tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49807762494051316112024-03-12T20:44:26.740-07:00Living Through Itcj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-63600077741074829772010-06-22T19:50:00.000-07:002010-06-25T04:05:30.946-07:00Welcome to Living Through It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_t_BxM_0fe5U/TB0GbjSjRiI/AAAAAAAAARI/avvWw5Cv6mM/s320/Deegie_Pops_2_2.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Clint and our sweet friend, Deidra, at a Red Cross Fundraiser</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Hello, and welcome to <i>Living Through It</i>. I am Claudia Schlottman, and proud and honored to have been chosen by Pam and Sandy to be the <i>Blogger of Note</i> on their wonderful site <a href="http://www.ourwisdomofwords.blogspot.com/">Words of Wisdom</a> for Friday, June 25. These good souls have created a safe place to showcase good writing, and I am happy to be here! So grab their button and start reading good stuff.<br />
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Let me tell you a little about me. I am 62 years old, a widow for one year, after being married to the Love of My Life almost 35 years, and I began this blog two months after my husband Clint’s death on June 8, 2009. After his death I was unable to write anything, though I have been writing for years. I live in the Heat Belt of Middle Georgia with my two dogs, Belle, a Boxer,<br />
and Honey, a Lhasa Apso. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_t_BxM_0fe5U/TB0EsxvkZ_I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/ptKrmSITehg/s1600/Belle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_t_BxM_0fe5U/TB0EsxvkZ_I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/ptKrmSITehg/s320/Belle.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_t_BxM_0fe5U/TB0EePt9jkI/AAAAAAAAAQw/O_XxCU-Vplc/s1600/Honey.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_t_BxM_0fe5U/TB0EePt9jkI/AAAAAAAAAQw/O_XxCU-Vplc/s320/Honey.JPG" /></a>I’m an RN planning to go back to work in Hospice very soon. My mentor is Rosemary Daniell, in whose ongoing writer’s workshop for women, “Zona Rosa,” in Savannah, I have participated off and on since 1996. Oh, and I have participated in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer since its inception in 2004, and I have raised over $30.000.00!!<br />
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I chose to link you to this blog because I have finished it believe it has a beginning, a middle and an end. It tells the story of my painful journey in search of myself without Clint in my life.<br />
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Here are three links to posts I believe to be representative of my work. I hope you enjoy them and decide to follow me as I continue to learn and grow.<br />
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One of my recent poems - there are others!<br />
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<a href="http://cjschlottman-mypoems.blogspot.com/2010/05/frozen-heat-claudia-schlottman.html">Frozen Heat</a><br />
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<a href="http://theredsweater.blogspot.com/2010/06/2-weeks-from-hell-part-4.html">Two Weeks from Hell Part - 5</a><br />
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<a href="http://theredsweater.blogspot.com/2010/03/in-dreams.html">In Dreams</a>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-82436247192318744432010-06-13T12:44:00.001-07:002010-06-23T03:35:22.692-07:00The Final Edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I started this blog last year as a way to cope with the loss of my husband, Clint. I have used it to rant and rave and cry and even smile sometimes. It's time to move on from this blog, so I reversed it for anyone who wants to read my story from the beginning. I reversed it by hand, so I lost my followers and my comments. Please feel free to leave a comment, if you wish. I will be checking in. To those who followed me in the past, thank you from the bottom of my heart for you words of encouragement. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I will continue to express my thoughts and emotions on my other blogs, which have links on this page.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Caution! You will find a few cuss words here, and a wee bit of sex, so if a little cussing and a wee bit of sex isn't for you, I'll see you another time.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
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</span></div>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-363281686914584312010-06-13T11:31:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:12:11.885-07:00Dear God<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dear God (or whoever is in charge of this screwed up universe), How can you do this? How can you take away my husband, my best friend, my lover of 35 years? Don't you understand that I will never reach across the bed in the middle of the night and touch him, just to know he is there? I will never see the look in his eyes when he says he loves me. I will never feel his arms around me when he sneaks up behind me at the kitchen sink to cop a feel. I will never know his embrace, never spoon with him, never feel his hands on me or breathe the same air as he. I'll never wash his back again, nor will he mine. Who will I pour orange juice for in the mornings? Who will walk on the beach with me at night and kick the water to make it sparkle? What am I supposed to do with this, you monster. Why? What else do you want from me, you SOB? You have my father, took him before I could even know him. You took my mother, drove her insane with grief. Remember Harry, my big brother? The one you took when he was only 14? You took my baby brother John before his boys could grow up. You took my best friend 13 years ago, and now the love of my life. Will you ever get enough of my people? Who will you go after now? My only living brother? One of my dogs? What will it take to satisfy you? My darlings Kristy and Gretchen, the stepdaughters who turned into my best friends? You already have my only son, lost to me to schizoaffective disorder. I am so mad at you. I hate your guts, is what I do. And don't try to placate me with platitudes about how Clint died peacefully and with grace and dignity. HE'S STILL DEAD, YOU BASTARD. And so are the others.</span></div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-76627366741856830342010-06-13T11:29:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:14:08.437-07:00Cocktail Cruise<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">08/03/09</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The other day, I took my dog, Belle, in the car with me (she likes to ride shotgun) and we rode around town stopping at shop after shop doing tacky little errands, the ones that I keep putting off. Honey, my other dog, was being groomed, and I could not make myself go home. It was 6PM, one of the hardest times of my day, so I just kept driving. It rained some and Belle's face got wet from hanging out of the window. I made myself a traveling cocktail before I left home and even stopped at the house once for a refill. So, there I was, cruising around town having drinks with my dog and breaking several laws, I am sure. I wanted to keep driving, could see Belle and me traveling north toward the north Georgia mountains, a cigarette between my fingers, radio blasting seventies songs, anything to stop thinking about my empty house. No Clint. But then I wondered where I would go, where I really wanted to go. God knows there are enough holes in my life, so I couldn't imagine abandoning Honey. And when I gave it serious thought, what I really wanted was to go home and find Clint where he should be, not in the pottery jar sitting on the hearth. There he sits, a pile of ashes all packaged up in a hand-slung pot. He's like the Tar Baby. No matter what I say, he just sits there, mute. But he's there. My therapist thinks it's wonderful that I am so angry, says it will help me survive this hell. I think she is full of crap. I'll never be the same, don't want to be the same, not without Clint. I have to learn how to be another person, but how do I do that? How do I switch off the hurt? Jesus. I've tried all the tricks I can think of. I have knitted until my vision is blurred and my hands ache, then pulled out the project for no reason other than I want to, that it gives me something to do, something destructive to do. I have played new age music and done yoga and tried to meditate and pray. Pray? For what? I want to hit somebody. I want to throw dishes and wield a baseball bat at my car windshield or into my bathroom mirror. I want to jackhammer the bathtub where Clint took his whirlpool every day and fell asleep, nearly always dropping his newspaper into the water. I want to stomp the peace lilies, the "Here, have a plant since your husband is dead," lilies. What an amazing tradition. I hate those things, don't know why I planted them in the first place. Did I really think it would make me feel better to see them every day and remember that the only reason I have them is that Clint is DEAD? I smoke way too much, even smoke those obscenely long fags that remind me of an all day sucker for adults stupid enough to smoke. I didn't smoke so much before - just a few a week. Now I can't get enough poison into my body.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-1007901287375431592010-06-13T11:28:00.001-07:002014-06-27T12:32:34.220-07:00Only the Beginning<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Early Monday, the day he died, when I said "I love you," Clint opened his eyes and said he loved me back. As the day wore on, he stopped responding, but he opened his eyes to let me know he could hear me. Later, when the death rattle was so bad the others could not bear it, I had him all to myself. I lay beside him, leaned into him and put my lips to his ear to say how much I loved him, how desperately I would miss him. I said he made me the happiest woman in the world and that I was strong and would be all right. I said I knew how tired he was and that it was okay to let go, to leave. I put a cool rag on his forehead because he was burning with fever, and I touched him gently because I knew his skin was hurting from the fever. I cried. I cried and kept saying how much I loved him and how I would be okay. After a while, he didn't open his eyes any more and I knew he was in a coma. But I kept talking to him, whispering words of love and sadness. I know he heard me. I just know it. His breathing was hard but I put little drops of morphine under his tongue so he could be more comfortable and not struggle. When he drew in the breath that he could not breathe out, I lay my head on his chest to listen for his heart. It was quiet, the last sign of life gone. My tears splashed onto his sweater and I heaved with sadness and at profound sense of emptiness rolled over me. I kept listening, but his heart did not beat again. I thought that was the most terrible moment of my life, the most painful thing that I had ever endured. I lay with him a moment then had to let the nurse have him while I went to tell the others, say to them that Poppy was dead, lost to us forever. We wept together, and we wept on our own. Only an idiot would say how they felt. I only know how I felt, but I do know how they looked, how they acted - wounded and confused and blank-eyed and afraid. I went back to be with him one more time, happy for him, glad he was no longer struggling, relieved he had no more pain. I thought the worst was over, but that was bullshit. It was just the beginning. I had no understanding that my life was poised at the steps of hell, that the worst was yet to come and that it would keep coming for days and weeks, longer. I didn't know I had lied when I said I was strong and would be okay. I'm not strong. I'm not okay. He's been dead for two months, and I get sadder every day, miss him more, plead for him to somehow come back, ache with emptiness, rage at God for taking him away. I am not strong. Maybe I will be one day, but it's not today.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-61650468645638954782010-06-13T11:27:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:15:00.259-07:00<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have been weeping for 3 days, that is, when I'm not sleeping - 12 hours at a stretch - or watching really old reruns of NCIS that I've seen what seems like dozens of times. And I'm wobbly, not dizzy but off balance much of the time. It's frightening. I thought it might be one of my medicines for anxiety so I stopped taking it, and it's a little better, I think. I can't hold on to anything. Yesterday, I spilled coffee on my bedside table. This morning, I spilled coffee on my knitting chair. Things just slip through my fingers, and I put things down without looking and they end up on the floor. I feel crazy as snot, distracted, out of it. When I woke this morning, both my arms and legs were aching. I'm familiar with these things. I've been depressed before. Today I knelt by the hearth in front of Clint's ashes and wept until there were no more tears. Lisa called me, and the sound of her sweet voice made me cry. I don't want to talk to anyone, or for that matter see anyone, not even my best friends. How long can I go on like this? No one can live forever feeling like this. I start knitting projects and then pull them out, just to be destructive, I think. I'm still begging Clint to come back, telling him I lied when I said I was strong enough to do this. I'm not. People want to know "Are you o-KAY?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I want to punch them in the face and say "Hell, no." How in god's name am I supposed to be okay? Parrish is a constant worry, but he's not the reason I'm insane. He says he will stay in Miami until the end of the year. I was depressed and crazy before Clint died. I'm just crazy, I guess. These few days, I have felt as though I were walking in hip-deep water, struggling to get where I'm going. I went to supper with the family last night, but I should have stayed home. I was unhappy around so many people. I wanted to be home in my bed with my dogs. I'm crying right now. Mama never let me cry, so I guess these are all those years of unshed tears. I wonder how much of this pain is about Daddy. He died when I was 6, and at that young age, you have not idea what you've lost when a loved one dies. I never got to know him. I grew up fatherless, if there is such a word. Are some of these tears for that? I never felt cheated before, but now I resent like hell that I had no father to do things with me, teach me how life works, tell me stories, punish me when I needed it, walk me down the aisle, dote over my baby Parrish. Why? Why do I have to suffer this way? I'm still angry, really angry, angry to the point of being irrational. There's nothing rational about this, nothing.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-68661725116827528292010-06-13T11:25:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:15:31.732-07:00<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When Clint was alive, we kissed each other" good morning," every day - even if we had to hold our breath. These days, I have one of my favorite photos of him as my computer wallpaper, and each day when I turn it on, I kiss my fingertip and hold it to his mouth in the picture. This morning, still crying from yesterday and the day before, I ran my fingers all over the screen, hoping to reach in and touch his sleeve, his face, take a sip from his glass of wine, make a physical connection. I still can't believe he's gone forever. I held his red sweater close like an insecure toddler holds his blanket. I held the sweater, rubbed it against my face and wept and begged him to come home until it hurt too much to keep it up. Every couple of days, I splash the sweater with some of his Old Spice, keeping it smelling almost like him. His smell, the real smell of him, is gone. I'll never smell it again, so I have to make the Old Spice do. I was sad all day, alleviating some of the pain by working around the house. Hell, I even vacuumed behind the sofas in the den. When five o'clock came, I took the dogs for a ride - up to Forsyth and across to Gray, then back down to Macon, cutting through Shirley Hills to look at our old house on Twin Pines. I don't know why I wanted to see it, but I don't understand a lot about my behavior these days. The dogs loved the ride and it got me out of the house without having to deal with any humans. We had thunderstorms earlier in the afternoon, so they were scared for a while. It was good to make them happy. I want to be happy one day, but not yet. I'm just not ready to let the pain go. I need it to feel alive. As indescribably miserable as I am, I haven't had enough.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-71755041903360787852010-06-13T11:23:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:16:38.898-07:00The More You Have Lost<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This afternoon, when I asked my therapist, Ann Carol, how long I would have to endure this pain and emptiness and rage, she said, "The more you've lost, the harder it is and the longer it takes to work through it." I wanted to hit her, drop onto the floor and have a screaming tantrum and throw things and scream at the top of my lungs. She knows what I have lost, and the look on her face was one of anguish for me. She lost her husband many years ago, and I could see the residue of that loss on her face. Shit. Is there ANY hope for me? Why can't I just start doing things and going places and asking people to come over for drinks? I simply cannot make myself seek out the company of anyone except Kristy and Nancy and Gretchen, if she were close by. The longer Clint is gone, the harder living without him becomes. I sometimes kiss the top of his urn and then tell him to go to hell and ask him why he had to leave me, keep drinking when he knew it would kill him. The selfish sonofabitch loved wine more than he loved me or anyone else. How does that happen? When I left Ann Carol's, I went to Stein Mart to buy some panties big enough to stretch over my wide ass, and I saw Diane Carson there. She's a lab tech at the hospital, and she worked with and loved Clint for years. She told me how, twice, when she had kidney stones and her insurance would not cover the whole expense and she couldn't pay the difference, Clint told her not to worry about it, that he wouldn't bill her for more than insurance would pay. How can a man that fine and generous and loving and caring KILL HIMSELF with alcohol? Somebody please explain that to me. I feel so cheated and at the same time, I love him so much it makes me ache all over. I don't think I'll ever figure out how to live without him. I will never be the same, never. How many times have I said that to myself?</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-13386626815037047752010-06-13T11:22:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:17:22.018-07:00<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">One day, Ann Carol asked me if I remembered the moment I fell in love with Clint. I fell in love with him before I ever saw his face. He was walking across the cardiac unit toward Room 4. Coming out of the nurses' lounge, I looked up and was dumbstruck at his gait, not quite a swagger, not what anyone could call a saunter, his incredibly self assured posture with no hint of haughtiness. His long legs moved gracefully, crossing the room in only a few steps. It was, quite simply, The Walk. He had the cutest little ass I had ever seen, and when I saw him face-to-face, my knees almost buckled. He was tall - 6'4" - and had the biggest hands I had ever seen and he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. His brown hairline was receding and I found it sexy and wanted to touch it. He looked up from the patient through black horn rimmed glasses, read my name off my name tag out loud and asked if I would take some orders for his patient. He exuded a sexiness of which he seemed completely unaware, a flirty glint in his eye, a half smile tipping up the corner of the right corner of his mouth. There was a spark of sexual energy between us, invisible for sure, but there all the same. I was frightened and turned on and excited at the same time, secretly hoping he would be there the next day. The next day came, and his patient had been transferred out. It would be months before I saw him again, but without even knowing it, I had already fallen in love. When I ran into Diane, she looked at me and said, "No man in the world ever had that walk like Dr. Schlottman. He was tall and handsome and full of himself, and that walk made him so sexy. I saw you together many times, and I never saw a man look at a woman the way he looked at you. You have been loved deeply, and I know how you must miss him. I can't even imagine him being sick, and I'm glad I never had to see him that way."</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-75762899391481067552010-06-13T11:21:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:17:45.994-07:00<div style="color: #888888; font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Are You There?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Lately when I wake, either in the morning or after a nap, I have the sense of someone sleeping next to me. It's always either Clint or Kristy or Gretchen. It's not an uncomfortable feeling but rather a sense of deep disappointment that no one is there. Doesn't take a shrink to figure that one out. Maybe it is their energy, working to heal me. I'm not ready to be healed. I need to be sad and mad longer. How much longer? How the hell should I know? I do know that I am still wounded at my core, lonely beyond belief and mad as hell. I threw a platter onto the driveway on Monday. It was one of my favorite things - a blue hand fired fish with a built-in dish for dip. We always had crab dip in it. I stupidly put it in the dishwasher, and the little bowl cracked and chipped. I can't be in my right mind. I do things without thinking. When I found the broken platter, I took it outside and threw it on the driveway, and when it didn't break into enough pieces, I picked them up and threw them repeatedly until there was nothing but a mess of chards to sweep. It was just a thing, but now I wished I had used it more, enjoyed it more while I had it. I want to break some more things. Maybe I'll buy a baseball bat and go find a junk yard where I can hammer old cars, beat the living shit out of them. Here I sit, in this big bed, right here in my place, propped up on pillows, and on the other side of the bed is nothing but a pile of pillows. Belle will probably jump up and sleep over there some time during the night. I think she's still looking for Poppy, too. I'm smoking and drinking too much, and I don't care. Why should I give a shit? When we moved back into this house a little over 2 years ago, I started using my "good" things - china and silver and linens and crystal. I am so glad I did that. Poppy liked good things. Donnie came this week to repair the wreckage and do some touch-up painting where Poppy had had little wrecks around the house in his wheelchair. Clint HATED that he scarred the walls and doorways. Now that I am the only one here, I never intend to eat or drink from anything that falls into the "everyday" category. Hell, I might not be here tomorrow. Maybe god wants me next. Shirley (the first wife) is an ingrate and rude to boot. Today, after I paid her alimony for 2 months when I didn't have to, while she waited for her life insurance check, she sent Bert over here with a check in a green envelope with my name on it. Nothing else. No thank you or kiss my ass - just a check. Bitch. At least she is officially off my payroll, and I know that would make Clint happy. I have completed all the notes about Clint's death, the thank-yous and all that shit. There are still a few people I want to call. My eyes are hurting and so is my heart. I need to cry some.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-63445591231646714082010-06-13T11:18:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:18:07.966-07:00Alone<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have never minded being alone, have always been comfortable in my own company. But this is different. Alone is one thing, but LIVING alone is quite another. I want Clint back. I want him to come home. Absurd? Of course it's absurd. I know he can't come home; I just know I want him to. Am I okay? Hell no, I'm not okay, and what is more, I don't want to be okay. Not yet. I need to cry some more and be mad as hell for as long as I need to be mad. I need to grope around in this hole in my heart, searching for Clint and knowing he can't come home, that he's not there. Everything about the way I feel us insane. Hell, I can't find the damned light switches in my own house, I'm so dazed and confused and lost. Kay invited me to go to a movie tomorrow and I said I would try. I know I won't go, I just know it. I don't want to be entertained and laugh and act normal. Nothing about this is normal. Every day I live for 9 PM so I can take my medicine and get sleepy and drift away to that place where I don't have to deal with this. Clint's description of sleep was "Falling into the arms of Morpheus." I always loved that. Sarah has been hounding me, wanting to come over and bring me some gift she bought for me on her honeymoon in Hawaii. She wants to be near Poppy's ashes, she says. Bullshit. Where was she when he was alive and would have loved a visit from her? She only used him when she wanted something. I don't want her in my house, but I finally gave in and said she could come tomorrow. I asked her to respect Poppy's memory by removing that disgusting thing she has stuck in her lip while she is here. This visit is not about me or Poppy. It's about her. She doesn't do anything that's not for her. She's looking for some kind of closure. Even though I don't want her here, I am going to give in and get it over with, stop the sappy phone messages that hurt me to hear.</span></div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-79973988328140821372010-06-13T11:16:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:25:02.548-07:00How?<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">How did I let you die? I let you die just like I let John die. I thought if I wanted bad enough for you to live, that you wouldn't die. Ridiculous? Yes. Insane? Yes. But somehow I feel I let you get away, that if somehow I could have done something else, something different, you would still be here - across the bed where I could touch you, see you smile, rub my face against your soft sweater. What kind of insanity is this, this helplessness, this guilt? I knew for years that you were dying, yet when the time came, I wasn't ready. Oh, I was ready for you to be at peace, for you to feel no more pain. Why isn't that enough? It's not about you, is it? I don't know how to do this thing, this monster called grief. Jesus. What a fucking nightmare. Here I am, all alone with Honey and Belle in this wonderful little house where we were both so happy. Did I tell you Honey has a torn cartilage in her right hind knee? She's healing slowly. I had a cortisone shot in my knee last week, and it worked. I'm on the bike and doing squats, trying to get fit enough to walk Avon again. Where the hell are you? I need you to know these things, I need you to know that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Deidra</span> put me in a private jet and took me to Canyon Ranch Miami Beach so I could spend some time with P on his birthday and get pampered at the same time? She misses you, too, you know.</span></div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-91127306820585830552010-06-13T11:14:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:18:48.482-07:00Someone Stole my Brain<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Someone stole my brain - August</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If anybody ever finds this bog, it will be a miracle. Yesterday, I sent multiple emails to my friends, inviting them to visit, only problem is that I sent the WRONG URL. I left out the "s" in blogspot, resulting in blogpot which appears to be some kind of religious site. Cuz called me to see what was going on, and that's how I learned of the error. Then there is the problem of some people not wanting to create a Google account in order to log in. Cuz didn't like that idea and maybe some of the others feel the same way. It's easy to do, free and there is no obligation. I found the blog site through Facebook. Anyway, here I am writing away to what appears to be no readership at all. I have looked around for another site for a blog, but they all seemed more complicated. I guess I'll call Geek Squad. I'm having one of those sleepless nights that I have from time to time, so I made some decaf and knitted on Isabel's Christmas stocking for about an hour. 20 minutes ago, I decided to go out on the deck and smoke a cigarette with my coffee, but I forgot to disarm the security system and set off all the sirens and other noise that go along with it. Where is my brain? I think it may have gone with Clint. Maybe my tears are draining it out of my head. Except for being a dumbass, yesterday was not too bad. I spent most of the day with ice on my knee and watching golf on TV. Deidra left me the sweetest voice message. (I had the ringers turned off on all the phones, so I didn't hear her ring). Yesterday was her anniversary, as well as the anniversary of John's death. She tearfully told me that, for her anniversary, Taylor wrote a big fat check to United Hospice in Poppy's memory. She told me how much she misses Poppy and how much they both loved him. I called her back and said that now that Poppy is gone, Taylor is the best husband in the world. When I realized that it was the anniversary of John's death, I was afraid of a meltdown, but it didn't happen. He's been dead for 9 nears, and I miss him every day of my life, but I didn't dissolve into a puddle of tears. I teared up for a moment, then began to remember all the things I loved about him. I still resent that he had to leave Lisa alone and Waker and Wil fatherless, but at the same time, I am gratified that they all have done so well. Shit. I just proofread this entry before publishing it. Check out the first sentence of this entry, and you will see that I wrote BOG instead of BLOG. I'm leaving it that way.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-47502059679835215102010-06-13T11:02:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:19:16.985-07:00Good Day but Stupid<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday was a good day, and there is no reason I can give for it. I didn't sleep the night before, but I was somehow infused with energy and spent most of the day organizing my little house. I finally put all of the paperwork about Clint's will in some sort of order and filed it away so I didn't have to look at it every time I turned around. Each little task sent me off in a other direction and I ended up getting things done. Since I am always so willing to call Nurse and tell her how miserable I am, I called her to tell her how good I was feeling. I've been talking to Susan Smith at least once a day about her husband Prentiss. He and Clint were long-time friends and became each other's best friends during the last four years. Though the Smiths live in Baton Rouge, the two men talked on the phone at least once a week and many times twice. After Clint's first knee infection, Prentiss put his life on hold and came to Macon to be with Clint and give me a break from spending all my time in hospital. Every afternoon, he went to the hospital and sat at Clint's bedside for hours while I rested or did errands. He is far from a saint. In fact, he is hard to like, but he has always been a devoted friend to Clint - just one more member of his fan club. I believe that Clint stayed alive as long as he did so he could attend his 50th Medical School Reunion and then drive up to Baton Rouge to have one last visit with PE, his name for Prentiss. Now he's is in hospital himself in critical condition and likely to die soon. Susan has been at the forefront of my thoughts since she called me on Saturday with the news of his illness. Even dealing with that did not ruin my good mood. There was the occasional tear, but for the first time since June 8 at 6:33 PM, I felt like myself. At the Goose with the family, I saw Nancy Ford and Bill Action and some other people actually wanted to talk to. So I talked to them and laughed and felt a part of something other than emptiness and loneliness. Remember when I said someone stole my brain? It's still missing. I must have gotten drunk because this morning my body aches all over and my head has one of those mercury yolks in it. Remember Bonfire of the Vanities? Tom Wolfe's British character, the journalist? He described his hangover headache as the sensation having a giant mercury yolk rolling around inside his skull every time he moved his head? It's not quite that bad but I think I have Yolk Light Syndrome. It was stupid and careless (I had not eaten all day) to drink too much, but I'm not sorry I did it. I had a good time and want to hold onto the memory of it and try to remind myself of it when I wake up one morning wondering how I will get out of bed.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-29457176102772458972010-06-13T11:01:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:19:56.715-07:00Fuckup<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am at war with this fucking blog, but it's not going to win, by God. It's not going to win. Today I was organizing my entries, trying to put them in some order that makes sense, and I accidentally deleted one. Great. So, I'm going to try to recreate it. I won't be able to, of course, but I can try. It makes me ache to have lost the original language, the freshly birthed words that said how I felt when I first wrote them down. On Friday night, the 14th, I found a Neil Diamond concert on TV and was enjoying it, even smiling, until I had the flash of a thought that Clint would love it. I collapsed onto his side of the bed, clutching his red sweater and convulsing in sobs, keening and wailing like a wounded animal. I wept until the sweater was wet and I thought there were no more tears. When I finally sat up and tried to knit my way through it, the tears came at intervals, out of nowhere. The more Neil sang, the harder I cried. I was physically painful, and I wondered again how I could survive this hell. I hate having half a brain. I really do.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-17890751831519497682010-06-13T11:00:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:25:32.605-07:00<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The spell of relief I was enjoying lasted until 11:00 PM. Clint never could figure out how to adjust the alarm on his watch, and it beeps every night. It sits in the basket on his bedside table with his other stuff: his wallet and the little photo case he carried around with pictures of the people he loved most, the love letter I wrote to him on our anniversary last year, the resistance handles he used to squeeze, trying to keep his hands and arm strong, his checkbook (last entry in September 2004), his glasses and his salt and pepper shakers and his emery boards and the instructions for that fucking watch, the whetstone he used to sharpen his pocket knife, his pocket knife, the big red exercise band he used to work on his good leg, his walkman and some pens and pencils and the green tea stuff he put on his toenails. And some of those damned flossers he used all the time. Never did a man have cleaner teeth. He would fall asleep with them hanging on is lip, and I was more than once poked in the side with one when I rolled over to be closer to him. I took his things out and turned them over in my hands and rubbed them against my face, caressed them, smelled them, hoping for some sense of his presence. But he’s gone. My gut started to twist into knots and I felt as though some force were trying to pull it through my navel. I needed to breathe. I said to myself, “just breathe, try to breathe,” I closed my eyes and tried to suck air into my lungs but my chest was bound by some invisible girdle and my diaphragm was tight, pushing back as I tried to relax and let in the air. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror, and there looking back at me was a woman I don’t know, a woman I don’t know how to be, a widow, wounded and alone and terrified. Tears splashed down my face, fell on my glasses, ran down my neck. It's not that I don’t try. Hell, for the last two days I have laughed and shopped for my house, mapped out a plan to make it fit me, the woman who has to live without Clint. Shit. I thought that was healthy. I had fun with friends, did errands, put many of my things in order, made plans to clean out my closet. I guess it helped, but I don’t fell like it now. That stupid watch sent me spiraling back down to this dark place of pain and anger and weakness and uselessness. I had to go outside to breathe. It had rained. The air was heavy and I lit some candles and sat in the night and wondered how I got back here, back in the dark. The air was still and the flames made straight lines of light, reaching up, beaconing me to reach up and find some peace. I lit a cigarette and looked at it and crushed it out as hard as I could. Honey lay in the doorway, keeping me in her sight. The wind chimes were silent, but frogs and bugs and whatever creatures make noise in the night were chanting rhythmically, and there was some comfort in the sounds. My tears dried up, but the knot in my stomach still twisted, eating at me from the inside out. I wanted to be angry, but I hadn’t the strength, was washed out, empty. So Honey and I came inside and climbed back into bed. I don’t want to go to sleep. My dreams have been confusing and garbled, and I have been waking again thinking Clint is in the bed with me. I’ve even talked to him before I realized he wasn’t there. I can’t remember any details, just that he is in the dreams. I returned the basket to its place on the table with Clint's Golf World and his bridge books and his US Open hat.My eyes are tired but I think I‘ll knit for a while before I try to close them again.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-67482761949705024692010-06-13T10:59:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:26:01.568-07:00In Love with Swiffer<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At first there were no words, and now, like the afternoon thunderstorms we are having nearly every day when rain comes out of the blue and pours sheets of water over everything, words come tumbling out of my head, some making sense, others leaving me wondering if there is a pocket of poison somewhere inside me me that won't let me heal. The words are coming, but I keep getting in the way of my own healing, doing things like hurting my back by moving furniture and not taking proper care of my knee. Am I creating more pain in some sick attempt to punish myself? It's like picking my wounds instead of finding my way in a world without Clint. There are good things and good people in this mix, unexpected calls from loving people who care what I'm living with, who don't mind if I cry, sit silently while I do and don't say I should get a grip on myself. Judy Vaughn has called me about every two weeks just to check in, give me a forum for all my emotions, the good and the toxic. Joy Hamby called me yesterday, not to talk but to listen without judgement, give me permission to own my grief and take as long as I need to deal with it. There are others, my close friends, who do the same thing. These people are light for me in this dark place. They don't try to talk me into being happy when I'm not or try to cheer me up or tell me to be strong for everyone else. They radiate acceptance even when they don't understand. They don't try to understand or offer tips on how to get over it. They are comfort in the midst of this confusion and anguish. Gretchen calls often, and yesterday she told me about some of her dreams about Poppy. In one, he is dressed for golf, a beautiful woman on each arm, sporting sunglasses and a smile. She asks him why he was wearing sunglasses, and he tells her that it's not dark where he is. In another, he is dressed for tennis, a game he never played. She made me laugh, reminding me of what a chick magnet Clint always was, of the times I had to fend off advances from total strangers who were attracted to him. She said, "The women are still after your man," and it made me smile inside. I even laughed. I so envy her those dreams, that she can remember them and wake in a happy frame of mind because of them. I want those dreams. I do dream about him but can never remember the details. I wake up talking to him, only to find that the warm body next to me in my bed is Belle. The dreams are not disturbing, they just are, and I am living for the morning when I wake and can remember them. Yesterday was one of those days from hell. I dealt with the pain by throwing myself full tilt into cleaning my bathroom. And no, it wasn't smart to take on a cleaning job when my back was already hurting but, I have the cleanest goddamned bathroom in Bibb County, every corner scrubbed, countertops gleaming, not a dust bunny to be found. And it did help. I listened to a book as I worked, and I came away exhausted, sweating like a pig but somehow feeling okay, not necessarily better, but with a sense of accomplishment. Maybe losing Mini Maid just after Clint died was a good thing. (I think she was uncomfortable changing the bed where he died). Now I have something to take care of, to take up some of the hours in my day when I was caring for Clint. I brush Honey every day, sometimes twice. I take time to give Belle extra attention. She misses Poppy so much. Do I see myself spending the rest of my life spending quality time with my Swiffer products? No, but for now they are my best friends, and they may be for a while. The other day, I polished brass and now Barkeeper's friend is on my list of new best friends. I have to do this my way, but I need to stop causing myself physical pain. That may take some work.</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-61183206803883634532010-06-13T10:52:00.001-07:002010-06-16T11:46:09.552-07:00Escape to Avon<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Escape To Avon - August</span></div><div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Every year since 2004, the year Robert's wife, Lisa, died of breast cancer, I have participated in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, first in Chicago, after that in Boston to combine the walk with a visit with Gretchen. Lisa's illness had reached the terminal stage, and I felt helpless. There was nothing to do. Lisa and I had never been close, so but I NEEDED to do something, and I saw an ad in Oprah Magazine for the Avon Walk and decided to get involved. Training for the the walk was easy as I was already an avid walker, but I had never raised money for any cause by myself. I had always been part of some team or organization, and the idea of sending out emails and snail mails asking for money was daunting. But I plunged in head first, and I was astonished at how generous people are. Checks began pouring in, and I far exceeded my fundraising goal. Last year, I had knee surgery and could not do the walk, but I still raised more money than I expected. This year, I registered for for the Charlotte walk in October, because the Boston walk conficted with Clint's 50th anniversary of his graduation from Tulane Medical. I won't be walking this year, again because of my knee, but I joined the crew and with a partner, I'll be driving a van along the route to pick up walkers who can't for whatever reason, oomplete the walk. I'm excited and thinking that my background in nursing will come in handy. For the past 2-1/2 days, when I haven't been having my knee injected or have been meeting with my therapist (psycho, not physical) I've been getting my mailings ready. In addition to the victims of this killer and their family and loved ones, I dedicated this Avon walk to Clint's memory. From Tuesday morning until today, I have cried barrels of tears, ranted and raved and thought my heart was going burst and kissed the top of Clint's urn then cussed him out for being dead. The preparations for Avon helped some, but I still had moments of fury and self-pity and incredible loneliness. The tears came out of nowhere and I don't mean a little tearing up, I mean floods of tears. Kristy came by after work to knit with me, and she was a comfort to m, she always is, but I cried while she was here and way after she was gone. Today, though, I have stayed busy with Avon stuff and knitting and doing exercises for my sore back I got when I moved furniture by myself on Monday just so I could have the instant gratification of seeing how good my new rug would look. (It is perfect). I can't get to sleep, even though I took my meds - all of them, at least I'm not crying. I have gotten outside of myself for this day, and I am grateful for that. Could it be the pain pills? I don't care what it is. I'm just grateful for this day.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-78438409813273918662010-06-13T10:51:00.002-07:002010-06-16T13:03:22.820-07:00I Can Dream - or Can I?<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have been jealous of Gretchen and her dreams and the different ways Poppy comes to her. It took me a week to recognize it, but he came to me last Thursday when I was bringing the little pine bench and handmade baskets into the house. I could just hear him saying, "Why don't be just go on out in the back yard and start a bonfire? You got any more money we can burn up?" It was classic Poppy, being sarcastic and funny at the same time. He was with me for that moment. He was with me.</span></div>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-18983074295193239572010-06-13T10:51:00.000-07:002011-06-05T16:42:05.299-07:00<div style="font-family: 'American Typewriter'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Angry - August</span></div><div face="American Typewriter" size="12px" style=" font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: 'American Typewriter'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Forced to stay in bed all weekend resting my strained back and icing my knee, I have thrown myself into getting my Avon letters done. I'm not finished yet, but I will be be tomorrow. I expanded my solicitation list by 44 by shamelessly taking names from the sympathy book that people signed at Clint's reception, (I hate the term visitation). so it's taking longer than usual. I feel as though I can sleep, and I haven't shed a single tear all day. I'm going to turn off the lights and wrap myself in Clint's sweater and try to dream about him. Ann Carol says I can train myself to dream about him and if I wake from a dream about him and write down just one word about it, I will be able to remember the dream. Sounds like a load of bullshit to me, but she has never led me wrong, so I'm going to try. I used to remember many dreams in great detail, but I think this Elavil is getting in the way. I hate all this medicine. And, no, I'm not going to start treating myself. I not that crazy.</span></span></div><div><br /></div>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-24158659322913569732010-06-13T10:48:00.000-07:002010-06-13T10:48:41.281-07:00No Pain<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No Pain = August - </div><div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I woke in so much pain this morning, I took myself to the ER. I knew that if I phoned the MD on call for my back doctor, he would tell me to do the same thing, so I just saved us both a phone call and some time. The pain was sharp and severe. Even moving my head made it worse. The ER folks checked me in quickly, then waited an HOUR to give me anything for the pain. I was in tears when a nurse finally arrived with a syringe in hand. I wanted to punch her. And hour later, there was no change in the pain, but a doctor did come in the room and take a cursory history of this episode and poke my spine in two places and ask if it hurt. Seriously, she asked me if it hurt. "Well, shit, you fucking idiot, if it didn't hurt, I wouldn't be here," I wanted to say. She ordered some x-rays that showed severe arthritis in my hips and back. Compared to the films I had done several months ago, things looked worse. Shit. She gave me an Rx for a muscle relaxer and sent me home, admonishing me about moving furniture without by myself. I found that very helpful. So I left, but not before a nauseatingly chipper woman with her bleached blonde hair pulled neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck collected $150. from me). I dropped by the pharmacy on my way home to get the Rx filled, but there was a problem. The doctor had not written anything on the Rx. Except for the name of the drug, my name and her name, it was blank. I am not making this up. My sweet pharmacist, Ralph, called the ER for clarification and was told that someone would have to call him back. So, I came home to wait for Ralph to call me when he had the meds. I finally called him at 5, and he had not yet gotten his call back. I said I was going to bed and would call him tomorrow morning. I was in such a rage at that point that I think my body was flooded with endorphins. And now I actually feel better. I'm still taking pain pills, but they are working. Holy shit, what an ordeal. It would have been altogether different if Clint had been with me. BUT now I have a place to put my anger, even if only for a while.</div>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-36829002025952145562010-06-13T10:46:00.000-07:002010-06-16T13:02:24.771-07:00Cry Babies<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">No Cry Babies - August</span></div><div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Until April of 1955, we were a family of six. There were Mama and Daddy, of course, and in order from oldest to youngest, Harry, Me, Paul and John. Harry was 18 months older than I, and Paul was 14 months younger. And John came along six years later. In the the five years between 1955 and 1960, both my father and Harry died in accidents. Coming home from work late on April 10, 1955, Daddy died instantly when his car hit a pulpwood truck half parked on the road with no lights on. Harry died after sliding off the fender of a pickup truck loaded with green tobacco on my aunt's farm. The truck rolled over him and he lived 10 hours. My mother was incapable of grieving or. She never gave herself the chance - nor did she encourage us to own our loss, talk about it, work through it. John was 2 months old when Daddy died, and she had three other children to care for. I have a clear memory of her sitting down on her bed with Harry and John and me and explaining how Daddy was better off. He had a back injury from falling during a storm while he was assigned to a mine sweeper in the South Pacific during The War. He was in chronic pain - during an era before anyone had even dreamed up the term "pain management." He suffered in silence, but I can remember him bracing his back with his hands when we went to the beach at Fernandina. It wasn't hard to tell that he was uncomfortable. I don't remember him ever complaining about it. Mama told us that Daddy was no longer in pain and that should make us feel better. She rationalized away the death of the most important man in our lives. She told us to be brave and try not to cry and to help her with John - who was two months old at the time. That's what she said, but what really happened was that she turned John over to me, for the most part. I treasured him, my real-life baby doll. Before I had to return to school after Daddy died, and then in the afternoons when I got home, I changed him and bathed him and put him down for his nap by gently rubbing his little back. I nearly always put him to bed the same way. He was mine.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Five years later on June 8, the day that Parrish would be born in 1969, Harry died as a result of that horrible accident on the farm. Again, Mama said we should be strong, and be helpful and grownup and not cry about it. She rationalized his death to us by repeating reminding us that if he had lived, Harry's life would be hard. (He probably had ADHD, long before there would be a name for it). He didn't do well in school had many visit to the principal's office. He had trouble with relationships and and constantly caused one crisis after another at home. He must have been nice to me sometimes, but don't remember it. He made up names for me that made me cry and Paul followed right along. I was called Kinker because of my hair, Hickey when Mama pulled up my hair like Pebbles, and there were more. Mama said he was in a better place. Years later, I learned that she felt guilty about Harry's problems because she dropped him when he was an infant, and he hit his head. She took him to the doctor, who said he was fine but to watch for an symptoms of head injury.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">At six, almost seven, I didn't know what I had lost. The same was true when I as twelve and Harry died. There was no grief in our house, though, once in a great while, I caught Mama crying in her room. She told me to leave and close the door. She never cried, not even in front of us children. She was the Strong One after all, and she was the taught me to me to be the Strong One, too. I took on my more responsibly, but I never thought that my family was any different from others. We just didn't have a daddy. Mama made sure I did things - play half court basketball, compete for our local swimming team, but after Harry's death, that was over. I took on more responsibility at home. I have a vivid memory of her handing me a box of those thank you notes the funeral home sent to us. She gave me the guest book, and told me to stop everything I was doing and address and stuff the notes. She also gave me roll of stamps.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In 2000, kidney cancer killed John, my baby brother. The first time I saw Ann Carol, over a year ago. she told me I had serious unresolved grief issues that I was unaware of. They started bubbling to the surface when, in 2005, when we nearly lost Clint. This hell I am enduring is just part of the problem; it's more than the loss of Clint. The idea of going back and reliving the others is daunting. Do I have to drag all that up now, when sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe? I don't want to be the Strong One again and go back and and reopen wounds I didn't even know I have.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In the eighties I started writing short fiction. Here's one of my stories, "Six. Going On Seven," that is loosely based on the day of my father's funeral. It's a work of fiction, but there are bits of pieces of truth. I would never have been defiant to my mother or my grandmother. Yes, I did look in the casket and now when I think of my daddy, that is the first image that comes to mind. </span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<br />
<i>Carleen stood on the grate of the floor furnace, feeling the warm airflow up under the skirt of her Easter dress. She held her hands over her head, and the skirt ruffled up around her face and mussed her hair.<br />
She was six, going on seven, and she was not supposed to stand on the floor furnace--especially in her good shoes. She was most assuredly not supposed to let her underpants show, but she figured with so much company in the house, she might get away with it. She pushed the dress down; and from her vantage point in the hall, she could see into the living room, which was overrun with relatives and friends of the family--all come to bury her daddy.<br />
It was the day before Easter: one day after Mama had called Carleen and her brothers into the big bedroom and told them that Daddy was gone,that he would never be home again. Mama had been sitting on the side of the bed, holding the baby and crying, pausing occasionally to wipe her eyes and blow her nose hard into one of the diapers that she had been using for a handkerchief. She had not uttered the word dead. </i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Instead, Mama had explained that Daddy "had been taken" the night before when his two-tone blue Pontiac had hit the back end of a poorly lit pulpwood truck that was stopped in the roadway. She had explained about God's plan and how everything happened for a reason. She had repeated all the things the children had learned in Sunday School about Heaven: how peaceful and beautiful it was and how Daddy would never have the backache again now that he was there.<br />
"If Heaven's such a wonderful place," Carleen wondered, "then why is the entire family and half the town of Woodville milling around in our house, either crying or looking like they might start any minute?" And if God had any plans for her, she hoped they didn't include taking her off to Heaven or any other place before her birthday party on Tuesday. She hadn't said anything, though. Instead, she tried in vain to squeeze out a few tears of her own.<br />
When she saw Grandma, ribbon in hand, marching in her direction, Carleen jumped off the grate and tried to slip past the old woman into the living room. Grandma was quick, though; and she pinned Carleen up against the wall and hastily tied back her unruly hair, trying unsuccessfully to corral all the tendrils that curled up and framed the struggling child's face. She smoothed down Carleen's skirt and leaned over to straighten the little cotton socks with lace cuffs, taking a handkerchief out of her sleeve and vigorously polishing a smudge off a patent leather shoe. Carleen was amazed that Grandma could lean over at all, given the fact that she was always so tightly laced into her corset.<br />
The starched and uncompromising matriarch took the little girl by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eye: "Stay off that grate, Carleen." She spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper, and her lips formed a straight line that barely moved. Carleen was not fooled by the quiet. The cool look in Grandma's eye said she meant business.<br />
"Do your best to keep yourself neat and clean, young lady, and don't eat anything. You know how you can get carsick. If you get thirsty, just drink some water, nothing else." Grandma was never one to surrender anything to chance. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> "We'll be leaving for the church in a little while," she continued,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"so stay out of trouble while I help your mama get ready."<br />
Carleen tried to push past the stiff black dress and go into the<br />
kitchen. She had peeked in there earlier and seen Mamie organizing casseroles and baskets of fried chicken and platters of sandwiches that had been brought over by some ladies from the church. Mamie came every day except Sunday to help Mama with the cooking and washing, and she was in charge of the kitchen--even with all those white ladies in there.<br />
</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Carleen was hoping to talk Mamie into sneaking her one of the little pimiento cheese sandwiches with no crust on the bread. But Grandma caught her by the elbow, turned her around sharply, and pointed her back in the direction of the living room.<br />
Uncle Wilson was sitting in the chair where Carleen's Daddy always sat, and she went over and climbed up in his lap. Uncle Wilson was Grandma's brother, and he always had a pack of clove chewing gum in his pocket. Carleen laid her head on his chest. The scratchy wool of his suit felt good against her face, and he smelled of Old Spice and cigar smoke. He slipped her a stick of gum.<br />
"Don't let your grandma see you with this." He lifted her chin with a curved index finger and grinned down into her face. His eyes twinkled conspiratorially. "She'll have my hide if you make a mess with it."<br />
Carleen peeled the wrapper off the gum, rolled it up into a tight<br />
little cylinder, and popped it into her mouth. Chewing happily, she<br />
snuggled down into Uncle Wilson's lap and stayed there until it was time to go, alternately fiddling with his tie and showing off by reciting her spelling words.<br />
After a while, Mama came out of her room wearing her navy blue suit and a hat with a veil that covered most of her face. She looked--at the same time--both sad and beautiful. Grandma was with her, carrying the baby, and the boys dawdled along behind. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Carleen jumped down off Uncle Wilson's lap and asked to carry the diaper bag. Grandma reluctantly handed it over. Then they all went out into the brilliant April sunlight and climbed into the limousine from the funeral home. Carleen stood on her knees on the back seat and pretended to look out the rear window while she parked her gum at the base of the glass.<br />
Woodville was a small town--still is--and it only took a few minutes to drive to the Methodist church. The pews were all filled, except the ones that had been ribboned off for the family. There was even a crowd standing two or three deep against the back wall. Every eye in the church was on the family as they walked up the aisle toward the front. Mama was carrying the baby, and Junior marched along at her side trying to look grown-up. Two years older than the twins, he already thought he could boss them around. And now that the preacher had told him he would<br />
have to be the man of the house, there was just no dealing with him.<br />
Carleen made a face at the back of his head. Grandma's gloved hands were firmly closed around Carleen's and Carl's as they brought up the rear.<br />
When they reached the first pew, Carleen turned to sit down, thinking she had never sat on the front row in church before. Grandma deftly pulled her back into line, and to Carleen's horror, kept walking straight toward the open casket. The little girl locked her knees, realizing that Mama and Junior were already up there peering down into it. Grandma let go of Carl's hand and turned her attention to Carleen, who continued to try to pull away. Carl just stood there like a stump. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> "He's too stupid to try to make a break for it," Carleen thought, and she wondered how they ever got to be twins.<br />
Grandma leaned down and hissed into Carleen's ear through clenched teeth. "Carleen Calloway, you listen to me, and you listen good. I am going up to view the body, and you and Carl are going with me. Your mother will never be able to hold her head up in this town again if you pitch a fit right here in front of your daddy's casket. He was a pillar of this church, and I will not allow you to embarass his memory or me. You know how to behave in church, so do it, and for once in your life, think about somebody other then yourself."<br />
Grandma had "that look" on her face, and Carleen knew she had no choice. "Yes, Ma'am," she answered. Her lips trembled, and she<br />
hesitated: "But I won't look." With that, Grandma tightened her grip on Carleen's aching fingers and straightened up. Without another word, she took Carl's hand and marched both children up to the open casket. Carleen kept her eyes trained on Grandma's face, trying not to follow the old woman's gaze down into the satin-lined box. Desperate for solace, she looked over at Carl, but he was standing on his toes, staring down into the casket, too. His eyes were wide and his face was ashen and pasty. He looked like he might throw up or pass out any minute, so Carleen fixed her eyes on him in case he did. Grandma turned to her and nodded in the direction of the casket as though to say she should look, but Carleen just squeezed her eyes shut as hard as she could and shook her head no.<br />
Relaxing her grip on the children's hands only slightly, Grandma<br />
followed Mama over to the pew, and they all finally sat down. It was only then that Carleen noticed that the casket was surrounded by a jungle of flowers and green plants. She had never seen so many flowers in one place in her life, and she started to count them. Silently mouthing the words, she had gotten up to eight before Grandma noticed and snatched the child's pointed finger out of the air and planted it squarely in her lap.<br />
The preachers--there were two of them--took turns saying what a fine man Daddy was and how Woodville's loss was Heaven's gain. Carleen wondered what kind of god took a good man away from a family who needed him and put him in a place where everything was supposed to be perfect and nobody needed anything.<br />
When the service was over and the casket had been carried out of the church and loaded into the hearse, they all got back into the limousine for the long ride to the cemetery. Grandma sat in the back seat, Carlon one side and Carleen on the other. Mama and the baby sat in the middle seat with Junior. Grandma took up the first ten minutes of the ride preaching at Carleen that she could learn a thing or two from Carl about how to behave at a funeral. Carleen remembered the gum and climbed up on her knees to retrieve it. She had it in her hand and was aiming it toward her mouth when Grandma grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her around and ordered her to straighten up and sit still. As the old woman finished her lecture, the child reached up and pretended<br />
to scratch the back of her neck while she parked the gum under her hair.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Carleen dreaded the drive to the cemetery in St. Marks. Visits to the doctor were the only reason the Calloway children had ever traveled to that neighboring town, and on nearly every one of those trips, Carleen had gotten carsick from having to ride in the back seat. Midway through today's journey, she felt a familiar queasiness and asked if she could ride up front with the man from the funeral home. Mama nodded okay.<br />
Grandma looked annoyed and gave Mama a sidelong look. "Junior, honey, push that button in your arm rest," the old woman<br />
crooned. The window separating the front seat from the rest of the car slid down, and Grandma grudgingly asked the driver to stop and let Carleen join him in the front seat.<br />
As the glass eased back to it's original position, Carleen heaved a huge sigh. Having escaped Grandma's scrutiny for at the least the remainder of the ride to the cemetery, she began to feel better. She laid her head back against the plush upholstery and even dared to close her eyes for a few minutes. She could hear Grandma's muffled voice from the back seat, probably making over Junior and Carl like they were the only perfect children in the universe. Carleen thought if she had been sitting back there with them, she would have thrown up for sure.<br />
The little girl was half asleep when the limousine passed through the gates of the cemetery and began to roll along under the arching branches of ancient live oaks. Even in a limousine, the passengers were rocked to-and-fro as it rolled over potholes in the unpaved alleys that pass for streets in one of the oldest cemeteries in the country. Jostled awake, but drowsy, Carleen tried to sit up straight and realized that the gum--along with a hank of her hair--was stuck to the seat back.<br />
Fear radiated through her body as she attempted to disengage the wad of gum and hair from the upholstery. Glancing back to where Grandma sat, she reached behind her head and gave the wad a yank, which unstuck most of it. But it pulled apart and some of the the mess adhered to her fingers and then to more strands of her hair. She jerked her hand away, and a chunk of hair came with it. Hastily, she reached down and wiped the gooey mess under the seat.<br />
"What on earth is the matter with you, Carleen? Quick, Junior, push that button for me again." Grandma was practically shouting from behind the glass. Naturally, she had noticed the child's struggle, but thankfully she was too far back in the long car know for sure what was going on.<br />
"Nothing's wrong, Grandma," Carleen lied. "I've just got a crick in my neck from falling aslseep." Then she pretended to massage the nape of her neck, which seemed to satisfy Grandma for the moment.<br />
They arrived at the graveside, and all the car doors were opened for everybody to get out and go sit in the chairs that had been set up on either side of the grave. Grandma's were the first feet to hit the<br />
ground, and she immediately reached in and took the baby. She stood cooing at him while Junior held the door for Mama.<br />
Just as Mama was smoothing down her suit, Aunt Belle rushed over, eyes glistening with unshed tears. As usual, she was out of breath. She hugged Mama's neck, then stepped back and looked anxiously into her face. Mama started smoothing her suit again, then nervously patted at her hat and veil and looked down at the ground. Grandma had the disapproving look on her face that she always wore when Aunt Belle came home.<br />
"Such a terrible, terrible thing for all of us, Sarah--but especially for you." Aunt Belle put her hands on Mama's shoulders. "I'm so sorry I missed the service, but I got here as fast as I could, and I can stay for as long as you need me."<br />
Belle was Daddy's only sister. She was a dancer and lived in New York City with a man whom--in Grandma's words--"she had never bothered to marry." Carleen loved Aunt Belle madly, but she was alone in her adoration. Everybody else in the family tried to pretend their black-sheep relative didn't exist; and when forced to deal with her, they did so with the tight-lipped courtesy that Southerners reserve for those they consider to be traitors--either to the family or to the South. To their way of thinking, Belle fit into both categories.<br />
Under Grandma's formidable eye, Belle disengaged herself from her sister-in-law, who looked relieved. She then turned her attention to Carleen, dropping to her knees and folding the child into her arms. Belle was wearing trousers with a matching jacket, certainly not the sort of attire that would win Grandma's approval, funeral or not. The large brim of her too-fashionable black hat formed a canopy over the outcast and the child, and Carleen was enveloped in the scent of roses as her aunt nuzzled her neck. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Belle pulled her face back from Carleen's and wrinkled her nose and sniffed. Without saying a word, she tugged at the fingertips of one of her gloves with her teeth and worked it off. She slipped her hand behind the child's neck; and with a knowing wink, mouthed the words, "Don't worry." Carleen knew that her aunt would fix it. Belle stood up, her arm draped protectively around Carleen's<br />
shoulders to shield the matted hair from view<br />
"Come, Carleen Darling, we'll sit together. And when all this is over, you can ride back to the house with me." Daddy was the only other person who ever called Carleen by that nickname, and she leaned closer to her rescuer when she heard it.<br />
Belle had spoken just loudly enough for Grandma and Mama to understand the full meaning of what she said. Relieved of the burden of having to deal with Belle and having got rid of Carleen in the bargain, the widow and the old woman took the boys and went ahead. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> The outcasts followed slowly, making sure the first row was filled up before they arrived so they wouldn't have to sit with the others. Sheltered by Aunt Belle's enormous hat and bathed in her unconditional love, Carleen was almost insulated from the events at the graveside. She knew there was more preaching, but it sounded too far away to hear. She looked up and saw huge silent tears sliding down her aunt's face.<br />
When the service was over, Belle ushered her quickly to the car.<br />
They drove to the river and parked by the public dock. In silence,<br />
they got out and walked over to the railing--where they stood<br />
hand-in-hand for a few minutes, staring out over the river and marshes. A fresh breeze blew into their faces. Behind them, to the west, dark clouds gathered over the town.<br />
Belle sat down on the bench and turned the child around to inspect the chewing gum damage. Then she took a small pair of scissors out of her bag and skillfully trimmed away the mess.<br />
"There you go, Carleen Darling." Belle squeezed the little shoulders gently and turned the child again so that the two of them were facing. "Your hair's as good as new now, and Grandma and Mama will never have to know."<br />
She dropped the wad of gum and hair into the river and they watched it float away on the brown water. Carleen threw her arms around her aunt's neck and cried for the first time since they got the news about Daddy. Belle held her close, and they wept together--big, noisy, purifying ears.<br />
They were sitting quietly when the rain started falling ten minutes later, and lightening flashed as they scampered back to the car. Belle drove as far as the drug store, where she parked near the door. "How about a cherry smash, Carleen Darling?" The little girl looked down at her damp Easter dress and then out at the rain.<br />
"Don't you worry, not for a minute," Belle reassured her. "I promise I'll get that pretty little dress washed and ironed in plenty of time for church in the morning. Come on, take off your shoes and socks. I'll race you to the door!"<br />
As they splashed toward the entrance of the drug store, Belle noticed a sign in the window. "Hey, Carleen. Look! They've got Brownie Cameras. Don't you have a birthday on Tuesday?"<br />
<br />
<br />
</span></i>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-5952807512301209172010-06-13T10:44:00.003-07:002010-06-16T13:05:01.150-07:00Rain<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rain - August #27</span></div><div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have always liked rain. Maybe because when we were little and it was too wet to play outside, Mama let us make a tent of the kitchen table. We used sheets and old blankets and made the dog and cat get inside with us. I wanted it to be a playhouse where I would serve tea and cookies to my brothers, but I was outnumbered and it nearly always ended up being a fort, with me either a captured Indian princess or an orphan whose family had been killed by Indians. Occasionally, Mama would take my side and I got my way. The boys refused to come to tea and the cat ran out and got under the sofa and the dog just went to sleep, so it didn't take long for me to abandon the tent. The boys took over and started bossing me around, making stupid Indian sounds and pretending they were fending off the white man.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's raining now, a hard rain with thunder and lightening. Just 15 minutes ago, there was bright sunshine and now it's dark and raining and windy. Both my dogs are curled beside me in the safety of our bed and Belle is shivering with fear. It just occurred to me that these "pop-up" showers are a metaphor for my emotions since Clint died. Like them, my tears come out of the blue. Usually, I can't put my finger on why they come, they just do. There is no way to know how bad they will be or how long they will last. Sometimes they're puddles that spill silently over my lower lids and roll down my cheeks. But they can be dark and loud and rough, like the storm we're having now. Widows of many years tell me that they still have episodes like this. Not much comfort in that.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sundays are hard. Clint and I always watched golf or tennis on TV. We relaxed and I made little snacks instead of meals. He loved ripe brie spread on a piece of melba toast and topped with a dollop of hot and sweet mustard. I sometimes thought I could feed him hors d'oeuvre all the time, and he would be happy, especially during the last 4 years of his life, when he had no real appetite. Kristy and Robert came over most Sundays to watch the game, and Gretchen, too, when she was in town. Sometimes Robert brought chili cheese dip that was hot enough to set our tongues on fire. Poppy always took little naps and we went outside to sneak a smoke. I'm deliberately making myself write this down. though my famous tears have started to fall. I don't want Sunday to be just another day - not yet. Shit. I don't know what I want. I know that to pretend Sunday is just another day is wrong. Today is easier than last week. I'll take that. I have golf on TV. but I'm not watching it. I'm writing this instead. Baby steps.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-25310864266568871132010-06-13T10:44:00.001-07:002010-06-16T13:05:23.257-07:00Breakdown<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Breakdown - Aug </span></div><div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'm having an anxiety attack, I think. I can hardly type for shaking and I feel scared and weepy all at once. It has been coming on all day. I'm preparing for our trip, and I'm also getting the van ready to sell. Is it the trip? What am I afraid of? Is it getting rid of that fucking van? I hate that thing. It only reminds me of Clint being sick and and I can't wait to get it out of my garage. I always get worked up over trips, but not like this. And I thought I was doing so much better - phoned a friend I haven't seen or talked to since Clint died, found an old high school friend on Face Book and sent her a note. That was big shit for me. I've been turtle with my head pulled inside my shell, and when I finally peek out and make contact, I fall apart. No kidding. If I weren't editing my every word, this post would be gibberish. It's pretty much gibberish anyway. I'm angry again, really angry. I noticed that coming on during the day also. I thought I had been as angry as I could ever be, thought I had fought back that demon. But I want to scream and cry and run around in circles and throw things, break things. My poor dogs don't know what to do, so they are curled around my feet trying to make me feel better. Wonder when that will be. I wonder what "better" feels like. Some days I don't think I will survive this, this life without Clint in it. I know in my head that I will survive, but I know equally well that I will never be the same. How do I learn how to be me without him? I know people do it, but HOW? I feel as though a part of my soul has been ripped away, leaving a jagged ridge that will never heal. And the tears, the waterfalls of tears. I can hardly see to type, have to keep stopping to try to dry up. I can't do it. Not now. I'm going to try to do some yoga, then climb in my bed a cry myself to sleep.</span></div>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4980776249405131611.post-64140934375858843072010-06-13T10:43:00.001-07:002010-06-16T13:05:46.697-07:00Hee - Honkatee<div style="font-family: American Typewriter; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: large;">Monday afternoon 08/31/09</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mama had an expression she used when things were off balance. For example, if I had my sweater buttoned wrong, she called it hee-honkatee. If she couldn't get organized or felt out of sorts, she said she was feeling hee-honkatee. That silly expression sums up my day. Nothing has gone wrong, unless you count the fact that Derek, my helper, didn't show up to do some things I can't do because of my back. (Which is all better). But I have felt off center, not quite cranky and not quite happy. My wonderful friend, Shirley Martin, who is following my blog, sent me a message that made me weep with gratitude for friends like her. Those were good tears, though, the healing kind. I suppose I have missed Clint more today than in the past few days when I was on drugs. My "I don' give a shit." attitude is almost gone. I feel more pain than yesterday. Not back pain, but "I miss Clint" pain, and it has been another of those days of showers of rain coming out of nowhere - tears, too.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Later..................Earlier, as I was starting this entry, Kristy came by to see me to find out if I needed help with anything, and when I saw her face, I almost to burst into tears. What is is about a loving face that sets off tears sometimes? I held back, though, willed those tears not to fall. God knows, she has her own grief with which to deal. Her strength amazes me. And at the same time it worries me. When is she doing her crying and screaming and cussing? Is she doing those things? God. Listen to me. I've known for many years that each of us is in charge of his own happiness. Why, while I am emotionally staggering around, trying to make some sense of what is happening to me, am I tempted to take on Kristy's problems? Don't I have enough of my own? Today has been hee-honkatee all the way around. I fell asleep early and woke not knowing where I was and feeling something is wrong. I don't know what, but I'm unsettled in a way I can't explain, anxious and almost afraid. I want Clint here with me. That's what it is. I want something I'll never have again. I know I'll never have him again but that doesn't keep me from wanting him. Nothing about this whole thing makes any sense.</span></div>cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0