Comfort Kittens

I came on up to Minnesota last weekend to spend some time with Libby.

When I got here, Sunday, she was in considerable pain. She was doing her best to manage it with Tylenol and Advil since the stronger painkillers were coming right back up, but she was losing the battle.

She'd invited a hospice team to come in and talk with her about the services they offer, they came in on Monday. After some discussion, she and Scott decided to sign up.

These people don't fool around. By the time they'd left, they had a list of medications, and had given advice on which ones she should and shouldn't be taking in which combinations. A courier arrived with a pack of new ones to try before bedtime. By Tuesday, she was much improved. A few days later, her pain levels are down considerably; her nausea is under control. Her color is better, she's getting some restful sleep.

I'm singing the praises of her hospice team. They listen, they care, they are treating the whole person, not just the symptoms of her disease. Just what she needs right now.

One of the things the hospice people talked about in the initial discussion was that their goal was to help her prepare for what was coming, not plan for it. I appreciate the linguistic distinction, and it's stuck with me all week. She's not dying yet, but any plans she makes are on shaky ground. However, she can work to prepare for the days ahead; to lay the groundwork for how she wants to spend the days she has.

One of her daughters is still in high school, and struggling to cope with the changes rocking her world. A few months ago, they went out and picked up two kittens. The little gals are destined to be outdoor cats. They have a warm house, and many mice to learn to catch. As I watch them outside the window, they are practicing their pouncing skills on the leaves blowing about the yard.

Because they are so small, they are still spending nights inside, closed up in the bathroom. Turns out they are the perfect therapy animals. When her life gets overwhelming, Onnika goes into the bathroom, and the kittens provide some much-needed therapy. They climb on her, they purr. They chase the toys scattered about the room. She relaxes, she smiles. Her troubles fade to the background just a bit, life is better.

Goodness Is.

Done

Her email subject was simple:  Done.

The words in the body of the message were clear, inarguable, heartbreaking:

I had scans on Monday.  The cancer has spread to my lungs, liver and bones.  Other than the possibility of getting me into a trial, there won't be any further treatments.
Thank you for your love and support.  I could not have done this without you.
Libby

No arguments from me this time. Only tears, the day the message came in, and again every time I see them again in my mind's eye, which is often.

October has come in this year with a cold blast of rainy weather. In the last two weeks, we've gotten enough rainfall to make up for the rains we didn't get all summer. 

A huge climate report came out last week. If we don't take our heads out of the sand, and do it yesterday, the balance will tip, and coastal areas around the world will disappear. A hurricane blew out of nowhere last week, wreaking havoc on the Florida panhandle, and dumping a torrent of rain on the Carolinas, already ravaged by last month's hurricane.

Where is Good in all this? As I rail against God and the fates in my anger and grief at the finality of Libby's words, at the dark days ahead for the people of our planet, I keep hearing a small voice.  

Tomorrow is guaranteed to no one. All things living - ants and stars, people, planets and flowers - all things living will one day die. Today. Today is the only day each of us has.When you remember to look for Good in her hours, you will find it there.

I tried to heed the voice. I can't find Good anywhere in the force of the hurricanes, they're too vast, too far beyond what I can affect today, but if I look closer to home, to the places I can touch and the people I love, I can find it.

Instead of lamenting the tomorrows which may or may not come, I decided to enjoy the today I have.

I went outside this afternoon. The air was cool, the sun peeping out now and again. The rain has revived the plants in my yard. The grass is a healthy green, the flowers are blooming, quick counterpoints of color against the cloud cover. I pulled up the tomato plants, thanking them for their bounty of this past month. I mowed the grass. I stopped to admire a monarch butterfly, eagerly drinking from the garden's flowers.

Libby's decision to continue chemo last year bought her a year and more of mostly good days. Not enough days, but good days. (Are there ever enough days when facing death before one's children are grown?  I think not.)  I know she's lived those days looking for Good and Beauty - and finding them when she looked.

So many questions, so few answers. But one deep and abiding conviction:  When I remember to look, I will find Good - even, and especially, on the darkest of days. 

Walk a Mile

I have no trouble whatsoever walking for a while in Christine Ford Blasey's shoes - unfortunately, I know their fit all too well.

Brett Kavanaugh, on the other hand, is a bit harder for me.

I've more often been on the receiving end of drunken and insensitive behavior than the dishing out, but  I can try to get there. The news coverage on this has turned him into someone so one-dimensional, and I know no one-dimensional people. I'll admit - I am angry at him because he is a self-centered rich frat boy, and he got away with it.

But what if he didn't? From what I read, sometime between 18 and 53, he woke up and realized there was another road he could take. His wife, his daughters. As a judge, does he take pride in trying to be just, to be fair?

How does a young man feel inside when he wants to be liked, and the road to popularity lies through drunkenness and conquest? How does it feel when you wake up one day to realize drinking more and more alcohol only makes the empty hole inside bigger instead of filling it?

When I read the account of his testimony before the Senate, it rang with all the convincing truthfulness of Bill Clinton saying, 'I did not have sex with that woman.'

He may not remember that exact night but I'll bet my bottom dollar he remembers one (or more) like it. And he'd not want to admit it, even to himself, because it doesn't fit with his image of the man he wants to have been, the man he's tried to become.

Slowly, as I've pondered this image this week, I've come to feel a (small) measure of sympathy for him. He followed the rules as he was taught them. No penetration means no rape, and if I was drunk, I wasn't responsible for what I did. It was all in good fun.

Wasn't it?

How devastating to have a foggy ghost from your past resurrect itself and try to derail your life just when you've reached for the stars, been offered the job of jobs in your profession. No wonder he ranted and cried and went off the rails.

No, I don't think he's gotten off scot-free. He has to look in the mirror each morning. His long-buried sins have come out of the past to haunt him - and the entire country knows about them. He's not allowed to reflect and atone on the down-low. If he wanted the job, and he did, the only way through was to bluster and scream, deny and accuse in return.

He is now a Justice on the highest court in this land, but I can't believe his conscience is clear. I can't help but wonder if the dichotomy will eat at him, or if he will find a way to quiet the small, still voice.

This much I do know - I don't envy him, and am grateful I don't have to walk in his shoes every day.