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A daily walk with... ME |
 Winnie Kay 1947 ~ ____ ~ What Matters is the Dash ~ |
| I've been waking up to wet bedding the last few nights. No, it's not me. It's Pancho. Seems that he has doggie incontinence. He piddles in his sleep. He's not a bad doggie; he can't help it, so I don't fuss at him. He is on a diuretic (Salix) for his heart condition (fluid around the heart) which helps him eliminate excess fluid. He has been banned from the people furniture and is restricted to his plastic-lined doggie bed until his vet (a wonderful lady named Dr. Morgan Baskin) can balance the diuretic dosage. Ah...the joys of caring for aging pets...   |
| Yesterday, I attended the funeral of a friend and co-worker from my banking days. I only knew Wes within a work environment, but even in that limited capacity, I knew Wes was a good man. Many others must have agreed, for the Church was full, every chair occupied. The Pastor who spoke made it clear that Wes was an active, working, teaching, singing, loving member of the congregation who not only read the Bible but also lived it every day. The eulogist went on to emphasize a particular truth that I try to follow (and fail miserably most times): “What matters is the DASH.” We are all born, and we will all die. It’s what we do between those two events which will determine who and what we are. Wes was only fifty-seven, but in those fifty-seven years, he managed to touch so many lives with a positive, loving effect that, at its culmination, a Church was filled to capacity with those who remembered his kindness. What a marvelous testimony to his DASH! |
I've learned a few things about humility during these past two weeks as I slowly recuperate from right hip replacement surgery. The body seems to fight the invasion of metal parts where once was God-given bone and cartilage. I remember the weeks of pain and rehab following my left hip replacement five years ago. But I had forgotten the indignity of having to rely on others for my everyday needs such as bringing me food and drink, helping me bathe and dress, and driving me to doctor appointments. My mild OCD has gone into overdrive as I look at things on the floor which I have dropped and can't pick up. I am forced to wait until someone walks by, and I plead with them to do what I cannot. My friends and family are here to help, but they don't know how to do things...well...perfectly. The dishes aren't loaded in the dishwasher correctly. My towels and linens aren't washed and folded properly. My clothes are not hung in their specified spot in the closet. My response of 'Thanks, but that doesn't go there' is grating on the nerves of my caregivers, so I've learned to remain silent, knowing I will have to re-arrange everything when I can freely move on my own...someday. Well, my coffee has gotten cold, so I've got to make the seemingly mile-long trip to the kitchen with my trusty walker to get a fresh cup. My devoted, frazzled caregivers are still asleep, and I dare not wake them. Damn, I just dropped the mouse! Now I'll have to wait for help before I can click the SUBMIT button.  |
| After two years of gradually worsening hip pain, I’m finally about to see some relief. Osteoarthritis has progressively caused the cartilage in my right hip joint to wear away. So when I move my leg, the bones are rubbing against each other making it difficult to stand from a sitting position, to walk more than a few feet without a walker, and to bend over. I can’t wear socks because I can’t bring my leg up to put them on. Now that I’ve finally reached the Medicare eligibility age and secured a Medicare Supplement insurance policy, I am able to afford total hip replacement surgery. Who’d have thought I would be excited to be sixty-five? So on March 6th I’ll be going in the hospital for a new metal hip. After a few weeks of recovery, I’ll be able to run and play again. I'm tired of just sitting around. I'm too young to be old. |
McGregor April 8, 1996 ~ February 13, 2013  Yesterday was hard. I had to make the decision to end McGregor's life. My seventeen-year-old tabby had been crying a lot lately and not using his litter box, which is not like him at all. So we went to our veterinarian yesterday for some tests. Dr. Baskin, who has treated my babies for many years, gave me the news. It was renal failure. Mac's kidneys weren't working properly. He was in pain. She said there were steps we could take, but, at seventeen, they would put a strain on him and on my finances, and whatever procedures we made Mac endure, it would only prolong the inevitable. I held him in the examination room. I looked into his tired eyes. He looked into my sad eyes and purred. I decided to let him go. The doctor brought in "The Shot" and injected the pink cocktail into Mac's blood stream. He lay in my arms and went to sleep as I told him what a good boy he was and how I loved him. I came home and put the empty cat carrier away and began the task of life without my McGregor. It was hard to watch TV without him in my lap. It was hard to go to bed without him by my side. It's hard to write all of this in my journal today. But as a writer, it is necessary for the healing and the easing of the pain. I have faith that our pets will see us again. I believe they, too, go to heaven. I have no doubt my Mackie lives on, free of pain, in a place of joy and peace. You be a good boy, Mackie, until we meet again. |
| There is no movement or rustling of the bed covers. No words escape her mouth which is now gaped open by slack jaw muscles. The only sound is the steady, deep breaths which are reluctantly sucked in and forcibly released. Perhaps this will be her last, I think. On the few occasions she has the strength to partially raise her eyelids, there is only a glazed, unfocused film looking back at me. The pallid skin is stretched over a bony skull lacking expression, void of personality. My friend, my confidant, the gracious host, this elegant lady of song and dance and art, the life of the party is dying transitioning from this temporary, physical realm to her permanent, spiritual home. I have sat next to Loy’s hospital bed and, now, hospice bed for thirty-two days. I’ve watched the progressive deterioration of mind and body. Though this process is difficult to witness, I am comforted by the guidance of my new friend Raya Machupa, the spiritual director of the hospice. My belief of eternal life has been reinforced by the teachings of this wise lady who has spent her life studying and experiencing the mysteries of death. Raya has taught me to eliminate the word death from my vocabulary. For, you see, there really is no such thing as death. No one ever dies. You will not die. I will not die. Loy is not dying. The energy force, the essence that is the unique person of Loy is eternal. When her body finally fails to function, Loy will exist on a level of awareness beyond earthly description and knowledge. She will experience a euphoric freedom of limitless Love. Soon, Loy will be whole, complete—the ultimate masterpiece designed by God. I am excited for her, and I consider it a privilege and a gift to be allowed to witness this transition. |
| Hope is an attitude of the mind. It's not a feeling or an uncontrollable emotion. Possessing hope is a choice. All of us have experienced or will experience some type of chaos and disaster in our lives: the death of a loved one, rejection, unemployment, financial ruin, acts of violence, illness, old age. Bad times are simply part of life. We can choose to lie down and let these events stomp us into the ground. We can decide to give up, become depressed and beaten. We can develop and nurture an attitude of hopelessness which radiates from our very countenance and appearance, announcing to all around us not to venture close, warning joy and peace to stay away. Or we can tuck those bad times deep in our hearts, carry them as battle scars of the living—for we can never forget them, nor are we expected to—and use them as tools of experience to teach and comfort others as they face the same struggles. We can choose an attitude of hope through a faith that believes our life is more than uncontrollable fate thrust upon us. As Christians, we believe in the hope of eternal life. The scriptures are full of messages of hope beyond our life here on earth. But there can be hope for each of us here and now, today. All we have to do is rise each day and proclaim that something good is going to happen to us today. Sometimes, this can be a great effort, but that first step can change everything. That's called HOPE. |
Tomorrow will mark the second anniversary of my mother's death. At this time, two years ago, my brothers and sister were gathered around the bed in the tiny nursing-home room, standing vigil, waiting for the inevitable. I watched her irregular breathing as we talked about funeral arrangements. Mama was no longer conscious, but I wondered if she could hear us. I wondered if she was afraid. What's it like to die? She looked frail; I felt helpless. I had long ago given up my prayers for a miracle. I knew her death would be a blessing, an escape from the fear and confusion she had suffered for so long. I would miss her, but I had, for many years now, missed this strong, kind, intelligent, and generous lady that was my mama and friend. I wondered if she would be whole again where she was going. I wrestled with my faith, a faith she had taught me since childhood. Would she truly be free? Would she be with Daddy again? Would I see her again? We watched Mama take her last breath. Suddenly, through the tears, all my questions were answered. The room was filled with her presence, the presence of the mother we knew before Alzheimer's took her away. We all felt it. And in each of our minds, we heard her call out our names with strength and love and recognition. Today, I have no doubt that Mama is well and whole and forever happy as she watches us from beyond the clutches of human frailty. Yes, I will see her again, face to face. But I'm in no hurry because Mama is right here with me all the time, everyday.
 9/12/1925~~3/19/2010 |
~~ My Comma Sense Class was successful this term and the students did well with their overall progress. I've been teaching the class for seven terms now, and though I'll miss the excitement of teaching, it's time for me to take a break and devote some time to my own writing education and development. I haven't written anything new (except a couple of silly limericks) in about a year. Hell, I'm not getting any younger. The years are flying by and I haven't even started fulfilling my dream of writing that fiction novel. So I'm going to enroll in Percy's writing workshop this May. My problem is lack of imagination. If your obviously not born with an imagination, can you still acquire one, or is it hopeless? I guess I'll find out. Every idea I come up with has already been thunk of before. Yeah, I know... thunk is not a word. Give me a break here. At least I'm actually writing, or should I say typing. Maybe a plain old writing tablet and a pen and a quiet corner in the back yard is what I need. I hope I still remember how to write with a pen. ~~ |
| I met the girls in my club through Jean, my Houston neighbor. We met merely by accident one day back in 1988. You can read about how I met Jean in:
After meeting Jean, I soon met her two sisters, Jay and Loy. I was a workaholic at the bank and had little time for friends. When I met the "girls" and their husbands, we just clicked, like we'd known each other forever. Along with Betty and Lura, from Palestine Texas, we formed a club. We called it The Olympia Gold Beer Drinking Raindrop Counting Vogue Travel Club. We were all at the beach one weekend drinking Olympia Gold beer and it started to rain. Thus the name. We all went to Puerto Villarta, Mexico, for a week in 1990 and Aculpulco in 1991. We've held several beauty pageants (just us) in Betty's home in Palestine Texas where we dressed up in formals and used psuedo names and spoke with British accents as we each walked the "runway" of Betty's living room and, on video camera, presented ourselves to the world. I was Miss Possum Blossom. My name was Winifred Whitestone in that particular pageant. We slept all night in a real Indian teepee Halloween night in 1994. It was 28 degrees that night. My Indian name was Fears Bugs Will Get On Her (I was afraid of bugs). We crashed a parade in downtown Palestine during the Jalepeno Fiesta one year. Some friend of Betty's loaned us his vintage cadillac convertable and Loy dressed up as Ms Vogue and we rode in the parade. The town folk really thought she was THE Ms Vogue and asked for her autograph. We've spent many summer vacations at Loy and Bill's beach house just sitting on the porch and laughing and acting silly. I've been working on a story about the group but it's still in the draft stage. Jean is 80 years old now, but still has a lot of life in her. I see her often. Her sister Loy is 78, and her sister Jay is 67. Betty (Loy's best friend since highschool) is 78 and Lura is 83. I'm the baby of the group at 64. We've had some good times together. When one of us hits hard times, the others come running. Good friends are eternal treasures. |
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