The Year

Well, if it isn’t that last bloody day of the year. Here are a few highlights from a hard year.

January

In early January of 2023, my much loved cousin Gary lost his battle with cancer.

I was plagued with unanswerable questions.

And I looked at chocolate and heavy metal (they are SO related!). 

February

I had Words Cylons and War in the year's second month.

And bitched about life "coaches."

March

In the early part of the month I discovered, NOT for the first time, that I was approaching my expiration date entirely due to a severe dark chocolate deficiency. Also, chocolate is SO appropriate for breakfast.

I went to see/experience The Kodo Drummers of Japan!

March contains Pi Day. Any and every month, day, year with pie is good, good, good.

April

There were words and such.

I searched for new names for myself—every now and again I have a yen for a new one. Names are problematic though. Fer instance:

Thunderhead, Destroyer of Dust Bunnies and Marshmallow Peeps? Great and appropriate name BUT it’s too damn long. Filling out forms at the hospital would be a nightmare for me AND the office staff. Maybe I could just go by Thunderhead. I mean, using just one name works for Cher, Madonna and Bono. Why not me?

May

I had a Nietzsche Morning in May. Always a thought inspiring occurrence.

I had questions about Little Bunny Foo Foo, juggling water, dowries and bride prices.

And, can I still take sick days when my only boss is me and, apart from seemingly endless rehab exercising, I no longer punch a time clock?

June

I kvetched about problematic writers. 

I gave MY definitions of some interesting words.

I checked in with our glorious whaley buds.

July

 The fourth was the seventh anniversary of The Amazing Bob’s exit stage left. On that same day I realized that I aspired to bioluminescence like a crystal jelly or a firefly squid.

I learned useful words like Artiodactyl and Hurkle-Durkle.

And I contemplated what it means to be an adult.

August

I had a birthday. It was a big one. 65 is the average age at which folks with neurofibromatosis type 2 croak. I haven’t. Yea me!

I rattled on again about basic shit adults need to know.

September

Trolls (of the intertubian persuasion) are desperately insecure (with good reason), angry-ass, failed humans (most often of the midget-dick-toting genus) whose only joy in life is unleashing their puerile, drool infused, know-nothing diatribes on those they feel are inferior.

I came to my current way of dealing with them. I don’t. I just completely ignore them whether it’s here or any other social media joint.

I talked about guinea pigs in Switzerland, Spam and shrimp heads.

In this month I discovered that the co-founder of one of my favorite periodicals is a broke-brained, under evolved racist and misogynist. Way to drown your legacy in a pool of stupidity, you ant beaned twat.
October

I discovered that Ghirardelli chocolates and my beloved Oreos are union made. How ‘bout that? I’m gonna go invest in a package of double stuff mint Oreos this morning because I support unions! Yep, that’s my sole reason. Sure.

In my ongoing efforts to keep from being utterly overwhelmed and never leaving the consoling comfort of my bed again, I explored the world of sentient beings who are less dangerous than humans…like Swards

And made a list of my favorite covers of great tunes.

November

 In the very early part of the month, my friend Scott died. Cancer. On the same day I got word that more brain surgery is in order. I’ll probably hit the OR stage this coming summer. Joy.

Bad news didn’t stop me from offering useful tips and general advice.

One good death this year—that despicable, fucking war criminal Henry Kissinger. About fucking time that ratfucking bastard croaked!

December

Cold weather/cold heart? Nope. I’m just well wired for survival.

Balls…really, WTF? It’s clear that god was either drunk when he/she sketched out the man plans OR had spilled coffee all over the schematics and didn’t bother to review and redraw before sending out to the manufacturer.

Not that December was different than any other month BUT, in this last month of ‘23, Texas decided to win the title of cruelest, most tiny dicked, inhumane pro-death state of all time.

And that was some of the year that wuz.

Make your mistakes, take your chances, look silly, but keep on going. Don’t freeze up.
~ Thomas Wolfe

Funeral for an Acquaintance

A man I worked with absolute eons ago has died. He was 101 years old and went peacefully while sleeping.

We weren’t close though we worked in the same building for yonks. He was old school and I was trying to grow and learn in a male dominated industry. Women in pressrooms were salespeople at most, not Production Managers.

While it was sweet that Peter told me, on more than a few occasions, that I reminded him of his youngest daughter, it felt as though he couldn’t see past this. That is, as long as he was seeing me as just like his kid, he wasn’t paying attention to what I was telling him about the print work we were trying to produce for his customers. Maybe he took me seriously, maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t exactly the most patient human in my early 30s.

None of this matters now (and hasn’t for 30 years). I could have employed diplomacy and grace. He could have refrained from treating me like a little girl. Neither of us did.

The point is that he lived a long, happy, healthy life. He had a wonderful wife, loads of grands and great grandkids and a shitload of friends. Good for him. I’m sincerely happy he had such a full, wonderful life.

I’m also angry—that doesn’t feel like the right word. I’m, perhaps a bit jealous (?), maybe resentful (?) that he got to live so very long and The Amazing Bob didn’t. I’m peeved (?) that Peter had such tremendous health but TAB didn’t and I don’t. That’s not especially evolved of me but, to be fair to myself, it’s just a petty shadow, not the full picture by a long shot.

Peter Orlando in the radio room aboard the USS ATR-2 in 194

I imagine that his wake and funeral will be huge events. He was dearly loved. The family might need to rent out a coliseum. I mean…fer reals. On top of being a nice guy, he was one of the last veteran’s of D-Day still standing.

Fer Bast's sake, the President of France awarded him the Chevalier of the Legion of Honor,
“as a sign of France’s infinite gratitude and appreciation for your personal and precious contribution to the United States’ decisive role in the liberation of our country during World War II.” (source)

Should I go to the wake? I want to pay my respects but also it’d be nice to see so many people not seen in years.

Is this crass of me? Ultra déclassé? Not cool? Yeah, probably.

I’d like to apologize to a few folks. For what? Having been a rabid wildebeest and just generally socially weird in my early-mid 30s. I’d like to completely avoid a few. Then there are the ones I’d like to embrace and thank for their grace, support and kindness.

I’d like to go but this has the potential to be a MONDO awkward occasion. The last time I saw any of these folks, I had hearing, my face wasn’t twisted with nerve damage and I didn’t need a walker or wheelchair to get around.

I think I probably won’t attend. 

I’m envisioning the co-worker who gave me shit about needing more volume on my phone (he was in charge of the company’s phone system). He attempted to shame me for even mentioning my failing hearing because TAB had REAL health problems—NOT me. Dude, I’m not two dimensional—I can take care of and love TAB and be concerned about my own health AT THE SAME DAMN TIME. Neat, huh?

I’m thinking about the manager I had who mocked my hearing loss, saying, amongst other things, that I had “selective hearing” as opposed to brain tumors that would grow and steal my audio. Yeah dude, nice “jokes” at my expense. When did you become an expert on my auditory system and Neurofibromatosis type 2?

I was completely deaf five years after these boys had their fun.

Yeah, I’m gonna stay home. Maybe donate to some charity in Peter's name.

Two years ago today

Two years ago on this day before Thanksgiving, I was inpatient at Spaulding Rehab for the fourth and final time. This was during those two years of four back to back neurosurgeries.

At this point, I’d already been a guest of Spaulding for three weeks. They wanted to extend my stay over the long holiday weekend. I'd been deemed not quite ready for home. More inpatient PT was needed.

I pitched a firm, solid yet diplomatic fit.

I asked what staffing would be like from Thursday through Monday and how many PT sessions would I have on the lightly staffed four day holiday weekend. I pointed out that I would be willing to stay four additional days IF I was going to have my regular, daily balance and strength sessions (one hour each), check ins with the neurologists and the normal complement of nurses and aids on duty. If not, since they planned on cutting me loose Monday anyway, I argued (civilly!) that I'd be better off at home with Ten, Jen, Oni (and the cats, of course).

The case manager and medics looked at the schedule, did the math and *oopsie* I’d only have one day of PT (two versus eight workouts) over the long, lightly staffed weekend. I asked if it really made sense to keep me four more days just to get two more PT sessions. Would those two magically transform me into a stable walking super hero?

It wasn't logical. After a few staff meetings and much delicate but firm pushing from me, they nervously agreed to send me home.

I understood their motivation for wanting me to stick around. I was a GIANT fall risk and, if they let me go early and I fell, they’d undoubtedly be liable in a lawsuit. Also, my insurance would cover me staying over the four day weekend even though I’d, essentially, just be sitting in bed reading the entire time, NOT receiving rehab care.

Keeping me in was about money—lawsuit avoidance—and little else. So I got to come home and, no, I didn't fall (not that weekend anyway).

I’d go out today and take a victory seawall walk but it’s rainy and windy as hell. It’s an elliptical day—not as good of a work out as walking BUT it’s something.

Trigger

No, not the horse.

Do you ever have days or weeks where you’re filled with the tensions, fears and angst that you thought you’d long ago worked through and gotten past? I recently fell into a deep canyon of fear and anxiety, one that I’d spent years climbing out of. What in fuck’s name was I doing back in that scary morass?

A passing wind brought me news of damage being done (and still being done) to people I care about by a clot of assholian vipers (not to diss actual venomous snakes, mind you). Eons ago, I had the distinct misfortune of knowing and being victimized by these same violent, fecal brained blights on humanity. Unsurprisingly, on hearing about the current situation, my bean went all you in danger girl, Danger, Will Robinson, Danger and ESCAPE mode. Trigger alert and shit. I frantically searched my brain for ways that I could protect myself while still offering assistance to the ones currently suffering at said assholian vipers’ hands.

I've, more or less, found a way. Yea me.

Since then, I've calmed the fuck down…mostly. I’m fine—not in any immediate danger. If any shitstorms come my way, I’ll be able to handle them. I’m not 18, without resources and support anymore. AND I didn’t get to be a happy old broad by being helpless, heedless and slow on the uptake. As it turns out, surviving the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to is a bit of a talent and a learnable skill.

By the by, my anxiety riddled, panicked state of mind was the likely root of me inadvertently drowning the house last week. King Crimson’s song Indiscipline just came to mind. Instead of the lyric “I repeat myself when under stress,” I’m hearing "I make boneheaded errors when under stress." Go listen to the tune (if you’ve got functioning ears that is), it’s awesome+.

Okay, now I’ve got Captain Beefheart’s song If You Got Ears playing on the old internal turntable. Not bad—I love both songs.

If I’ve learned nothing else in this life, I’ve come to understand that every-bloody-one of us is or has been, at core, afraid of something and/or someone. Being scared is human and fully understandable. What matters, what gets us to safe harbor is how we deal with our anxiety and tension typhoons.

This is where meditation, aerobic activity, creative pursuits, cats and, if all else fails, one—just one—Sahara dry Sapphire martini comes in. Also importante, brutally honest self awareness and rock solid pragmatic problem solving. Spock was my childhood hero for good reason.

The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in the ranks of the insane.
~ Marcus Aurelius

Let's pray that the human race never escapes from Earth to spread its iniquity elsewhere.
~ C.S. Lewis

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality.
~ Shirley Jackson

Enjoy Every Sandwich

Today I have James Taylor’s Fire and Rain in my head.

Just yesterday mornin', they let me know you were gone
Suzanne, the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just can't remember who to send it to

I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
 

Why? I found out, early this morning and wholly by chance, that my cousin Gary lost his battle with lung cancer on Tuesday. Yeah, that was the very same day I got my NF2 surgery reprieve (it may be short break but I’ll take it!). I like to wedge all my yins and yangs into one day.

Gary and I have both had, health-wise, an hellacious pack of years. I survived them (so far)—he didn’t. I wouldn’t have bet peanuts on life turning out like this. Doesn’t seem fair somehow.

I remember, the last time I was up in Maine visiting him and his awesome wife, we were walking down the hill from their house to the downtown/harbor area. Gary and I were frail and rickety—I had to laugh, internally anyway. Who coulda predicted—back when I was 12 and he was 17, us sitting in his basement room in Uncle Nick and Auntie Carol’s house in Yonkers, back when he was introducing me to Mott the Hoople, The Who, Hot Tuna, King Crimson and on and on—that nearly 50 years on we’d be hobbling down a hill in Maine to go eat oysters, whilst talking about Nine Inch Nails, Jeff Beck and indie comics.

When Gary and Dawn moved from NYC up to coastal Maine, he made fast friends with the fishers and lobstermen. He had this eloquent bit to convey.

If you are a Global Warming denier, go talk to a fisherman. If you are thinking we can do something about it, you are mistaken. It's here, it's going to get worse, and we need to figure out how we are going to live in a rapidly changing climate.

Islands up here are already disappearing at high tide and the acidity of the Ocean water is causing young lobsters to not be able to grow hard shells, making them prey for other sea creatures. I hate to say this, but we sort of missed the point where curbing pollution will make a difference, It's like quitting smoking when you already have lung cancer.

All I can say is this—69 is too damn young to die. AND, as he always advised, quoting his friend Warren, enjoy every sandwich.

Guzzo has left the building.