Arrgh!