Shower Repair?

I bought the supplies needed to do the shower repair myself, cleaned out the gap between the walls and floor, let it dry thoroughly, and put down a bead of caulk. Sadly, only after finishing the job, when I took out my glasses to check cure time, did I take a good look at the description on the tube. I'd asked for the right item, but the young guy who'd dug out the product for me didn't know his silicone from his acrylic, and had sold me the wrong stuff. My bad for not checking. A call to the Tile Shop confirmed the error, and I resignedly set about undoing the beautiful work I'd just completed.

I went and picked up the correct stuff the next day, but my self-confidence was shattered. I knew better than to not read the box; clearly my critical thinking skills are still compromised by grief. So, I called the guy who'd given me the advice to seal the bottom edge of the walls, and hired him to do the work.

He was busy, but wanted me to be able to use my shower, so squeezed me into his busy schedule, and came out last Saturday morning to do the work. Now, my caulking skills are pretty good, but the skills needed to put down a perfect line of silicone caulk are not among those I have perfected, so I asked him if I could watch him work. He agreed, and so I sat down, ready to learn.

Sadly, what I learned is that this young man of good intentions and good heart, when overextended and rushing, was not able to access the patience and attention to detail needed to work with the finicky caulk. 

He didn't carefully look into all parts of the cavity - red flag #1. I mean, I know I cleaned it well, but he doesn't know me. He didn't know if I'd really cleaned all the unsuitable stuff out, and silicone caulk won't adhere to other caulk.

Then, I watched with some dismay as he stuffed layers of caulk and backer rod into the cavity beneath the wall - red flag #2. The work he did wasn't going to hurt anything, but it also wasn't going to help - there was no way he'd created a solid line of defense. Water doesn't care if you've blocked the greater portion of its path back to the earth. It WILL find the gaps and wend its way as the Maker intended.

By this time, I wasn't surprised to watch him skip the prep steps I'd have done for that final, oh-so-visible line of caulk, but I was still willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, figuring there's a lot I don't know about ways to do things.

Nope. He was getting silicone everywhere. After watching for another fifteen minutes, I couldn't watch any longer. I left the room, hoping against hope he'd be able to get it cleaned up. 

He worked alone for another bit, then came downstairs. He told me he'd done what he could for the day, and would be back the next afternoon to do cleanup. No, no payment required just yet.

Once he drove down the street, I went upstairs to take a look, and heaved a heavy sigh. Perhaps three of them. More, even. The work was a total loss.

Silicone caulk is a much messier cleanup than acrylic, and it took me the remainder of the evening to undo what he'd done. As I worked, I had lots of time to think about my part in the whole mess.

Why did I ignore those red flags? Why didn't I speak up, ask questions, assert myself? Why did I just passively sit there and watch him waste his time, my time, and $40 worth of caulk? Why is part of me still convinced I am not allowed to voice my truth? Why, when faced with a momentary lapse in my judgement, did I decide to give up on myself?

Tough questions. I do know this is not how I want to be.

I finished the cleanup Sunday morning, and put down my own line of fresh caulk. It's not up to my OCDness standards, but I learned one more thing that will make my next attempt look better. The bead is clean enough to keep the water on the shower side of the wall, which is what really matters here.

Now, I have to wait until Wednesday to test the fix; I want to be sure to give the caulk a chance to properly cure before getting it wet.

Fingers (impatiently) crossed!

Spring at the Lake

I took a break this past weekend from the stressors and to-dos of my day-to-day life, and accepted an invitation to join some friends at their second home at Stockton Lake.

Friday was a lovely day for a drive down to central Missouri. The redbud trees have finished blooming, but the dogwoods were in full flower. The sun was shining, highlighting the blush of green in the treetops, the sky a brilliant blue. What's not to like?? I rolled along without trouble and without stopping, the dog quietly napping in the back seat the whole way there. We arrived in the late afternoon, and our hosts, Diane and Gary, greeted us with open arms and smiles. 

I hauled Sylvester out of the back seat (he refuses to try to jump in or out of a car), set him on the ground, and by all appearances, he soon decided he'd landed in paradise. So many new things to smell!! There were friendly dogs to meet, a pecking order to establish, multiple rocks to pee on. No tugs on the leash to pull him away from an intriguing scent, a huge area to explore at leisure, extra willing hands to give him pets when he checked back in to see if the people were doing anything interesting. Life was good.

Saturday morning found us hiking in the state park across the lake. Since we had no company on the trail, I set him free to roam at will. We meandered happily along the trail, the people keeping an eye peeled for morel mushrooms along the way ('tis the season!), the dog ranging ahead and behind as his nose called. 

To my pleasant surprise, he never got too far from us - he kept an eye peeled for our progress along the trail; would wait when he got too far ahead, scurry to catch up when an especially appealing scent had him lagging behind. 

And, and. Diane's eagle eye spotted four of the elusive morels. Now. For one of the finds, I was walking next to her as she shouted a cry of delight and pointed to a promising specimen. We stopped, and as she pulled it up, I scanned the area to see if the mushroom had any friends. 

Nope, nothing there. Nothing that is, until Diane pointed out a second morel in the area I'd just looked over. I'd have sworn it hadn't been there a moment before; I'm pretty sure it manifested itself out of the leaves after my gaze passed, just for her. It's the only logical explanation.

She is a master cook as well as an experienced morel hunter, and for dinner that night, I got to enjoy the delicate taste of morels for just the second time in my life.

A second long hike on an equally beautiful Sunday morning capped the weekend's relaxing activities. (Sadly, we found no more mushrooms.) Sylvester and I headed for home shortly after lunch. He plopped into the back seat, tired from the morning's exertions, and slept all the way home. I was pleasantly tired as I drove, more centered than I'd been when I arrived just 48 short hours before. 

Thank Goodness for welcoming friends, good conversation, laughter, and time with Nature. It was a healing reprieve, time to Stop. Breathe. Relax. *happy sigh*

Shower Woes

Uh-oh.

I noticed the bulge in the sheetrock next to the shower last month. It wasn't a very big bulge, so I promptly decided to un-notice it for a while. I was too sad to deal with what I knew was going to be bad news.

Last week I decided ignoring the issue wasn't helping to make it go away, so I took out my tools, lowered my keister to the floor, peeled off the trim, and started digging into the wall.

and digging. and digging. *sigh*

The leak has been there for a while. Likely for years, since even new lumber doesn't darken and rot overnight; maybe even since we finished installing the shower.

Once I finished digging, I just sat and looked at it for a while. Started to picture all the steps needed to un-install the glass surround, tear out the base, and then rebuild the whole thing. Decided I'm just not up for it right now - largely because if I didn't do the work right the first time, and don't know where I went wrong, it's highly likely I'll make the same mistake (or another just as damaging), and end up right back where I started.

So, I hunted around on my NextDoor app for a tile guy, found a promising name, and sent him a message asking if he'd be willing to tackle the project. To my surprise he was willing to come out to take a look at the issue and talk things through yesterday afternoon.

His first assessment wasn't as dire as mine. The problem might be at the drain, in which case the big job will need to happen. But. It might be at the edges of the pan. It turns out the advice I got to leave the bottom edge of the shower wall unsealed so any water that gets behind the tiles can seep out the bottom was dated. The current practice is to run a bead of silicon along the bottom edge. If I do this, it might keep the water from getting to wherever that small hole in the liner happens to be.

Hmmm. Backer rod, caulk. This project, I can tackle. 

If it turns out to be a problem with the drain after all, and the entire base needs to come out, I'll hire Grant to do the work. If not, I'll hire him to do a different small project around the house - fair's fair - he did tell me how to solve the problem. 

In the meantime, I've come to terms with myself and whatever error in installation I committed. I mean, I've done how many projects, over how many years, saving myself how much money? This is the first one where I messed it up badly enough that I need to call in the pros to clean up after me. Not a bad run, eh?

I'll take it.

Wish me luck on the repairs - I'll let you know what I find.

Morning Song

I reluctantly stir

open my eyes to the predawn darkness.
time?
6:30

ugh!

I hit the snooze alarm

nine more minutes
the buzzer rings again

This time, I rise

because I know 
future Janice
noon Janice
will be a happier camper if she's gotten to exercise this morning.

I stumble to the bathroom

splash water on my face

put in my contacts.
Throw on some yoga clothes
head downstairs

still groggy
then
open the door 

step outside to take the dog on his morning walk.

It's quiet outside 

dawn just beginning to light the sky.
As I walk
I open my ears.
At first 

all I hear is the roar of a distant highway
then
the song of the awakening birds 

penetrates my fog.

First one note
then another
then, suddenly

there is a chorus 

welcoming the morning light
proclaiming the start of another day.

By the time I'm done 

circling the block
the dog has done his duty.
I am glad I am awake
and outside.

Grateful for the reminder:
Beauty Is.

Neighborhood Fairy

It's all Rose's fault.

When she was here, taking care of home and puppy for me while I was out walking El Camino, she was diligent about taking Sylvester for his walks. As she circled the block with him, she noticed one of the neighbors had a small door propped against the base of a tree.

Rose being Rose, she decided a fairy was living in the tree, and one day she made a small note to hang on the door.

"Open Me," it invited.

If you leaned down to open the door, you found a small toy - yours to take if you so desired.

It took a week or so, but one day the toy disappeared, so she replaced it.

The next time the toy disappeared, there was a note from a 4 year-old neighbor (and their mom), thanking the fairy for the gifts.

Rose responded in kind, and this is long about when I returned home from my walk.

She told me what she'd done, handed over a bag of toys to be given away as needed, and told me I was now a tree fairy. There are worse callings in life, so I continued the game.

Late last fall, the neighbor, after taking the gift, put a glitter potion behind the door - it turned the fairy into a unicorn! The fairy took the potion, and after thanking the child, spent several charmed weeks as. a unicorn before turning back into a fairy as winter arrived.

And that's where I dropped it. I, I mean, the fairy, put another gift under the tree, but after it sat for a couple of weeks, I retrieved it, along with the sign, and tucked it away. Out of sight, out of mind.

As spring arrived, I'd see the door on my daily walk, and thought about starting the game again, but didn't actually get out the goods.

Then, last week, I noticed something behind the door - it was another note from my young neighbor, wrapped around another magic glitter potion.

The note said: "Our last potion turned you into a unicorn. This one will turn you back to a fairy. We miss you! I love you - your 4 year-old neighbor"

I might be grieving, but I don't have it in me to take magic away from 4 year-olds. 

I mulled things over for a day or so. Decided if I was to be a tree fairy, I needed a proper fairy name. I came up with a list of options, then let Lexi choose her favorite - she opted for Wren. I wrote a note explaining the unicorn potion had worn off after a couple of weeks, but then I'd caught a ride south for the winter with one of my robin friends. I told them I was back - and it did my heart good to know I'd been missed. (this part is true.) I even went all out and drew a picture of my fairy self riding on the back of the robin.

My young friend hasn't yet retrieved the note - though someone else picked it up, read it, and returned it to its hiding place. I almost hate to admit how much I'm enjoying my part in this story, anticipating the joy on the child's face once they discover their fairy didn't permanently disappear after all.

Good Is.

One More Step

As I understand it, the Jewish tradition holds that funerals for their people should happen within 24 hours of death. (I also understand this practice is not always followed in this day and age.) While I waited for Bob's formal farewell, my emotions were all over the map, and I've decided the Jewish tradition makes a lot of sense. The three weeks between his being set free and his funeral service seemed an eternity. Sooner would have been easier.

Given the givens of my life this past decade and a bit, I have any number of useful tools in my Coping-With-Grief toolkit, and I've needed every one of them.

At this point, the drawers of my toolkit are pulled open at awkward angles, unable to be closed because their contents are a jumbled mess. The assorted tools have been tossed about haphazardly as I looked for the right one to cope with this feeling. Some pieces are on the floor, a few are arranged carefully in a clear spot on the workbench. There is a heap of temporary discards off to one side, tossed there when they quit being useful as my thoughts and emotions teetered down yet another side path.

Goodbyes are hard.

My sister and her husband came down this past weekend to help me get through the funeral, so I wouldn't have to spend the nights surrounding his Celebration of Life alone with my echoes. Their steady presence helped to ease those steps on grief's path. I had someone to talk to, someone to help me plan good meals. I didn't have to muster the energy to reach out for help; help was already here. I am so grateful for their presence.

They've left for home now, but with the service over, I feel readier to look forward. I longer need to devote time and energy into doing what I can to help Bob walk his oh-so-hard path. What shape will those days take? Where will I direct that energy?

It's not going to be easy, but I'm pretty sure I can do this if I keep taking one step at a time. I'm not done with those grief-coping tools, not by a long shot. But today, I'm able to begin to think about straightening up the mess I've made of my toolbox, so I'll be able to find the tools I need when I remember to look for them.

His journey is complete. 
He is free. 
I am free. 

Take One More Step

He is gone. Where he went, I don't know. My eyes keep looking at the Bob-shaped hole in my life, wondering what came next for him. I do know he is free.

His funeral isn't until next weekend. In the meantime, there's a part of me that thinks he's still in his gilded cage, waiting for me to visit. In the meantime, as I plan my week, part of me keeps trying to choose a time to get out there. Then I snap back to reality.

These past few days have been an exercise in taking one more step. I want to just sit and stare, but experience tells me that is not a helpful path to trod, so I've been prodding myself to take the next step, to do the next thing. 

The weather has been helping; spring is in the air. This is one of my favorite weather weeks of the year - the week when the trees still look brown at first glance, but a closer look reveals a fuzziness at the tips of the branches where the leaves have started to peek out of their winter shells. The season has turned.

The world is moving on. It has not stopped for me; has not paused in its turning to let me take a moment to catch my breath, say goodbye, and begin to suss out a new shape to the rhythm of my days. (Hmph. I still think it should...)

Yesterday, the sunshine beckoned me into the back yard; where I spent a quiet hour starting to corral the growing things. I cleaned the grass from my flower beds, the volunteer flowers from the grass; enjoyed getting my hands back into the living dirt. 

Today, it took some doing to get me moving, to run my katas, to exercise. (The time change didn't help.) But despite my best attempts at procrastination, I eventually got myself outside into the morning air; reluctantly started to move. My first motions were stiff, forced. But then muscle memory took over and I started to flow with the movements, muscle and breath awakening with each step.

My skin woke to the sweet caress of the coolness of the morning air. My ears attuned to the bird song chorus filling the air. My eyes sought out the traces of green outlining the lilac bush.

For those minutes, I was in the now; that elusive state where neither past nor future is relevant, where what is, Is. When I finished, a bit of that meditative Peace stayed with me. 

I am here. He is free and so am I.

Still Working on Goodbye

I don't want to write about Bob again today. Goodbyes are hard, and I'm already tired of waking in the night to know he is gone. But thoughts of him are so close to the surface, I have little room in my head for other reflections.

It was such a long and slow goodbye, I had lulled myself into a sense of serenity. I thought surely, with all the times I'd said goodbye to him along the way, I would feel only relief when he was set free and the final goodbye was complete.

Uh huh. As he used to say, "Denial is not just a river in Egypt." I learn this time and time again.

The last year or so of our friendship before his official diagnosis of dementia, we were not close. I knew he was falling into dementia, but he was covering well enough that the world didn't realize what was going on and I wondered myself if I was imagining things. He was angry, his excessive drinking made things worse, and I could no longer trust him to stay in my house, as he often had for years - I was sure, in his inebriated state, he was going to take a tumble down my long, narrow, flight of steps and hurt himself. On my side, I was in the midst of my COVID-induced isolation weirdness, and wasn't thinking entirely straight. (Five months of almost total isolation was NOT good for my mental health.)

I am SO glad he didn't die when our relationship was in that bitter and estranged state. 

This week, as I've looked back across these past few years, I've realized the silver lining of his dementia imprisonment was the removal of alcohol from his brain. Along with the excellent cocktail of drugs he was taking to keep his dementia-induced agitation under control, the loss of his daily dose of systemic depressant made it possible for our friendship to come back to life.

We could no longer share the easy give and take of old; those long evenings spent cooking dinner while talking about our respective days, then watching movies or just quietly reading books. He was no longer connected to that version of life. 

But we could hold hands and walk together. He hadn't been there long before he no longer remembered he was angry with me, so I got to see the return of the man who relaxed and laughed when I came around. I got to see the return of the man who became my best friend so long ago, even as I watched him leave me.

Ouch.

Out walking this morning, I saw the first crocuses in bloom; spring has come early this year.

I felt as if Someone was reminding me I will not stay sad/angry/hurt/relieved/lonely forever.

This, too, shall pass.

Time will work its magic and ease my pain, as it has done so many times before.

He is free, and so am I.

Goodbye, Bob

Bob Rost
May 26, 1948 - Feb 26, 2024

One of Bob's favorite bible verses was Philippians 1:6: I am sure of this much: that the One who has begun the good work in you will carry it through until completion, right up to the day of Christ Jesus.

God's good work in him is complete. He is free.

I went to see him this past Saturday, shortly after my return from California. I expected to find him in much the same condition he'd been in when I left three weeks ago, but when I walked into his room, it was clear he'd turned a final corner in my absence. He was well along the path to whatever-it-is that comes next. 

I sat with him for a long time. I sang to him. He opened his eyes and recognized me one last time. 

I went back Sunday, but while he was still breathing, he didn't rouse at all. The drugs were doing their part of God's good work. As I left, I knew I'd said my last goodbye. He died in the wee hours of yesterday morning.

I went back to the facility yesterday for a final visit, to bring a small thank you gift for the staff who did their best to care for him. While I was there, I stopped by his (former??!??) room. While I knew he was gone, I guess I wanted to see with mine own eyes that he was no longer there. Sure enough, thankfully, I felt no sense of his presence. He'd finally escaped his gilded cage.

And so ends our complex relationship.

Despite the fact he was a Catholic priest, which, sadly, put certain limits on what we could be for each other, he'd been my best friend for thirty years. We supported each other through life's ups and downs; shared a deep and abiding love. 

It occurred to me, as I vainly tried to get back to sleep at 3AM this morning, that as he is set free, so am I. 

To walk the path of dementia with him has taken an enormous amount of emotional and physical energy. For the last two years (when I was in town), I've blocked off the better part of at least one day each week to visit him. I came home emotionally spent from most of those meetings; it was SO hard to watch him slipping away. No more.

As someone told me this morning, "Change is hard. Even good change is hard. Change mixed with grief is especially challenging."

Taking one step at a time, my last few days have looked quite calm. I've exercised, which helps me to stay grounded in this world. I've worked on my list of things-to-get-done, a great distraction. I'm fine for a while, then a stray thought pierces my facade of normalcy, "He is gone." I let the tears flow for a bit, then change the words to, "He is free." The change in wording doesn't stop the tears, but it does remind me I have been praying for this moment to arrive for the better part of two years.

Bob, I hope, wherever you are, your lost memories have caught back up with you. I pray you have met up with some of your old friends, have been able to set things right with your parents. I hope you are laughing freely and often; that infectious, booming, laugh of yours. I pray you have met up with the Christ Jesus you served so long and so well, that he told you, "Welcome home, my worthy servant."

You were worthy. You are worthy. I will miss you. 

Te amo.

Cancaversary #12

Twelve years.

It's already been twelve years since I cut my dream of a camper van journey short to face down cancer. Even if/when it decides to reappear one day, I've beaten the cancer odds. 

Today, I am still here.

I gotta admit, in those first days after my fingers stumbled upon the lump, I was sure the piper had come calling for me. I was prepared to go down fighting, but given the givens of my mom's cancer journey, I thought I wouldn't survive the decade. I was resigned to the probability I would be told, when I woke from my double mastectomy, that the disease had found its way to my lymph nodes. But I won the same genetic lottery I lost, my lymph nodes were clear. My cancer, caught early, turned out to be treatable, unlike Mom's, unlike Libby's.

I didn't survive the battle without some scars to show for it. They are my daily reminder of the difficult paths I walked in the midst of the journey. The part I like is that they are scars; no longer open wounds that need careful tending, they are reminders I made it through to the far side of that dark valley. 

I have traveled far since those days. As I make new memories (both pleasant and less so) and have new adventures (both fun and less so), a sense of awe surrounding the fact I am still around to live my days is never far from my awareness. 

This year, I was out in California with Kate, and together we celebrated our continued ability to open our eyes each morning. (Her cancaversary is three years less two days after mine; she is also NED - shows No Evidence of Disease. *whew*) With her partner Edwin and the amazing Ms. Lexi, we had a luxurious dinner and raised a toast or three in gratitude. 

We are here.

Hallelujah!