The shortest route between Overland Park and Decatur takes you along Route 54 in Missouri and Illinois. Shortly after crossing the Mississippi River heading east you come to a small cross roads called Atlas Illinois. At the four-way stop there is a general store with a sign out front. In a classic “eats, shoots and leaves” moment, the sign reads, “EAT HERE GET WORMS.”
I had to take a picture.
Over the weekend I traveled to Illinois to see my family, specifically my mother. Mom, and my oldest biological niece, share a birth date so Saturday’s party was for both. Knowing that my mother’s time is now limited made the trip hard in many ways.
I wasn’t at all looking forward to seeing her, as I wasn’t sure how bad she was. As it turned out my mom was looking pretty good, for a terminally ill lung cancer patient. She is obviously tired and in some discomfort, but still able to get around. She displayed very little appetite, and my father told me she hardly eats anything any more. the best part of seeing her was that her hair has come back. In September she was still bald from radiation treatments, and in December she had just a short stubble of hair.
Saturday was a good day for her and we were able to spend over seven hours at my brother’s house. My sister-in-law had decorated the family room with balloons and streamers, and both of my youngest nieces were dressed in fairy princess costumes, one as Sleeping Beauty and the other as Snow White. They were both adorable. They both gravitate towards their grandmother, and it is obvious that she loves them totally and unconditionally. It made me feel very good inside to see the three of them interact with each other. It also made my heart break to think that there would only be a few more visits.
The hardest part of the day proved to be singing “Happy Birthday” to my mom. As there were two birthday girls there were two rounds of the song. Singing for Riley was easy, but my throat choked up while singing it for my mom. Unless a miracle happens I’ll never get to sing it to her again.
All weekend I had been dreading Sunday morning as that is when I would have to leave. In preparation for seeing my mom I had written a letter and planned some things I wanted to say. However when the time came around I didn’t feel an impending sense of need. I reminded them that I would be back again in four weeks on my way to Chicago, and my mom, clearly reading my mind said, “It’s okay, Mark, we’ll be here.” Later when I hugged her goodbye she said, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you in four weeks.”
In all it was a good visit. My father and I were able to talk some about his situation and his thoughts about the future. We both recognized without saying it, that I have more immediate experience in dealing with the loss of a spouse. It felt good that he was turning to me for input and advice. One of Michele’s greatest fears was that she had somehow come between me and my family. I vociferously fought that claim; in my opinion the relationship between me and my family was always lacking and Michele’s role in the dynamics of the family hadn’t damaged what was already failing. However, I would be less than honest if I didn’t acknowledge that the growth I have experienced since losing Michele has helped me to see my family in a different light. With the understanding that our time with any loved one is limited, I find I am more accepting of the relationship my family is capable of, and less demanding that they achieve the level I want.
One of the joys about the impending death of a loved one is the seething undercurrent of anger that dogs you morning, noon, and night. You know in the depths of your soul that nothing will ever be the same again. You realize that the last normal moment of your life has already passed without notice or ceremony. The you that existed without the awful certainty of death tainting everything is somewhere in your past and every second carries that self farther and farther away.
Going to see my mother this weekend is simply awful. I do not want to go, as if by refusing to see her I can force her to be okay. Going means coming back here, and that of course means saying goodbye. How many times have I said goodbye to my mom in this lifetime? Hundreds, thousands? All of those instances are insignificant, almost meaningless in light of the one fast approaching on Sunday.
I am going to Illinois this weekend in order to say goodbye. To act with the knowledge that, while she may live another month or three, the end of her life has arrived. There will come a day in the coming weeks when the phone will ring and that part of me that senses the near future will recoil, and I will know that her time has come. Maybe the call will be to say I need to come right now. Maybe the call will be to say she has died.
All the metaphysical knowledge in the world, all the faith of what life and death are really about, all the belief in the eternal nature of our essences is meaningless when faced with the little boy inside of me who only knows that his sister died and went away. That his protector, champion, best friend, and wife to his adult self died and went away. And now his mother is dying and will go away too.
Everyone I love dies and goes away.
I missed Jonathan Rauch’s article Caring For Your Introvert article when it first came out, but thanks to kottke.org I was introduced to it today.
It perfectly describes Michele, and moreover, it describes me too. All my life I have tried to tell people I was shy only to have them object. Now I know that what I was describing as shy is really introversion. How perfect then, is this medium, where I can, to quote Kottke, “carry on a conversation with a whole group of people and stare down at my shoes at the same time.”
Now, please go away and leave me alone.
As a boy I favored Johnny Cash records largely because he sang about trains (Wreck of the Old 97, Orange Blossom Special) and because A Boy Named Sue struck me as funny. For much of my life since then I haven’t really followed him or his work, but hearing I’ve Been Everywhere recently got me interested in him again.
American IV: The Man Comes Around is darkly powerful, stark, almost foreboding in its overall sound. His voice is craggy, worn, and full of a lifetime of experience. And yet in the midst of what, from any other artist might be a nihilistic message, there is a thread of hope, of a light at the end of it all.
After a ten year hiatus I have started to ride my bicycle again. Last fall I took the better of my two bikes out of storage and over to the neighborhood bicycle shop for new tubes, tires, and a general tune up. For having been moved four times, and stored for much of the past decade or more, it was in surprisingly good shape. Too bad the same can’t be said about me.
I rode twice in late October, the first ride was a neighborhood shake down ride to see if the old adage is true. I didn’t fall or otherwise injury myself so apparently you really don’t forget. The second ride was more ambitious, with a friend from work who rides regularly. He was very patient and understanding as I struggled to crest even the shortest hills, and needed frequent breaks to catch my breath. In all we maybe rode 10 miles.
My total milage for 2005? 11 miles. W00t! Hey… it’s eleven more than 2004, 2003, 2002, et cetera, combined.
Today turned out to be a very pleasant early spring day, with a windy high of about 65 degrees. On my way to a lunch out I thought about getting a pair of riding shorts and a frame pump and going for a short ride. Knowing myself self as well as I do, I bagged lunch and headed for the bicycle store instead. Ten minutes and $90 later I walked out with new shorts, a water bottle, and a pair of vinyl clad hooks to suspend the bike from.
Ten minutes after that I was back at the store with my Cannondale in tow to size frame pumps. I ended up spending another $65 to get both a Blackburn frame pump and a floor model for use in the garage. After twenty or so minutes I had the hooks mounted and the bike up off the floor and more or less out of the way. (After I sized up the garage later I think I found a better spot. Moving the whole setup will have to wait for the next warm weekend however.)
With my water bottle rinsed and filled with water, my new shorts on, and a nylon shell as windbreaker I set off for another neighborhood shake down ride. You may not forget how to ride but that doesn’t mean you are graceful or coordinated at all. In just over twenty minutes I managed to cover about 5 miles. Not stellar, but a beginning.
And just for grins, here is a Wayfaring map of my route today.
I’m not sure if Ultraviolet was ever a comic book, or if the director and producers of the movie wanted to give it that look and feel, but it definitely has a comic book feel. It is violent without being graphic, sexy with out being sensual, and oddly engaging for having almost no story and no real character development.
Rating: Wait to rent it on DVD
At the showing of Ultrviolet I was at we saw not one, not two, not three, but four trailers before the movie. Not that I am complaining, mind you, I like previews. What was interesting was that all four were for horror films. Coming this spring and summer, to theaters near you…
Pulse
Stay Alive
Silent Hill
The Omen
Monkeewrench, by mother and daughter writing team P. J. Tracy, is an excellent thriller. Nicely paced, with good character development, and a good plot twist near the climax, this murder mystery delivers on all counts.
Rating: Worth staying up late to finish
Last night I stayed up late to finish a rather good book by a new author. My love of reading comes from my parents who read to me starting at a very early age, and we’ve shared books an authors throughout my life. My mother in particular reads many of the same authors that I enjoy, and we have shared new finds with each other over the years.
As I was finishing this new book last night, and reading the teaser from the next book I thought to myself I’ll have to tell mom about this author, she’ll like the book. Of course then it hit me; mom will be able to read this first book since it is in print, but the odds of her reading the next one are decreasing every day. While I am always happy to find a new author, I recognize that for the rest of my life there will always be a pang of sorrow since I know my mom won’t get to read the new material any more.