Better Off Dead

Pain and sorrow--where did we get the idea that life is otherwise? Think of the ancient religions that see the nothingness of death as a welcome relief from what we have to endure in life--starvation, disease, injustice, random atrocities . . . the torture of old age.

So many pains I carry within,
So many tears of sorrow--
All my dreams of yesterday
Are nightmares of tomorrow.

Fio's having a bad day.

Retrospect

During visitation, the casket was open. Fiorella wanted one last look at Dad's face magically restored to its real self. But she didn't recognize the man in the casket. His skin was taut and his color waxen. Something was wrong with his lips. Death is a cruel deceiver.
*
Only about ten people attended the funeral, as opposed to the overflowing crowd at Mother's, seventeen years earlier. Dad was better-known than Mom, and her aged mourners came to comfort him. But he outlived his contemporaries, and there aren't many people around in Waco anymore who remember Brother and me.
*
Two joyful notes. Lois, a college friend whom I haven't seen in years, attended the visitation to extend her sympathies to me. My heart warmed. Also, Glenn, whom I went to junior high and high school with and who attended the same church, was at the funeral. He always was a nice guy and still is.
*
I am grateful to God for my three wonderful adult children, for their compassion and love for their grandfather and their parents. And I am grateful for a wonderful, loving, compassionate husband.

*

What Bob Wilson Taught Me

Fiorella had a bad night. Every insecurity in the world ganged up on her. She is often waterlogged this way, and the only thing she's found to counter it is self-absorbed focus.

She learned the technique from Bob Wilson, Nathaniel Mayfield, Bill Clinton ,and Richard Nixon. Bob, Fio's old high school duet acting partner, is now New York's leading avant grade dramatist. He is also a goof--but a single-minded goof who, by virtue of his never-look-to-the-side vision, convinced the drama world to see things his way.

Nathaniel, one of the world's top trumpet players, is on more solid ground than Bob, but he too has tunnel vision. Nothing stops him once he's committed himself to a goal. Fio used to car pool with his mother, and she remembers third-grade Nathaniel laying out his detailed plans about how he was going to beat out everyone else in the class book-reading competition. And he did.

Fio is also inspired by Richard Nixon and Bill Clinton, both disgraced politicians. Nixon resigned; Clinton, against all odds, stayed in office. But neither of them quit moving forward. Nixon redeemed himself with the Chinese thing, and Clinton buoyed along like a water balloon, refusing to sink, and is still riding high.

So maybe Fiorella can make it to. So what if she's worried about her family? So what if she doesn't have the time for things she should do, the money for what she wants to do? So what if she's aging by the minute and her brain is turning to mush even faster?

She needs to concentrate on finishing her current manuscript. Focus, Fio, focus!

Comfort Food

When my mother died, we were overwhelmed with visitors and food. Little old men my father had worked with years ago tottered up the front walk bearing casseroles and sat with with father for a while and talked about their "prostrates." And neighbors brought over cakes and molded gelatin. Fried chicken poured in by the bucketful. It was nice, both because of the love and the practicality. Father and Brother and I were simply too shell-shocked and to arrange for our own meals.

Now my father has died and no one brought us food. Husband and I don't live in a tight little neighborhood like my parents did. My best friends are thirty-five miles away in Austin, and it would be awkward to call them and say, "Hi, how are you? My dad just died. Bring food."

So Daughter-in-law and I troop out every day and pick up a few things we think everyone might eat, usually deli stuff, because nobody feels like cooking. Cooking is for happy occasions like Thanksgiving and Christmas, not for deaths and funerals. But cooking or not, our household has swollen in size and everyone needs to eat--Husband and I, Older Son and his wife, Younger Son, sometimes Daughter. But no fried chicken is forthcoming.

Welcome to modern living.

Head Shot

A month or so ago, Fio received word that she had finaled in the New Jersey RWA romance writing contest. Soon afterwards a head shot was requested of her .

Resisting the temptation to send a photo of Michelle Pfeiffer or of Daughter (who is even prettier), Fio got Younger Son to take a picture of her with his cell phone. It turned out great (translation: Fio looked basically humanoid) and Fio e-mailed it to NJ. Early last week she got a request for a more focused picture, one that wouldn't blur on Power Point, but, as you know, Fiorella has been sick as a dog ever since, her father has died, Younger Son's student loan request has been rejected, and Fio is trying to be a good hostess to Older Son and wife and will add Younger Son to the melange today.

Fio has not sent in a new picture yet. Fio may not ever send in a new picture. New Jersey may have to make do with her as she is at the moment: blurry.

An Inconvenient Death

My father died on Wednesday, very inconveniently. On my plate I have a set of poems to judge for the local writers'league, 100+ pages of a romance manuscript to critique for a friend, and my latest novel to edit and revise. And I am still hacking and coughing from this stupid cold, the dog is still in her cone, and the guest room is not yet set up.

Older Son and wife have flown in and must be accommodated. Younger Son is flying in this afternoon. Everyone is helping, but there is too much to consider, too much to be done. The world's turned upside down.

To top it off, yesterday we received word that Younger Son's application for a college loan to finish off his final year had been turned down, and even after a series of frantic phone calls on our part, no one would tell us why. At this rate, Fiorella expects a terrorist attack any minute.

Dad died at such an inconvenient time. But then, death is always inconvenient--it happens in the midst of life.

Into that Good Night

My father died yesterday at about 5:00 p.m. Gathered around were Brother and his wife, Husband and I. Daughter had been with us for the better part of three days. Older Son and Younger Son were in constant communication.

The loss has not hit me yet, perhaps because it has been hovering for some years, but, against all odds, never seemed to happen. Dad had five roommates over the past four years, and all but the last one went first. "He always bounces back," one of the nurses said. Yes, Dad seemed to be eternal.

Maybe he's still eternal. Husband and I had to go out for laundry detergent after getting home from the nursing home, and stretched over the highway in front of us was one of the most brilliant rainbows we have ever seen. Every color was clear--red, orange, yellow, green, blue--and the arc was complete from one side of the road to the other. Not only that, but beside it was a second fainter arc.

Hiya, Dad. Got the message.