Balls to the Walls

I have a secret life. (Well except from you, my readers.) I am married, and I also have my Special Redheaded Friend. Living a double life entails some attention to detail, and a lot of secrecy.

I like to keep my pubic hair trimmed. Not shaved by any means, but occasionally I like to use the electric beard trimmer on it to--so to speak--mow the lawn. After all, I never know when some lusty redhead will demand to take my manhood into her mouth. Right? And of course it would be rude to choke her with long pubic hairs. So that's that.

Anyway, I've been neglectful for many weeks. Just too many other things on my mind. So the other night, while my wife was out walking the dogs, I decided I'd quickly step into the bathroom and fire up the beard trimmer to bring some order to that patch of fur. The problem was the "quickly" part. Instead of dropping trou' and using both hands, I instead pulled down my warm-ups and the running shorts that were underneath with one hand, and exposed the minimum while I attempted to make the turns and go 'round the corners of my manly package with the other hand holding the trimmer. Mostly, I did OK, but as I was catching some of the most downward hair, I felt a pinch as the clippers snipped a bit of ball flesh. Being a Man, I kept right on doing the chore. Then I felt another pinch. I continued until I was satisfied with the trim. Then I turned from the sink, with a palm full of hair to deposit in the toilet, and realized that I was bleeding. Not a little, but a LOT! Have you ever really noticed how many little veins and arteries there are on the surface of the scrotum??

This presented a problem. Remember that secret life thing? I didn't really care to explain this to my wife when she returned, so--since I do remember first aid--I applied pressure to the wound(s) and got some tissue to absorb the flow. The tissue quickly became saturated with blood. I ran to my desk, where I keep a jar of "Liquid Bandage." It turns out, this is quite effective on dry wounds, but not so much on active exsanguination. Plus, since the main ingredients of liquid bandage are alcohol and oil of cloves, it has a certain "tingle" to it. Excruciating, burning pain, when applied to a sex organ, to be exact. Meanwhile I continued to try to stem the flow of blood to my Kleenex and clothing.

I ran to the other bathroom, and the only thing I could find that was of help was a box of band-aids. Keep in mind, we're talking BALLS. Hairy balls, at that. Wrinkly, crinkly, scrotal sac human flesh. I tore open the wrapper of the gigantic bandage that fell from the box, and slapped it on my right sac while splatters of blood went everywhere. Oddly, it seemed to stop the bleeding. I also found some surgical sponges left over from a prior visit to the emergency room, and stuffed them into my shorts for good measure. Then, with the crisis dealt with, the burning from the liquid bandage became even more obvious, and I felt a certain heat rise from Down There. Stoically, I rush around the house cleaning up all the evidence. There was still a big blob of blood on the white towel in the bathroom, but that will have to stay. The house smelled like oil of cloves when my wife walked in, but she said nothing.

The bandage came off in the shower this morning. I was biting on the washcloth to suppress my screams while more hair was removed at the roots.

And life is good.

Never Give Up

Warm N Fuzzy

Birds of a Feather...

Eulogy

One final story about her. Before her multiple strokes had taken so much, we were out one evening celebrating one of her birthdays. I asked her what advice she had for me based on her many years of life experience.

She said simply, Always leave ‘em smiling.

THAT--more than anything--characterized my mother.

That smiling thing is easy to say, but hard to live at a moment like this. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself the weekend after she passed, still very raw from this loss. As I was leaving my house in my car to run an errand, I rounded the curve of a residential street about a block from our home. I pulled to a stop and watched as a big yellow balloon with several feet of string attached descended out of the sky right into the middle of the road, directly in front of me. I was entranced as this gentle, yellow visitor blocked my path.

As the string touched the ground, the balloon lifted back up. And as the breeze changed and gravity pulled it downward, it appeared to be doing a little dance right in front of me, rising, falling, twisting and turning. And as the balloon turned around, there--just a few feet in front of me--was a great big, smiling face looking at me. I could not suppress my own smile.
She indeed figured out a way to leave me smiling.

Street Scene

To my right, an environmental activist soliciting for a petition.

To my left, two young women approaching on the sidewalk. The activist makes eye contact, and inhales to begin his pitch...

"No!" says one of the girls before he could speak.

"Don't you care about your water?" says the activist.

"No! The last time one of you talked to me I ended up buying a baby in Africa!"

Stunned silence from the activist as they walk by.

"No! Never!" she says as he watches them pass by down the sidewalk.

Generation Gap

Older woman to 20-something co-worker: "So you actually use Twitter?"

20-something woman: "Yes."

Older woman: "When was the last time you twatted?"


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SBux Zen

Not much to say today. Just sippin' java before work. The memorial service is tomorrow; will get some time with extended family.

Meanwhile, "total system failure" of the plumbing at home. $$$$$$$$$.

Life IS good!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Autumn Colors at the Pond

Young Bucks

On Saturday I took a wonderful therapeutic walk in the woods with my long-lost SRF. It seemed that the deer we spotted would let us walk right up to them. One of the highlights was watching and hearing these two bucks lock horns.
This one had no problem parading a few feet away from me.
Meanwhile, this squirrel enjoyed his nuts!

I Have a Hard-on For Fall Foliage

Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all. ~Stanley Horowitz

Mystery Solved

Some of us were sitting around, discussing plans for a memorial for my mom. We thought that having her favorite mixed drink for the reception would be a good idea, but we had different opinions about whether the favorite was Manhattans or martinis. So I texted to her former b/f and asked, which it is. I never got a reply (apparently replying to texts isn't in his skill-set).

I spoke to him today, and he said he got the text, and the answer is "yes."

I pause, then say, "Oh, so you're saying she liked them both?"

He says, "Yes, it depended on which hand was empty."

That was the first belly laugh I'd had for a few days.

Peaceful

Tues morning

She no longer responds
Except she seems to be aware of me
I've been sitting alone with her
In her room
The sound of her breathing is peaceful
With the TV music playing quietly in the background
She is not struggling
Sometimes her breathing pauses
This, I think, will be a good death

Tuesday evening

She is breathing regularly
But mostly asleep
One of the aides-
Experienced in hospice
Is with us for an hour
And we remenisce about her
And we laugh
And she smiles feebly with us

Weds morning

Her breathing is more irregular
She appears to be aware of me
When I enter and greet her

***

Decided not to go to work today
Almost seems like any breath could be her last

Meanwhile, dealing with emails & txt msgs etc from work

Meeting so many of the workers here that love Pat
It is more than a job for them

10:20. Breathing more labored
Some moments of apnea
And she sometimes tries to vocalize
She must be slipping

***

12:20 morphine to relax her; her brow showed worry.

All afternoon she continues to slip away. At times her breathing is irregular and her fingers are blue; at other times she just appears to be in normal sleep. Various workers stop by to say goodbye to her. She is family to them.

My son arrived around noon. He had awakened 300 miles away crying and knowing it was time to come. He bawls and tells her he loves her over and over. But as time passes he also settles into the routine of the vigil.

He and I go outside for a walk. I tell him that I'm fine until someone asks how I'm doing, then I break down.

We leave to eat; when we return she appears to have declined. But by 8 pm she again appears to be breathing normally. We decide to leave for a few hours to nap. I comment on the way home that she had probably rallied so that we'd leave and she could get this done her way.

At 9:57 I get awakened by a call saying she was much worse; in the background I hear someone calling the nurse. Two minutes later, she calls back to tell me that Pat has passed.

We drive for 15 minutes and arrive just as the chaplain arrives. I've known him for years, and in better times he was a social friend of Pat and her lover. We greet, and he tells me that he will hold a brief bedside ceremony, mostly for the benefit of the workers. As I walk towards room, I hear my son sobbing. He had arrived a few minutes ahead of us.

I'm surprised how peaceful she looks. I know now how much of a struggle this has been for her. She clearly did not want us to see her dying breaths.

The staff assemble, and the chaplain conducts a memorial. I look at them all: Latina, redhead, Asian, European, African, Pacific Islander, Swiss/German, and bloodlines that I could not discern. It is fitting that this world traveller was attended by the world's citizens.

We share stories, then they step out, and I and my wife and my son each hug her and say our final goodbyes.

At home I have a shot of scotch in her honor. I fall asleep around 2 a.m.

Last chapter, last page, final words, then the period.

Her story is now past-tense.



-- Posted from my iPhone

How to Bring the US Postal Service Back to Profitability

She Changes

Sunday evening I visited with my mom, and we actually had some decent conversation.

I joked with her about the mineral rights in Wyoming that she gave to me many years ago (from the homestead where she was born). Nearby, drillers have found oil. Not far away are very lucrative mines for the clay used in kitty litter. But our little spot on the earth is just wasteland. So I was reminding her of this, and asking her, where's all those royalty checks from oil and kitty litter that you promised? "I'm still waiting."

"Poor baby" she whispered with a smile.

Later we talked about chocolate and coffee, laughing about our addictions. "It's a sin," I said. "I guess I'll have to add one more then," she replied.

Not eating enough to sustain life, but still living.

***

Tonight, a marked decline. Sleepy, hard to arouse. Breathing is a bit labored. Smiled at an appropriate moment. But I sense that she knows the end is near. I massaged her hands with lotion. Gently massaged her forehead. Told her that it is OK to let go, to sleep. That she's worked hard enough, now it's time to rest.

The end is near.

Faces of Halloween

I had a great day of photography on Saturday, catching folks dressing for the occassion. Here are a few of the 400 images.

The Sun Still Comes Up

My mom continues to do this her own way, on her own timeline. We're pretty sure that she has had another stroke to bring this change, the most significant aspect being that she can only swallow with great difficulty and she's extremely weak. However yesterday she rallied a bit, had taken a bit of food and drink. Not enough to sustain life, but enough to prove she's a tough woman.

I had spoken to her former lover (who had left her when her dementia had become too much to bear). I had not spoken with him for quite a while, and wanted to be sure he was aware of her situation. He told me that he visits her at least weekly (a minor surprise, but gratifying). I asked if she'd ever told him anything different than what she told me about what to do with the body (cremation) and if she wanted a memorial service. "The only thing she'd say, over and over, is that on the day she died she wanted to spend her last dollar from her checking account." Amazingly, she'll come pretty close due to the beating her stocks have taken. I still chuckle about this.

She had two strong geographic connections: the ocean around San Diego, and her birthplace, Wyoming. The ashes will go to one of those spots. At the moment, I'm thinking Colony, Wyoming, where she was born in a homestead. All that exists there is a mine for the clay used in kitty litter. I think she'd approve of that spot.

The grandkids have been in touch. My son is here, he was in many ways closest to her. The others and a niece have been granted "permission" to not come: they each articulate that they have happy memories, and don't want to ruin those memories with visions of how she is now. (Not that it's gruesome, but it's not the grandma they knew.) It's impractical to hold some sort of vigil, and we really are with her only a few hours a day between naps and care giving by staff.

I have four managers at work that report to me. I decided Friday to send them each an email explaining my situation. Normally, people I work with would have no idea of my personal issues. But this is different, I find myself at times almost paralyzed by grief, and others to function normally. But they will see a difference, and because of all the crises at work, they will have to pick up the slack. They all wrote back, very supportive and thankful I'd let them know.

I've tried to keep my normal routine of outlets to keep my body and mind healthy. Had a wonderful day of photography yesterday that felt therapeutic. And my acupuncturist on Friday needled my skull to prevent depression. It's all working.

I called the chaplain who works at the facility, and discussed some of the logistics when she passes. We decided to have a short memorial a few days after her death. Mostly for the angels who work there and have been like a loving family for years. This is where I broke down crying. The love she brought out from the people she touched is going to be her lasting memorial.

And the sun will continue to come up every morning.

Be Scared

Halloween!

What is it about twin witches that makes it so hard to tell them apart?

It's because it's hard to tell which witch is which.

Getting Real

I've known for some time that my mom's life is in it's last chapter. I thought I was mentally and emotionally prepared for this inevitable time. But today, after a call from the nursing home about her decline in the past few days, I had to act by making the decision to provide no medical intervention except for comfort care. I was surprised at how hard that was. So final.

It helped that her physician knows both of us well, and he's one of those rare breeds of excellent credentials, superb bedside manner, and caring. I asked him to call, I wanted a reality check about options. He did so within the hour. He started by saying, "Here's what I would do..." What an incredible relief to hear those words. He was on my side, yet objective. He reminded me that if I were to start an I.V., my mom would be angry. This is not the kind of life she lived, and the quality is minimal. Only her optimistic personality has made the past few years worth living. She taught me to be in the moment by herself being in the moment. And she has enjoyed a lot of great moments.

Tonight I visited her at bedtime. She seemed to be asleep, but then I said "How about if we go make some trouble around here?"

She smiled, and said, "Yes, let's."

And I asked if we should hire some male dancers, to which she replied, "Sounds good to me" and for a brief moment, the twinkle was back in her 90 year old eyes.

The next week will be hard. I have waves of grief, and moments of keeping it together. The kids want to come say goodbye and support me, but unlike a TV script, we don't know what time my mom has picked. (I called her brother today to let him know of the situation, and he told me that her very best lifelong friend--her cousin--had passed about 10 days ago. Exactly when my mom started her decline.)

The last page, of the last chapter. Waiting for the final exclamation point.

More Indignity

My last post addressed the infringement on my human rights that I experienced when my urine was herded into a tiny cubby with strangers' pee.

The lab also gave me what is known as an "occult blood testing kit." No, my friends, this nothing to do with ghosts, demons or witchcraft. It's all about discovering the presence of blood in my poop.

As you can imagine, collecting this particular sample is not a laboratory procedure. I was provided with a little kit so that I could do the collecting myself.

As luck would have it, the time at which I was handed the kit coincided with my morning Call of Nature. I was determined to get this over with.

I opened the envelope to find a tiny collection tube; the cap included a toothpick sized brush to swab the sample. However, before one can sample the precious material, one must capture the object from which it is taken. The task seemed not only challenging, but intimidating. Fortunately the kit contained illustrated instructions and more tools of the trade. A paper sponge to wrap the collection tube, a pre-addressed cardboard envelope, and a sheet of paper. The paper is the key to successfully capturing one of those slippery brown occult blood carrying logs. The instructions are to spread the paper in the bowl, do da bizness, then to drag the little brush across the surface of the poopage. "Seal the tube tightly" before placing into the bag.

So by now, I've read the instructions carefully, laid out all the equipment within reach and mentally rehearsed the procedure. (OK, true confessions: last year I screwed up by mistaking the absorbant pad for the floating paper. That 4X4 pad was just too small a target for my high fiber output. Yes, I'm an idiot.). The urge is getting intense, so I drop trou' and assume the position. Pow! I wait for any evidence of secondary samples, but none were forthcoming. Wipe, stand, zip & buckle. Turn. Examine.

OMG, this sucker plowed right through the paper and was pointing it's finely tapered tip above the water, pointing at me like some strange, mocking finger. Now what? In an instant, I make my decision: I plunge the brush into the exposed portion in a desperate attempt to salvage the moment while at least an inch or so was above water. Unfortunately, this also proved to be a miscalculation. It's simple physics that the application of force to one end of this semi-bouyant object would cause it to dive underwater. It was as if it were desperately trying to escape the dreaded probe.

Undeterred, my hand followed it down until this digusting object was trapped by white porcelin. The motion could be more accurately described as a stab than the preferred rake, but I consider the brown goo on the brush to be a victory and I quickly seal the tube, package it, and insert into the envelope. Soon my excrement will be entrusted to the US Postal Service.

And yes, I washed my hands very thoroughly.

Life is good.

-- Posted from my iPhone

Urine Dormitory

Today I had to produce a urine sample for my doctor. I was shown to the restroom, given a handy little wipe to cleanse my manhood, and noticed the little itsey-bitsey doorway to leave my cup-O-pee. Imagine my surprise when I saw that two other samples were already in the cubby.

It seems so wrong; I felt that my personal space had been violated! After all, isn't my pee ever-so-special? It doesn't deserve to be herded into a tiny airless cubby with other, less worthy urine!

Oh the humanity!!

(Tomorrow, the poop saga. Stay tuned.)


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Just for Laughs

Massage Aftermath

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Got Through the Spam Filter

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Mr. Huck Luck
General Consultant
Capital Financial Services

Friday Doughnut

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Definitions

Pronunciation of H1N1: "Hynee"

Someone who has swine flu: "Swiney"

That's all for now. Got more?

Mobile Homelessness

Thinking of Red

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Employee Engagement

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Happy Coffee Friday

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Bug Zen

Stairwell, Sixth Floor

Concrete

Ram it! Cram it! Grand Slam it!
Break up the concrete, Break up the concrete
Prod it! Sod it! Metal Rod it!
Break up the concrete,
Thwak it! Crack it! Lineback it!
Break up the concrete,
Shake it! Bake it! Earthquake it!
Break up the concrete

~Pretenders