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!

Frozen, Jr

I can't tell you the last time I was in the audience for a middle school play. My two kids weren't involved in the theater, so I'm guessing it's been the better part of 50 years. (How did THAT happen??) It took my granddaughter get me back into my seat for a show. She has picked up the acting bug, and was selected to join the cast of her school's production, Frozen, Jr. The show was on this past weekend, and I was delighted to attend two of her performances. 

The rain that drenched California's coast last week had cost them most of their scheduled dress rehearsals, and so they spent ten hours (?!?) on Wednesday, the day before the show, making up for lost time. It was clearly time well spent. To my untutored eye, everything came more-or-less seamlessly together. Everyone knew their lines and sang the many songs with enthusiasm, danced with grace.

Whenever I'm around a group of young people this age, I'm struck anew by how. much. they. grow. in these three years. They go from children to quasi-adult sized. *poof!* The casting director had no trouble finding cast members to depict the three Annas and Elsas (young, middle-kid aged, and grown up). Close to home, my Lexi has grown over an inch since I saw her just last Thanksgiving!

As I sat in the theater, I was transported to a simpler place. All my external worries and concerns evaporated. I was focused on watching this child of my heart pop on and off the stage in her four distinct ensemble roles. I knew she was worried about stumbling as she twirled, depicting living snow during Elsa's song, Let it Go. Her skirt as a townsperson was a bit loose, and she was concerned she might step on the hem and pull it down as she danced that number. 

I was happy with and for her as neither these nor any other mishaps marred her graceful performance. 

I needed the play this week; was overdue for a reminder that at least some of our young people are doing a bang-up job of growing up well. Their world has seen a LOT of upheaval these past few years, but they are showing their resilience by doing the things kids their age have done as long as I've been on this earth. The happy smiles on their faces as they took their bows after the final show last night were a testament to hope. 

Hope anyways.

Such a Slow Goodbye

I haven't written about Bob and his dementia journey in a long time; there hasn't been much to add. I visit often, tucking my sorrow deeply under my shirt as I walk in the door so I can greet him, wherever he is that day, with a smile on my face. It is hard. He has hated being a prisoner in the dementia ward, and I have hated it for him, but there has been nothing I could do to change anything; his family has NOT been interested in having me, or anyone else, take him outside for a break.

His deterioration has been noticeable; steady, but slow. Week over week, the changes are slight, but anytime I look back over a couple of months, the downhill trend is clear. 

December found him in unfamiliar waters. He hit some sort of internal tipping point. Over the course of the past two months he has gone from fairly self-sufficient to a literally lost soul, unable to find his way back to his room once he has reached the end of the hall. He fell twice last month, the second time hard enough to knock himself out as he hit the corner of a brick column on his way to the floor. The wound is healing well, but for several weeks he had a spectacular row of stitches in the middle of his forehead.

He still knows me. Not my name, such labels have ceased to hold meaning for him. But as soon as he sets eyes on me, his whole face lights up with the delighted grin of a four year-old child. He gives me a tight hug, like a young one seeking comfort because he has found himself in a scary place. I give him what little comfort I can, grateful my presence seems to help just a little.

His grasp on the spoken word is tenuous - it's fascinating to listen to him. Many words are unrecognizable, but his tone and emphasis remain clear. It's easy to tell if he's happy, worried, angry, thoughtful, curious, or confused, so I can respond in kind, and we can have a conversation of sorts.

After his last tumble, his family called in hospice. *sigh of relief* I like hospice. They've brought in their arsenal of drugs, and he is no longer heart-breakingly anxious. His anger is calmed away. 

One day last month, I was cleaning up his room with one of the aides, and said something about talking to him to show him how to something. She looked at me and quietly said, "Don't try. It won't work. He is gone."

gone? gone. 

She was right. His body is still here, but his mind will grasp no new concepts. He is no longer able to learn.

I've spent a lot of time since then waving goodbye, letting go. I've been working to untangle my heart strings from his; a difficult task given the many years of our close relationship. 

In many ways, it is easier now he is ungrounded in place and time. Once when I came, he was lost in slumber, unable to rouse himself for more than a minute or two at a time. That was the easiest visit because he was at peace.

His family doesn't share details of anything with me, but I know the presence of hospice means they expect the end of his life's journey is in sight. I can hope.

Each visit, as I leave, I untuck my feelings and let the tears flow. I pray to St. James, my friend from the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela on El Camino. I ask him to stay near; to be ready to accompany his fellow disciple home when the time comes for Bob to be set free. I pray his time to be free will come soon.

Sunshine!

We've had typical January weather these past few weeks. The bitter cold and snow of two weeks ago gave way to the more typical damp cold we tend to live with this time of year. The sky was an unrelenting gray, the lows were in the 30's, the highs were in the 30's. Just blah.

I'd been doing so well combating the winter blues this year, but as day after day of cold gray blanketed the world outside my windows, it managed to make its way through the cracks and begin creeping into my bones.

I was actually pretty proud of myself. I kept doing all the things anyways. I showed up to exercise. I met friends for meals. I didn't try to smother my blahs with junk food. I lit candles. All these things helped, but none of them worked to chase the grays away.

When I glimpsed my first robin a week ago (yes, there's a robin in that picture, on the driveway), I just sighed and told him he and his friends were a bit early for the show; that perhaps they should find somewhere warmer to hang out for another month or so. They might have listened - I haven't had another sighting since then.

Then I walked outside about an hour ago. It's not MUCH warmer out there (it was all of 40 degrees), but there is not a cloud in the sky and the sun is shining brightly. Nothing else has changed a whit, but the warm rays of the sun pierced the grays inside me and, *poof*, they evaporated.

Suddenly, today's scheduled exercise will be a gift and not a chore. The assorted mundane household todos no longer loom large overhead; the laundry pile is suddenly quite manageable. I'm ready to go hunt down those robins and tell them that, just perhaps, winter will not last forever after all.

Despite all I know, it's hard for me to believe the grays will ever leave again once they have managed to seep in. (It's not all bad, I suppose, because it's alway such a beautiful surprise when they are banished.) 

I am grateful for the life lessons which have taught me to keep taking baby steps anyways. To look for the beauty (robins!) anyways. To know that this, too, shall pass.

*whew*

Out of the Cold, But...

Given that I don't have to be out in it when I don't want to be, (and have decent insulation in my house, so can afford the heating bill), I've not minded this cold spell; even ?enjoyed it? a little. 

As I take in a deep breath as I step out into the frigid air with Sylvester each morning, the cold air cleans my lungs, and for a few minutes I feel young again. 

The crisp air brings back memories of the days when, as a college student, I would walk the 3-4 blocks from the pool to the dorm after diving practice, wet hair freezing along the way. I would comb it out when I got to the foyer of the dorm, which would leave it essentially dry, enabling me to skip the hair dryer part of my routine. Yup. It's been a while.

It's just this morning that I've really begun to get antsy here in my cozy nest. The cold spell broke overnight, but the change in the weather brought with it a thin sheet of ice, turning the city into a skating rink.

Sylvester, predictably, didn't think much of it, though he did manage to keep his feet as he ventured carefully down the front walk. I also managed to stay upright, but that's only because I was walking in the snow next to him. 

The ice on the sidewalk was a little thin for skates, but my hiking boots were perfect for the venture. I didn't even try to walk across the drives where there was no snow handy - I just dug into the recesses of my brain and pulled up my long-dormant skating skills. I bent my knees just that little bit and slid, flat-footed, gliding my way across the expanses. 

I'm glad I found my moment of fun, because I needed it. The ice is messing with my exercise routine. Again. It feels like I've had more days off than on this month. (Though, looking at my calendar, that's totally not true - once again, my feelings are not always reality-based.) I am missing my antidepressant of choice. 

Yes, I have a perfectly good treadmill in the basement for just such weather emergencies, but while plodding along on the track fulfills the letter of my keep-moving mandate, it's not fun. My instructors aren't there to make the time go quickly; there are no fellow students with whom to share news of the day.

This is where I stop and tell me to get a grip. It IS winter after all. And I don't recall the line in life's handbook that guarantees I'll never have to change my plans to accommodate reality. According to the weather forecast, the ice will melt later today. Tonight's new batch of a similar snow/ice mixture should be gone by midday tomorrow, and then, if the forecast holds true, I'll be able to get back to my routine.

In the meantime, it's not like I've run out of candles to light against the cloudy sky. I have not run out of books to read. I have food in the fridge, and plenty of tea in the cabinet.

Thank you for listening to me, and I'm done whining for today. If you need me, I'll be on the sofa with my fuzzy blanket and a book and a cup of hot tea, counting my many blessings.

Stay safe!

Brrrrr!

Sylvester has pretty much made his peace with the weather here in the midwest since he arrived a year or so ago. I don't think he will ever be fond of moisture falling from the sky, but he puts up with it, at least long enough to trot around the block and take care of business.

Miniature Schnauzer-like dogs (he's supposed to be purebred, but he's a bit of a throwback to his terrier roots; he's taller and longer than the 'proper' mini schnauzer who lives around the corner. Also, less barky, so I'm thinking it's a good tradeoff.) have a double coat, and thus tolerate cold-ish temperatures quite well. So, when this winter's first real cold spell hit, we continued getting out on our daily walks.

He did well until the temps dipped below 10, then below zero. As we walked, he started shivering long before we'd completed our circuit, despite his insulating layer. At the same time, his paws started freezing up; he started walking unevenly, favoring first one foot, then another. Poor puppy - I scooped him up, and he rode snugly in my arms the rest of the way home.

Not wanting to torture the poor thing, we've gone out just long enough for him to do the necessaries since then. Once he's finished going, I let him off the leash simply for the joy of watching him run as fast as he can back to the front door, warmth, and safety.

I thought I'd enjoy the reprieve from having to be out in the cold, but it turns out my legs have gotten quite used to walking. They don't care if it's cold out there; they'd like to return to their daily routine please and thank you. Soon, I tell them. Soon enough.

I've actually kind of enjoyed the change in the weather. Snug in my warm house, the white blanket of snow is prettier to look at than the winter grays and browns which are the usual view. I've dug into my cache of lined pants and warm sweaters, and have happily spent a couple of afternoons tucked in under a blanket with a cup of hot tea and a book.

I've been SO grateful for my furnace and the energy that keeps it running. I was without power for five hours as the snow and cold swept in. It was shortly before the temps plummeted, so I was ok for the first couple of hours. But then, as winter's early darkness crept in the windows, and the house continued to cool, I wasn't so OK. I have vivid memories of the three days I spent without power a few years back - watching the house temperature inch down through the 50s into the lower 40s.  The plants and I survived only because the outside temps stayed above freezing during the storm and its aftermath. 

This time, I was obsessively checking the power outage map every thirty minutes, making sure they hadn't cleared the big block of trouble that included my street - because if it was gone, and my lights still weren't on, I knew I'd be in for a long, cold night as they worked their way down to the problems affecting only a few houses. 

As I passed the estimated time to fix by a good hour, my anxiety levels started to rise. I stopped myself, took a deep breath, and scouted out some pet-friendly neighbors who seemed to have power; places where I could retreat just-in-case. I dug my head lamp out of the cabinet, and went into the kitchen to make myself a can of hot soup. (Times like these, I am SO grateful for my gas cooktop...)

As I was finishing the soup, I heard the reassuring sound of the furnace kicking on. I heaved a huge sigh of relief, then checked the outage map one more time, sending up a prayer for the 8,000-odd customers still without power, hoping they had options for places to keep warm.

I know most of the country is in my boat, coping with this cold spell. Stay warm out there, hear???

Dragon Age

 

When I retired - the first time - and climbed into my camper van, I thought perhaps I'd get bored in the evenings. Some people like computer games; I thought it was high time I gave one a try, and so asked my son, who has been playing them since he was 12, for a recommendation.

The one he picked, Dragon Age, sounded like, yes, it might be fun, and so I picked up a copy and loaded it onto my laptop.

I underestimated both my level of exhaustion and my willingness to look at a computer screen when not getting paid. The program languished on my desktop, unused, unopened, until my trip got aborted and I returned to work.

Given I was living in an apartment, I thought surely I'd want something to do in the evenings. I figured I'd open it then, but nope. The aftermath of cancer wiped out my energy levels for the next three years.

But then, once I was recovered and unemployed and staying with Kate in Minnesota? Nope, not then. Once the big remodeling project on my current house was essentially finished? Nope. Certainly not after I found steady employment with Jack Cooper. During my alone Covid days, when I had little to do and all day to do it? Nope, not then, either. 

Finally, I decided a decade of procrastination was enough. Either play the stupid game, or quit worrying about it! I turned on my now-aging laptop to play the game - and got a dreaded hard drive sector 0 error. Unrecoverable. Fatal. *sigh*

But now. Now my desire had been thwarted, and now I WANTED to play the game. I started casting about for ways to obtain an older computer so I could play the game. One of my young friends had upgraded her gaming computer, and volunteered to donate the old one to my cause. (Thank you, Ione.) 

I triumphantly brought my new hardware home, hooked it up, loaded the game. And promptly let it sit for another year. 

By this past fall, I was getting a little impatient with myself. (You'd think I was up for the Procrastinator of the Year award or something!) 

What was my problem??? Surely, I could at least give it a try!! So I added it as a task to my to-do list. I forwarded the task, untouched, on to the next week. the next week. the next week. then gave myself an ultimatum. Now, or never.

Fine.

I told me I was going to spend an hour each evening on the game for the next ten days. (Which was enough time for me to know if this is one of the ways I want to spend my time, or not.)  I sat down, let the computer sort through its unwieldy pile of uninstalled fixes, and loaded up the program. 

I set up my character, 'woke up' in the mage's tower, and within three days, was properly hooked. This wasn't some mindless, clear-the-grid-of-matching-tiles game. This was a story! With people and a plot line and an IMPORTANT QUEST to complete.

Within two weeks, my problem switched from making myself sit down with the game to limiting the amount of time I was spending on it. Turns out it's a perfect way to pass the dark fall evenings. Who knew? (OK. Every adolescent in the country, but hey...)

It took almost three months, but (spoiler alert!) I managed to kill the demon and save the land from the evil blight. I was a hero!

As I played, I found myself wishing life could have a do-over button. You know the one - you've made a string of bad choices, or chosen a bad strategy to approach the battle, or missed an important clue along the way, and suddenly you're wandering lost without a clear vision of how to move forward. (Or, gotten killed by the bad guys. Happens.)

You sigh, go back to your last save, and give it another shot. And another, repeating as necessary, until you've learned the skills you need to make it past the current obstacle. 

Wouldn't that be handy? Think of all the relationships I could have mended along the way. I could explore the roads not taken, then back off if it turns out my first choice was better after all. I could be all-knowing, all-wise, invincible!

But then I wouldn't be having a human experience, would I? That's one of the things that makes this life so vital - no resets; no do-overs.

And I rather like my precious, precarious, life. 

Happy New Year, 2024!

 

2024, already? How did this happen???

I mean, Happy New Year, everyone!!!

I've adjusted to many changes in my life. Why, then, is it proving so difficult for me to align my inner time-sense with outer reality? I'm grounded in each day. The hours pass normally; even the weeks trot along at a fairly reasonable pace. The problem comes in with any timespan longer than that. I turn around twice, and months are gone and I don't know where I put them! 

I know, I know, it's a factor of aging, *she types with a heavy sigh*. Get used to it, deal with it, suck it up, buttercup. Perhaps I should make this a resolution for the new year: Quit whining about how quickly time has passed; rather, embrace the quickly changing seasons. After all, it's preferable to time slogging along in the mud! 

I'll work on it.

My New Year's Eve was lovely; we celebrated toddler-style. (For the evening's festivities, I had four guests aged six and under, along with their responsible adults.) Given that I turn into a pumpkin about the time the clock hits double-digits each evening, the celebration suited me to a T.

We gathered around four, so my young guests could get reacquainted with one another. While their responsible adults sat everyone down for a pre-dinner session of color-the-ornaments, I gathered orders and went and picked up Chinese for dinner.

We sat down at the table, enjoyed a lovely meal, then got out the bubbly beverages. I started to look for plastic cups for the little ones, then decided plastic did NOT suit the occasion, so everyone got a fancy glass to do the "midnight" toast. (I am pleased to say no pretty glassware was sacrificed in this effort. *whew*) 

We put on sparkly tiaras and fun glasses, and counted down (at a random moment in time) to zero. Everyone raised their glasses, cheered, and toasted the new year. Then, we all shared pieces of a wonderful clock-decorated giant cookie.

Properly sugared up, the young ones drifted off to play a rousing game of "Meow" (I'm not sure what the rules were, but it involved much crawling on the floor to a chorus of kitty sounds), while the adults lingered at the table, catching up on current life happenings.

BEFORE any of the kitties hit meltdown mode, the children and their ornaments were packed up and loaded into their respective cars along with their associated adults. I waved them off with a full heart, savoring the remnants of my goodbye hugs. I finished dinner cleanup and sat down with a happy sigh - all by 8PM.

I couldn't have chosen a better way to spend the evening.

Happy New Year!

Advent Week 4: Love

I am alone in my house this morning. When I grew up, as a middle child in a group of eight, I was rarely alone, even in a room; I was never alone at home. I equated being alone with being lonely, and being lonely with being unloved. 

Fortunately for my peace of mind, I've since learned these are false equivalences. I can be, and am, alone but not lonely. My phone has been lighting up all morning with Christmas wishes. I am not forgotten. It feels good to know this - the Peace of the season is with me today.

That I am loved more deeply than I'd dreamed is the best lesson I took from the hard days of my run-in with cancer. Despite the fact I had a brand new address, my people found me, and sent cards and notes letting me know they cared; I knew I was in their thoughts and in their prayers. When I needed help, they came out of the woodwork to do all they could to ease my path. They walked with me and cheered me on, providing the support I needed to make it through to the other side.

Love Is.

The last Sunday of Advent ran smack-dab into Christmas this year, and I gotta admit I felt just a cheated yesterday when the Love candle didn't get its moment alone in my meditations; I felt like it was crowded out by the Christ candle; a lot like getting rushed through the last chapter of a good book. 

But this is how life works: as one story ends, another begins on its heels and the light has come back into the world! 

Winter's solstice was neatly tucked into the middle of last week, and even though we had just two seconds more of daylight on Saturday than we had on Friday, just knowing I'd made it - again - through the darkest days of the year lifted my spirits. 

Days of Dark are followed by Days of Light are followed by Days of Dark are followed by Days of Light and if there has been a constant in my life this is it. Knowing the cycle will turn both helps me keep taking steps through the Dark, and helps me to treasure the Light.

May the Light of Love be with you this holiday season - whichever holidays you celebrate.