Dead Letter Department #133

weather report

Part of the problem I’m currently having, creatively, personally, in whatever way might matter, is that in order to work in any kind of functional way, I need blocks of uninterrupted time. Before I left my corporate job, that was from about 4:00 a.m. until I had to leave for work. For a long time since then, it was essentially the morning, except when projects from the gig job were so scant I had to take them whenever they appeared.

Now I am not just the emergency contact but the caretaker for my mom, whose daily needs have increased drastically, and we are both still trying to figure out how that is going to work.

She’s gotten tremendously better since the stay at the skilled nursing facility; can now make a complete circuit of Elizabeth Park with only one stop to rest, actually went into the bank by herself yesterday (though I was still needed to drive her and hoist the rollator in & out of the car), has taken over some of her less strenuous household chores. We had a big state of the union meeting the other day, imposed by my pathologically organized ass, the subtext of which was figuring out how to make this phase of her life as enjoyable as possible while also not ignoring the painful fact that the next phase may arrive with no warning. One fall, one heart failure episode, and it could all change again. This is unpleasant to think about. I am not surprised that she, largely, would rather ignore it, but we just can’t.

Getting the house sorted out for her needs is a big project, bigger than I realized, and requires more delicacy, because of course there is a huge part of her that thinks someday things may go back to ‘normal.’ I am having to figure out how to address things like ramps and mobility aid storage and the removal of rugs in ways that allow for that possibility without actually counting on it.

I have managed to mostly scrabble mornings back—except of course for when an appointment just can’t be made at any other time, and there are a lot of appointments to manage her health conditions, or when some urgent need arises, which often ends up meaning that I don’t feel I’ve gotten them back at all, because it’s not consistent enough to feel like the useful kind of pattern, big enough to stretch out in. Still, it is an improvement, I tell myself. This morning, for example, I have almost two hours of work time before taking her to a long appointment, during which I am going to run some household errands and then be available to come pick her up at an unspecified time, so I can’t stray too far, and afterwards will spend the afternoon on the gig job, assuming it has picked up post-holiday.

It still feels like I should be making more progress, of all kinds. I recently read interviews with both Anne Patchett & Joyce Carol Oates, in which Patchett said, essentially, that she doesn’t believe in writer’s block, because writing is work, and Oates said of her insane prolificness, which continues even into her 80s, that she believes she has “a reputation for writing a great deal only because the older, healthy tradition of the writer as an extremely hardworking and persistent craftsman is no longer fashionable,” so I’ve been thinking about those concepts a lot.

A couple of hours, head down, phone as off as I can get it these days, can do a lot. I keep reminding myself of that, trying to expand out to the edges of those hours, make them as rich and expansive as possible. Also, there are things happening with my finished project that I will tell you about soon, since I am far too superstitious to get into it before hand.

dogs I met without being in very minor car accidents

A few days ago, it was Penny, a very short, stout pit bull who began to wiggle almost supersonically when she glimpsed me next to the washable rugs at Home Goods. I asked if I could say hello, and her owner replied with, “Would you please?” She told me Penny is simply obsessed with men, loves two of her male friends above all the others, and always wants to say hi to men in public. I got as far down as possible for some very excitable petting and stout pit bull jumping, which is always a treat, and told Penny she was doing a very good job making the boys feel good about themselves. She seemed to agree.

I do missing having a dog. I never thought I would go this long without one, and it’s something I probably think about every other day, but I’m so overloaded on caretaking right now that the idea of being fully responsible for everything about a living creature makes me want to scream and run into the woods, which suggests its probably not a good idea right now. Still, when does not a good idea right now just shift into not ever?

reading room

I’m at the beginnings of Mirror Dance, which is the next installment in Lois McMaster Bujold’s insane and wonderful Vorkosigan saga, which J is also fortunately reading, since once you get that many books deep into a series you begin to sound unhinged talking about it to people who are not similarly afflicted/addicted. Miles really is one of the characters of all time in my brain, and the vastness of the project is so unusual, so immense in a world of stand-alones and trilogies, that it feels like a privilege to keep following him through his world. I’m also reading Lives of the Saints by Nancy Lemann, which is a bit like having an absolutely incredible mint mojito whanged into your face on a very hot day. I’m not convinced that there’s going to be anything like an actual plot, but sometimes there doesn’t need to be, if the prose is good enough.

More soon, and in the meantime may you manage to carve out a couple of very good, very useful hours.