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Family Circus (continued)

It was Sunday. Maddie awoke to give her son his seizure medicine and couldn’t sleep. She sat at the east window and watched the sun rise. First the glow of grey turned into yellow, then the bright white. She got up and started the coffee. She should sleep but she can’t. Too many shortened nights of sleep made her feel like she had to keep going.

The house was quiet. She liked these moments best. It gave her peace. It made her feel like she could do what she wanted. She pulled out a book she had been reading for weeks. Her library let her borrow it again and again. She was close to finishing. She opened the book and began to read.

A distant beeping cut through her concentration. The pulse oximeter sounded, beeping through her pleasure. She waited. It continued. She blinked slowly, closed her book and walked to her son’s bedroom.

He was sitting up, facing the door when his body dropped into the bed as if he lost consciousness, then sat up again and laughed. Maddie checked her watch and began timing the seizure. He was having clustered seizures and began trembling, first on the right side of his body and moving onto the rest of his body. She grabbed the magnet to magically end this torrent. Nothing changed. His body continued trembling. She reached for his other medicine, her heart rate increased. She looked at her watch and noted the time. She tore the package and put the nasal spray inside his nostril and squeezed the contents.

His body stopped moving. His eyes closed and he remained peaceful. She looked at the clock again. She began to feel the tears climb. She let them come quiet down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes, then took a deep breath. She slumped into the rocking chair, closed her eyes and listened to the house noise.

Nothing. No one but herself was awake. Everyone slept. Alone again, she slept.

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Family Circus

Maddy walked into her fourteen-year-old’s bedroom, bracing herself for what she might find. When she opened the door to his room, she was aghast.

“How do you plan to complete this?” she asked looking at the clothes on the floor, and the dirty windows of her son’s bedroom smeared with finger smudges.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said, thinking he should probably give her an answer so that she can go away.

“I want a plan of some sort because otherwise I know you’ll forget to get it done. Besides, it’s a good idea for someone else to know what your basic plan is so that you can be held accountable for what you plan to do, and it helps you to have someone keeping you focused.”

“Ummm….I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well, what about setting an alarm or a timer to give you a chance to think about possible ideas?” Her hands were moving to her hips as if her arms were getting too tired to be at her side or she was having trouble standing straight (possibly losing her focus).

“I don’t know. I do know that I have to be finished with everything before the end of the month. Can you leave me alone now. Let me think about it. I promise, I’ll come up with a plan. I’ll get it done.”

“I don’t think I should leave here until you give me some sort of idea about how you plan to complete your room cleanup.”

“ I’ll use the Windex, I’ll take the laundry to the garage. I’ll change my bed and I’ll take out my bottles of Gatorade.”

“That’s not everything that needs to be done, but it is a good start.” She watched him pulling at his hair from the front toward the back. He kept looking at the computer, watching for something.

“Who are you waiting to see?” she asked, thinking it might be his friend, Asia.

“Do you have to pay any money?” hoping her son hadn’t started gambling. Her grandmother was always found at the local gambling hall, but seemed to have control over her spending. There were rumors that she spent much if not all of her save-for-a-rainy-day cash on Bingo.

“No, I just have to be there when Asia and them sign in.”

“I really think you should focus on getting your work finished first, then focus on that. Wouldn’t it make more sense to you?”

“No.”

“It makes more sense, really, because you learn to plan your time better and make sure you have all the work completed and out of the way.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“When you learn to do the work first, then play; you value your time better because when you become an adult, the work has to be done first.”

“Well, I’m still a kid. I think I value my time and will do the work when it is time to do the work. You’ve seen me. I always do my work.”

“I want you to get your work done first, then play. I see it too often, you playing then never getting to the work you are supposed to have done already.”

“No, that’s not true.”

“It is true. I noticed, when you start on the games first, you don’t stop to take care of other things.”

“That’s not true. I get my other things done.”

“Not without me repeating over and over again. I need you to complete these things now.”

“I will. Just leave me alone and I’ll get my stuff done.”

“But you’re going to play and the clothes will still be on the floor, the trash will still be scattered about the room and your bed wont’ be changed, which will make things smell very badly in here.”

“No it won’t.”

“Why is it that no matter what I suggest or tell you that needs to be done, there is always a contradiction from you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Why is it so hard for you to say, ‘Sorry, mom. Okay, mom, I’ll do it.’”

“Okay, mom. Can you go now?”

She walked back into the kitchen, noticing the mess of dishes in the sink she started but hadn’t finished, and resumed her task. Her identity wrapped up in her daily routine without excitement except when it couldn’t be completed because of complication or need to care for her youngest son due to a home health nurse not arriving. She took a deep breath to drive back some crazy tears wanting to surface while sudsing the plate.

It was quiet. Her son, Lou wasn’t his noisy self. She suddenly put the plate down to check on him. Sometimes the seizures prevented consistency in the routine schedule, which made the calm schedules a welcoming comfort. Lou was in his wheelchair, his body slumped to the side, his hand touching the floor. She grabbed a short stool with wheels and lifted his body into her lap, carefully caressing his face with her hands.  She reached for the nearest earlobe and pinched it. Nothing. His eyes kept shaking side to side in his sockets. She pinched his earlobe again, this time harder. His body resumed its liveliness. She checked her watch; thirty seconds from when she noticed his body limp. How long was this going on before she tuned in? She inhaled as deep as she could and talked to her son.

“Hey Lou!” she said with forced excitement. “Welcome back, buddy. Where have you been? Next time, tell me where you’re going.” She kissed him on the forehead. He looked at her and smiled as if her kiss was the magic to bring him into the present.

She fought the resurgence of tears pushing their way to the surface. A total circus she thought. How will we all survive?

by

Sunday

He sat at the piano for the full length of bars and rested in his composition so that the audience could experience the amazing music in our surroundings. His composition was a form of meditation. Have you ever sat still, closed your eyes, and listened?

Try it. I dare you. I tried it and found myself feeling restless. I couldn’t feel comfortable with the silence within me. It seemed like it had no direction. I felt guilty sitting in silence. My mind drifted to many places.

Kitchen places, bedroom places, cleaning places, laundry places; then I pushed those thoughts away and went to my creative place. It seemed empty at first. A piece of paper. A pencil. A figure. Movement. It comes in puffs and spurts. As long as I linger, more comes. Just like the composition of John Cage, I start to hear the creativity of me and that around me. I feel encouraged. I can do it.

The clouds moved in causing the sky to look milky-gray. Then I hear a rumble. I run outside looked to the east, hoped for a bright flame burning through the clouds, but there was nothing. I heard the rumble, louder than before and looked to the northwest part of the sky. Nothing, but a deeper rumble. I look at my weather map app, reds, yellows, greens, but they are more than two hours away. I think about my teen son who has epilepsy. His VNS will be sending more charges because of the increased electricity in the air. Thunderstorms do that to him.

I return inside, thinking how the weather keeps us guessing. I pour myself a feel-good, wake-me-up-kind-of-coffee.

Then I sit down to write. Sometimes it comes easy. Sometimes it doesn’t come at all. Everything is a work in progress.

I’ve started reading Be, Awake, Create by Rebekah Younger, MFA. I was put in an awesome state of encouragement. She started her book with a story about John Cage. I never knew who John Cage was because he was influential before I was born. The story goes like this: He created a controversial work in 1952 called 4’33”, which was written as bars of rest. When he played it for the first time at Woodstock, the crowd became angry because they didn’t hear the composition. The clever man made the boldest statement about silence.

He sat at the piano for the full length of bars and rested in his composition so that the audience could experience the amazing music in our surroundings. His composition was a form of meditation. Have you ever sat still, closed your eyes, and listened?

Try it. I dare you. I tried it and found myself feeling restless. I couldn’t feel comfortable with the silence within me. It seemed like it had no direction. I felt guilty sitting in silence. My mind drifted to many places.

Kitchen places, bedroom places, cleaning places, laundry places; then I pushed those thoughts away and went to my creative place. It seemed empty at first. A piece of paper. A pencil. A figure. Movement. It comes in puffs and spurts. As long as I linger, more comes. Just like the composition of John Cage, I start to hear the creativity of me and that around me. I feel encouraged. I can do it. It didn’t rain.

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Still the New Year

When looking at the calendar, I find it still time for new endeavors and renewed enthusiasm for the goals made previously.

This year is an interesting start. Sometimes I think of other authors and how they journeyed towards their work. It reminds me of Charles Dickens. He wasn’t a poet in the formal sense but his prose had so much “poetry” in it.

Holiday hustle and unending bustle, I worked on achieving some zen.

Calls were made with “business as usual”, all to ensure that daily activities were not delayed by holiday hurry.

Its brilliance is the universal truth of reflection. I can’t help but think that Dickens put himself into all the stories. He had several children, and worked while in their presences. He would have to have some Scrooge-ness. His ability to hyperfocus is too much to believe. Let his example be my challenge at this traveling phantom year.

As I write, I’ve attempted writing while in the presence of family.

Qué susto! So much harder than when I’m alone. I read the same sentence two and three times. I got up from my work and came back for another attempt. Better. I wrote more. Stop. Scratched my head and twitched my mouth. The words comeback slow but sure. I think I can do this.

If Dickens did, why not I. I think with practice, I can improve on my writing schedule, utilize every time and day.

Progress makes its best success in small moments that keep occurring. Yeah that’s it.

Progress arrives with practice. …and tenacity.

Dickens and his family.
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National Novel Writing Month

I’ve decided. I’m doing this. Excitement and in-trepidation are woven throughout my being. I frustrate so easily when something big must be accomplished. You can’t make anything great if you don’t put something down! This post will be short, sweet and visual. I will make the most of the time spent with my words; may they work and thrive and develop a life full of robust characters we love to hate and cheer for because of the incredible empathetic need to connect. Amen.

November 12, 2023

It is day 12 of Nanowrimo Month. I actually got some work in. I’m glad, but boy am I slow…… Just like the cat in this poster; I seem to fall asleep faster in the month of November than any other month. Why is that?

Can it be that it is the one month I choose to accomplish something super significant for me and I am met with retaliation of the world and life around me. How many feel the same? Give an AMEN if you are feeling the same.

I chose not to make a separate entry for my blog post because I feel like this is a continuation. One that may, I hope be a good long one as the end of the month arrives. In this endeavor I am realizing that I always bite off more than is recommended for someone with my challenges. As I listen to my husband caring for my disabled son, entertaining him, I hear him say, “I have to write the schedule, Papito. Let me write the schedule.”

Oh, my! What a valuable treasure to hear. For once, the shoe is on the other foot and I’m not wearing it. 🙂 How did I get so lucky today! Hallelujah! I can sit here typing and typing because my man is being noble. He hasn’t disturbed me once today.

How wonderful to find some small patches of little miracles that soothe my soul and help me grow in my written endeavor to create my stories.

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Caregiver

She pushed herself on a daily basis, not knowing how much more she could do for him. His condition limits quality of life for all who surround him. The routines felt numbing at times, their predictability endless. She wanted to earn her money from her efforts, but as a caregiver, there isn’t compensation. She’s told to take care of herself, but she isn’t paid for her services. How can she spend the money to care for herself when or take a nap or exercise if she is the caregiver?

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Contentment

bible.com/bible/116/php.4.13.NLT

No matter how foggy my brain can be, I will continue to work on my goals; improving my writing, teaching and learning. Creating is essential to growth. As hard as seizing the time to sit and write may be some days. Each moment that I put pen to paper and shut my critic off, I make progress. Be content in the struggle.