Category: Burningbird

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Just Shelley

Slipped out of time

My favorite place is not at home in front of the computer, or out on some trail somewhere, taking photos. It’s not in any city or town, in the country, or along the water, though you get close with the latter. I am in my car, but being in my car doesn’t make it my favorite place. And the place loses its magic if someone else is with me.

My favorite place is the car wash. In the middle of the car wash to be exact. I love the car wash. But before you start with, “Lady, you need a life”, give me an ear, an eye, and a sec of your time.

The excitement of the car wash starts when I move my car on to the rail and put it in neutral; I have lost all decision making power at this point except which wash I want. Do I want the wash with the pink, yellow, and blue foam, or just the pink and yellow? Do I want that clear liquid rinse they say is a wax, but how can it be when it isn’t waxy? Does my underbelly need washing? I don’t know, is my underbelly dirty?

After this decision, though, I am free from any further need for action as soon as the car starts moving forward until I respond to the bright green DRIVE light at the end.

I am isolated in the car wash. The radio is off to prevent interference with the wash sensors, and the cellphone doesn’t work through all the equipment. The wash is too short to start any task, no matter how small or trivial. If it was a bit longer, I’d feel guilty for the ‘wasted’ time, and probably whip out a notebook or some such thing, in order to do something useful. But the wash is over before this activity can be made worthwhile; so I sit and do absolutely nothing.

Nothing except watch the two young people scrub my front and back bumper and windshields to remove the corpses of tiny little creatures who zigged when they should have zagged. After that is the water spray, and I am moved to hum a note or two from “Singing in the Rain” during this event. The excitement begins to build within, anticipating what’s to follow.

First comes the big soapy strips that move back and forth across the car and take off the initial layer of dirt. They remind me of great dark blue tongues, bigger than a cat’s, even bigger than Mick Jagger’s –reaching out and licking across the glass and the metal, the tips lingering on the warm metal at the end. Following these is another shot of water, for the initial rinse, but it’s nothing to get excited about; mere foreplay made more mundane by what’s to come.

The car moves past tubes set into the wall and bright white, pink, yellow, and blue foam squirts out all over the car; pulsing to some internal beat; swirling together into a purple color that slowly drips down the sides of the windows; softly teasing small bubbles, sparkling in the light, glide past me as I look out. Always bright white, pink, yellow, and blue. Never all white, or all pink. I imagine a study was made in the past and the car wash people discovered that people respond better to different colored foam. I know I do — it wouldn’t be magical if the bubbles were all white.

But the moment doesn’t end when the foam ejection finishes. No, next comes the lighter blue yarn like threads that spin around very fast, along the the sides and top; following the contour of the car in a passionate but surprisingly gentle grasp. They start in front of my car and part ever so reluctantly as the car moves slowly forward, never losing the grip they have on the sides as they glide compellingly towards the back. At the end, they give a saucy little flip to the rear, a pat of appreciation and familiarity in passing.

Of course, once the blue threads are finished, the fun part is almost over and the excitement begins to wane. The car is rinsed with one clear water rinse and then another, followed by the wax, and though it’s pleasant, it doesn’t tingle or give one a thrill. Still, there are those fun little fans at the end, moving up and down and across the car, chasing water droplets across the hood and the windshield. A final fun and piquant moment before the green light comes on and I’m booted out.

What’s best about the car wash is that all during this experience, I don’t have to think about what tasks need finished, or what improvements need to be made in my life; who I have pleased or disappointed or let down. I don’t have to read the opinions of this wit or another, alternately cheered and depressed, calmed and angered. I don’t have to hear the bad news on the radio, or listen to even sadder news on the phone. I am slipped out of time.

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Just Shelley

With thanks

I wanted to thank all of you for your kind comments in the last post, and in emails and in posts in other weblogs. They meant a lot to me, particularly just after Dad’s death when I was trying to work this through. I am still working this through, and will for time to come; but I wanted to share a couple of positive memories with you, including some humorous items because we Irish, we’re always up for a giggle at a Wake.

The nursing and other staff members at Bell Trace, the retirement community where Dad ended his days, was marvelous during the last few days. They moved Dad’s roommate into another room so we could stay with Dad 24 hours a day. And they also kept bringing us food, such as the 3am tray one of the attendents provide that had a bag of crackers and cheese and cookies, with lemon pie served that day to go with coffee and juice. In the midwest, comfort is provided by food and the staff was determined we were going to eat and drink well during this time. Several also visited individually to tell Mike and I how much they respected the decisions we made; to provide hugs, and quiet chats, as we were dealing with individual events. They were incredibly kind and caring.

One of the nurses, Sharon, was there throughout most of the weekend and when I met her, she asked what Dad did for a living. I said that he had served in WW II and had been a cop most of his life. She replied, “Well that explains it. When he first arrived here, I asked him what he did, and he said that he did nothing. When I asked him what he did before he retired, he said that he …killed Germans.”

In the end Dad spent most of his time in World War II, and he always was a very frank and rather literal person. Still, the look on Sharon’s face as she recounted what he said was priceless.

As priceless as the look on folks face when they read what my brother wrote for the obituary in the newspaper:

He retired in 1975 as a fraud investigator for the State of Washington. Prior to that, he worked in positions that served his community, state, and country, including: Washington State Patrol officer, County Deputy Sheriff, South Viet Nam Police Advisor (and secret agent), and Captain and paratrooper in the US Army’s 82nd Airborne Division in World War II.

emphasis mine

Again, my thanks to you all.

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Just Shelley

Update

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

My father will die today or tomorrow. All that made him what he was died yesterday so for me, he’s dead already and is just waiting for his tired, old body to catch up.

Dad held on to life tenaciously; too tenaciously, as his ending has been neither quick nor without emotional and physical difficulties. My brother and I had to make some very tough decisions, and I have no doubts they’ll come back to haunt us as in the future; they did during the drive home today.

I’ve been by Dad’s side since Friday, only getting sleep Saturday when I came back to St. Louis for a break in the evening and then headed back to Indiana Sunday morning. I knew I was reaching my limit last night, and this morning was told to leave and get sleep by several of the very caring nursing home staff. So, with a prearranged agreement with my brother, I came home, and I won’t be there for my Dad’s last breath; I specifically didn’t want to be. If that makes me selfish, so be it. I shared what was important with Dad yesterday.

I’ve had to let a great deal of work slide this week, and will get back to the sites I’m designing, and the IT Kitchen in a few days. Especially the IT Kitchen–the date for this remains the same, and I plan on doing even more aggressive recruiting next week.

But for the next few days I’m going to take some time, head into the hills, alone, with my new camera.

Dad’s body caught up with his spirit this afternoon.

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Just Shelley

Consequences

I had a call from my brother Thursday morning that my Dad’s breathing was labored and he wasn’t doing so good. No, not so good. His wife said so, the nurse, all agree – he’s not doing so good. My brother was going to call me last night after seeing Dad and tell me how he’s doing, but forgot. In the meantime I planned another trip over again today, but the weather promised rain and wind, and my little bubble on wheels does not do well on an Interstate in wind and rain; among the truckers who blow past you without any regard to the effect they have on a small car, or the rain they throw into your face. When Mike didn’t call last night, I called and left a message that I’ll come on Saturday, instead.

My brother called this morning and said, no, Dad was on his feet, eating in the dining room though his breathing was extremely labored, but he didn’t look bad. Seeing Dad on Saturday should be good enough. So I’ll go see Dad tomorrow, though these trips are beginning to take their toll. Too many times lately of having to go see Dad because this might be the last chance to see him alive, each time a four hour drive there and back. Each time bringing a plethora of emotions, most not particularly noble.

I have to now start making decisions about when I will and will not respond to an ‘event’. And this is probably the most difficult decision a family member has to make because any of these little crises could be the last chance to see him alive. However, if I continue heading over each time, I am going to continue getting more exhausted until eventually I’m going to get into a wreck and possibly kill someone. And I can kiss the work I have good-bye if I have to keep changing schedules because ‘my father is ill’. I need this work, and the people who have hired me, need me to be committed to the tasks.

After tomorrow, I am going to see my Dad once every seven to ten days (depending on work schedule) and enjoy his company, as is; no longer view each trip as potentially ‘the last’; no more rushing over in the middle of the week whenever something happens.

A year ago I could have joked with my Dad that he needs to make sure to kick the bucket right after I visit, so I wouldn’t feel guilty. A year ago, he would have laughed, and his eyes would have twinkled, as he promised solemnly he would do so. But that was a year ago, this is now.

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Just Shelley

How we deal with death is a reflection of how we view life

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Slashdot has a story about a car accident involving a small group of people driving to Paris from the SANE 2004 conference. Richard Stallman, the leading open source advocate had been in the car but had been dropped off earlier. Unfortunately, a young man, Hans Bakker was killed, and the other two in the car seriously injured.

Much of the Slashdot thread is condolences to the family, but there is the usual Slashdot irreverence to events, the dark humor, and to anything that the readers consider ‘phony’. There is something merciless about being anonymous, but oddly, there’s something honest, too. Overall the thread touches, greatly, on how we respond to the deaths of others, especially those people who we don’t know, directly.

Dave Rogers had written a comment in one of my posts in response to another person who brought up the 3000 killed on 9/11 that I think fits this event in a way (I hope, Dave, you don’t mind the association) and is worth bringing to the front page. Excerpted from the entire comment is the following:

Everybody dies. I just read an article on CNN about flu vaccinations coming out next month for the upcoming flu season. The article mentions that about 36,000 Americans will die this year, as they do pretty much every year, from the flu. Where’s the multi-billion dollar effort in public health improvements to mitigate the loss of life from the flu? “Ah,” you say, “You poor deluded fool, those are natural deaths. Nothing we can do abut that. Regrettable and all that, but it’s not the same thing as terrorism!”

I grow tired of mentioning that about 45 thousand Americans will die in automobile accidents this year. About 16 thousand Americans will be murdered by other Americans this year. And about that same number of Americans will kill themselves. Somehow that all just seems to be part of the cost of doing business to everyone except the people who loved them.

Everybody gets to die. Not everybody gets to choose how or when, except perhaps for those poor, desperate 16 thousand that take their own lives, but everybody gets to die. Not everybody gets to live. Not when they choose to live their lives in fear.

But when 3 thousand Americans are killed in a terrorist act, which might otherwise be termed 21st century barbarian street theater, well, then we have to go and do something!

There’s no overstating the horror of 9/11. But there is the possibility, which has long since become the reality, of turning it into a fetish, an obsession, and an excuse.

Dying is easy. Living is hard. Everybody gets to die. Not everybody gets to live. There’s a danger in paying so much attention to the deaths of a relative few, however horrifying, that we lose sight of what it means to live. There’s more to life than the fear of death. There’s more to living than trying to protect yourself by killing others; or endorsing and supporting the killing of others. Living in fear makes people do terrible things, and no one is immune to that – not “them,” not “us.” But living is hard. Living life in faith is harder still.

Dying is easy. Living is hard. Everybody gets to die. Not everybody gets to live.

I’ve been trying to write a post on how not choosing to die is not the same as choosing to live. It reflects much of what’s been going on in my life, and the lives of my family; it also touches on two young men, webloggers, who when faced with life and death, chose death. But I haven’t been able to finish the writing because I’m still waiting on the denouement.

Until then, ponder Dave’s very compelling words, and read the comments at Slashdot. If the discussion there has ‘degenerated’ into the usual quarrel as it always does with this site, there is still much food for thought.