Too Many Books

My grandmother's funeral was beautiful, personal and heart-wrenching. Writing  the obit  was an honor, and I was happy to have my mom, dad and sister all add some details and thoughts I wouldn't have come up with on my own. My grandma looked wonderful and at peace- she looked twenty or more years younger, like the Mamaw we remembered. Pretty skin, eyes that weren't red and swollen, those same loving little hands folded at rest. My family and I did a splendid job selecting and setting up a slew of memorabilia. And during the service, my sister and I each had one of our mom's cousins read some memories we'd each written about our Mamaw and our favorite times with her and what she meant to us. At the graveside, my Mom planned to stay as the casket was lowered into the ground, but there was some mechanical issue and they were having a hard time getting it to steadily and easily descend. We were all #facepalm about it. But then we laughed a little - after wat

I went to see Hamilton in Louisville earlier this year. Tonight, I can't get that song out of my head. You know -- "The Room Where It Happened." Have you ever been in The Room When It Happened? I hadn't. My grandmother died Monday, 9/9/19 at 5:01 pm in front of my Mom, Dad, my sister, and me. Just the five of us, in the room where it happened. Until after that split second when only four of us remained. A little backstory. Mamaw moved out of her Bloomington, Indiana duplex of her own accord, and sold her Chevy Lumina to opt for Assisted Living back in 2007 or 2008. Maybe she just knew she'd live a good long life and need the extra care. The dementia started up at some point after that. By September 2018 she'd been through hernia surgery, hip replacements, and I don't even remember what else. But on the 15th of that month last year, she had a UTI and a 103 degree fever. She fell out of her own bed, was septic or nearly septic. Bloomington Hosp

My grandmother will probably die today. I've been saying that all day. I've been saying that since Friday. (She's worse off than my dog, who I was so worried about Thursday night.) Mammaw lived in Assisted Living in Bloomington, Indiana for over a decade until last September. A high fever (103) and a UTI caused her to go almost septic and fall out of bed. She spent some time in a hospital and a rehab facility in Bloomington until I helped my mom decide it was time to move her to a nursing home in Louisville, Kentucky, so that mom and I  mom could go see her daily instead of monthly. I usually went to see her on Sundays to give my mom a day a home. Though Mom still made me Facetime her. Mammaw couldn't walk or get herself in and out of bed anymore by October of last year. And, her dementia was as bad as ever, and getting worse. She may have not known what year it was or remembered what state she'd moved to, but she knew who we were. She could laugh. She could

From the inspirational-ish, thought provoking journal I read only intermittently (this entry was dated January 18th) I give you the following: Today, I will be grateful. I will start the process of turning today's pain into tomorrow's joy. There was so much good today, but there was pain tonight. I thought my dog was dying. Well, my dog is dying - but she did not die tonight. We did not choose that for her tonight. I do have gratitude. She has been with me for 16 years of my adult life. I've lived with her longer than any other being , considering I didn't have the capacity for rational thought or memory until age 3 with my own mother. So, I can recall less time under her roof than I can with my sweet Carson under mine. She was with me when I still lived in an apartment, over 15 years ago. She came along into a new house that we made into a home, somehow. She was here when Stella joined us, watched her crib like a hawk and endured her aggressive, tugging, todd

I had my first "Fully Intend to Go Back for More" therapy session yesterday morning. She won't give me homework until my next visit, so I'm creating my own. I talked a lot about using writing as my own form of therapy over the last 15 years. (Not an uncommon strategy, I know.) She asked me, "What else have you used that's been therapeutic?" My immediate answer: alcohol. We had some dialogue about that, and self-meditating in general. Now, I thought I'd share some things that I find therapeutic, in addition to other than getting boozed up: 1. Reading. It's escapism. 2. Sunshine/ sitting by a pool or ocean, or even just in my own backyard 3. Hot Tub Time 4. Sex 5. Food - treating myself to a nice dinner. 6. Playing poker - escapism and the art of beating other humans/ winning money. 7. Music - whether it's proper karaoke or just singing along in my car. 8. Indiana basketball/ in person or televised games/ annual song parodi

My sweet mom always refers to the work day after a Federal Holiday as a "Monday Tuesday." You know. Your brain logically knows the day of the week is Tuesday but it feels like a Monday. Particularly if you work in a bank like she does. Some people had been overdrawn since 4:00 a.m. Sunday, and were chomping at the bit to get in to discuss it with the bank manager pronto this morning. I'm assuming. In some ways, today has been a "Monday Tuesday" for me. Well, really just in one way. I sneezed a little bit ago and my assistant blessed me. I immediately had to tell her, "Definitely just peed right then, more than a little." And went to the ladies room to blow my nose and assess the damage. It wasn't pretty. But, it'll dry. I'll survive. It's just a face palm, though. My gyno keeps telling me I should try pelvic floor therapy, but I want to tell her where to go  that my pelvic floor and all my areas are "strong like bu

I always adored my teachers. (Well, a good percentage of them. A few were total hacks and didn't deserve my admiration.) A good handful are my friends today via social media and a select few are nearly soulmates for me in this life. My fifth grade teacher loves the Oklahoma Sooners and now, in retirement, bakes fancy cakes. A high school drama teacher is still teaching after he tried to stop for a minute. I think he's in his 43rd year. He's so wonderful at it. I know he's slowing down. Hopefully his students understand that they are fortunate to have him. Another high school teacher, one I actually never had, now runs a restaurant and a food truck. He's such an interesting human with unique insights. I enjoy talking to him over beers for me and soda water for him. Then, there's my psychology teacher from senior year. I'd always vaguely stayed informed about her life via facebook, and I held her dear in my heart. I can still remember where I sat in he