Deathbed

Yesterday was remarkably peaceful.  I could feel the prayers - love and support and comfort - whisper around me, like fingers against my forehead or arms around my shoulders. 

So I rested.  We gave Dad morphine in the morning after a restless night and we all - Mom, Brother, me, Dad - lapsed into this gentle sleep. 

"Mom's worried that he hasn't moved since we gave him the medicine," Brother said when I awakened this morning.  I nodded and paused to brush my teeth, then moving to the living room to have Mom express her concern directly to me. 

"They'll bring the hospital bed today," I said, settling next to her on the couch in front of the window.  "We'll move him then." 

I joined a teleconference, hopeful that my efforts would assist in landing me the job I covet.  The bed was delivered while I was talking and I finished up my portion and came back inside to look at the adjustable contraption. 

I rested on it when Mom asked if it was comfortable, squirming a bit and pronouncing it fine. 

"Should we give morphine?" I asked before the transport team arrived to help move him.  But we debated, deciding he was so peaceful and the last dose seemed to last for so long, and decided to wait. 

Dad groaned in pain when Mom moved his leg.  He'd let it dangle to the floor from the couch and the adjustment hurt.  But it was nothing compared to the coming onslaught.  Five or six people arrived to help move him onto a 'transport sheet' which would then be used to shift him from couch to bed. 

And my kind, gentle father - rendered even more so by his current condition - called out in misery.  'Ow ow ow,' and 'you're hurting me' and I tried to speak soothingly until I broke down in the face of such suffering. 

"I'm so sorry, Daddy," I sobbed.  "They're almost done - it's almost over."  But I lied - over and over in that 3 minutes - as they continued to roll and nudge and arrange his diseased body.  "Oh, God, help us," I begged and sagged when they finally finished, shivering with reaction and weeping at the side of the bed, holding to the siderails and begging forgiveness from my dad. 

I let them hurt him. 

This man who always protected me - who drove me to turn in my thesis after my committee delayed my defense.  Who drove 6 hours to deliver a snowblower when I called - exasperated - and said I could not clear my sidewalks.  Who held me when I was scolded at my first retail job for sitting down instead of straightening.  Who cheered me on and beamed with pride and loved me too much to leave me in the nursery when I was born.  And ever since. 

Aunt and Cousin came afterward - I had Mom call as I was falling to pieces and had nothing left to comfort her after the trauma of our afternoon.  They came and prayed and cleaned and hugged and patted.  Brother came back from work.  And we all gathered around this bed in the center of the living room and took turns talking softly and crying hard.  Because the end seems to be coming more quickly now.

The evening has turned to shit - literally.  Changing pads and hurting him more as we roll and clean him.  Brother says 'I love you' before we begin each time and it makes me physically ill.  This is not the love you speak of, is it?  The kind that is elemental and disgusting and viciously loyal? 

Trembling once again, I went to the front porch to sit on the steps, Blackberry in hand.  I scrolled through new emails and called the head interviewer when I saw a request for us to speak tomorrow.  He returned my call and I asked him to just tell me the results - 3 good candidates but only 1 job. 

And he didn't pick me.

So I took a breath and gathered my bruised pride and broken heart and returned to the house, the sounds of Dad's restless mumbling emerging from open windows.  I told Mom and Brother and saw Dad frown as he listened.  Then we had to change the linens once more.

I sat to write this post, tapping lightly on the keyboard as I sat in Dad's chair above the head of his deathbed.  I was nearly finished - having finished the first sentence of that last paragraph - when Mom said my name and that Dad was going.

"No," I replied, in my typical state of denial.  "He's just resting."  Still, I rose and sat by his head and prayed yet again.  I've done little but pray and cry today, honestly.

"I think he's gone," Brother whispered after we said Amen.  But I thought I heard him breathing - shallow but peaceful.  But then I couldn't find a pulse.  And even after turning off the waterfall noise we had in the background, I couldn't hear him breathe.

"Is he gone, Katie?" Mom asked, covering him with another prayer shawl.

And I nodded and bent my head to grieve. 



"I'm fine," I said, gulping back tears.  "I prayed about it and it's really OK.  I understand. 

Levels of Difficulty

"This will," Friend told me, "be the easiest and hardest thing you've ever done."  And - as she is so much of the time - she's right. 

The love flows - clean and smooth and constant - and there's this acknowledgement of the goodness in the world.  When I link my fingers - stubby fingers on wide palms - with Dad's and note the similarities.  Mom and Brian have more elegant appendages - longer fingers and less pudgy palms - but mine are like Dad's.  And - unlike my younger brother and mother, I don't hurt him when I lift or nudge.  And though I'd always wished for prettier hands, I'm somehow proud of these that I have now - so like my dad's.

"You know that phone commercial?" I asked Dad's sister when she came to see him yesterday.  "It gets terrible signal but is a dog whistle and tells you if your family members are birds?  I get miserable call quality on my phone so Dad's started asking me if he's a bird when I can hear him again."  And a ghost of a smile touched Dad's lips though his eyes remained closed while he sat next to my aunt. 

The girls came yesterday, talking to Brother and his ex-wife on the back porch before moving into the living room on small, quiet feet.  The photos I'd ordered of them with a horse they'd visited on their last trip to me (a post I drafted but didn't publish) had arrived so they each took their envelope and flipped through images. 

Brother had coaxed Dad awake before they entered but he'd fallen asleep again so Mom approached, rubbing arms bruised from his recent hospital stay and asking if the girls could give hugs.  Little One went first, bending at the waist and resting her head on Dad's chest while he wrapped one arm around her.  "I love you," she said when her mother prompted it and Dad immediately murmured he loved her too. 

Smallest One paused in her examination of the new items in the room to scamper over and embrace her grandpa.  Strands of her blonde hair touched his chin as she cuddled for a moment, happy little voice reminding him she loved him as he returned the sentiment.  I watched alone, Brother needing to walk outside and Mom down the hall to gather their composure. 

"Grandma's crying," Smallest told me when I scooped her up and gulped back my own grief. 

"That's OK," I replied.  "She's a little sad right now."  She nodded and considered it for a moment before smiling and lifting her hand from my shoulder to point at the oxygen in the corner and inquiring over its purpose.

"That's in case Grandpa has trouble breathing," I explained and glanced around at the wheelchair and commode, walker and bags of supplies for wounds and the spots on his leg that have opened to leak fluid and wipes and blankets and pillows and cushions. 

I walked in my parents' bedroom - the one I used while growing up - and thought it smelled like death.  But the weather cooled and we opened the windows, blessedly fresh air and sounds of birds and bugs and life streaming inside. 

We sleep and cry and laugh and struggle.  And there are moments where it's almost impossible - clinging to Brother and saying that I absolutely cannot do this after we've taken Dad to the bathroom and he was too weak to stand, sagging in my arms and resting his head on my shoulder. 

But then there's peace - sitting next to him as he perched on the side of the bed, lifting his head to speak to someone and reaching my hand to him, palm cupped to take whatever imaginary items he's offering me.  I brought my hand to my chest afterward, feeling the echo of his fingertips brushing my palm and fought to release him - to allow him to move on from the discomfort and sadness that's here.

But then we giggle - awaken in the morning and gather in the living room - the four of us - and tease Brother about his inability to kill the fly we'd assigned him. 

"I'm like a ninja - lying in wait," he reports then I scoff when the fly lands on his chest and taunts him.  He did eventually get it, not long after I told my mother than Obama is not the anti-Christ.  Dad opened his eyes to frown at Brother and me for not being impressed with Romney and his new VP partner. 

"I won't vote," Brother assured him and he closed his eyes again. 

Thank you for the prayers - in whatever form they take - or thoughts if prayers aren't possible.  This is both startlingly easy and impossibly hard for me and I do deeply appreciate your responses to what I'd written here. 

Comfort

There's nothing more they can do for my dad. 

That's what I said when people asked - as I either wept when embraced by colleagues or trembled as I composed an email before leaving for home.  It turns out that my job was eliminated in a reorganization.  So I was interviewing last week, which was either a good distraction or a gross misprioritization as I stayed to talk about myself rather than rushing home to the hospital when Dad was admitted on Monday. 

I instead returned on Wednesday - the planned trip south being replaced with a more urgent one.  My bag containing a black dress and shoes that I certainly hadn't been planning to bring.  I've stuffed them in a drawer in the wardrobe that stands in the corner of the back bedroom.  But the time when we can pretend this situation is better than it is - remain in blissful denial and daily distractions - has passed.

We brought him home yesterday, all of us relieved that he insisted on leaving the hospital.  It would have been very un-Daddy-like to stay. 

Hospice came yesterday and I scrawled my signature under his on the consent and no-CPR forms.  Brother was closer - steadying the clipboard and pointing to the appropriate line for our father, but he handed the forms to me instead of signing them.  So I did, our brown eyes meeting in the saddest of gazes while Dad sat in his chair and Mom took a much-needed nap down the hall.

Dad's eyes are blue - a pretty, pale shade.  He's not in pain - we keep asking and medicating - but he murmurs and reaches while he rests.  Sometimes his eyes are open and glazed.  Others they are wide and sharp - with some mixture of fear or demand or inquiry. 

The first night - Wednesday - I told him that I was scared.  He replied that everyone is.

This morning I prayed, kneeling on the floor beside his swollen legs and curling my fingers around his pinkie and ring finger of his bruised and battered hand.  I reached for Mom and she stretched over him as they sat together on the couch with its extra cushions to provide height and softness.  And we asked for comfort and peace and readiness.

"What am I praying for?" the pastoral care lady asked and I started to cry, clinging to Brother's hand, and we turned to look at Dad.

"Comfort," he said, eyes barely open as he sat unsteadily in the recliner.  And I nodded, apologizing for my lack of composure as I waved my hands and tried desperately to explain that I didn't want him to be afraid or in pain.  I wanted God's will to be done in terms of timing, but for Him to prepare my daddy for the next part of his journey.

It's such a strange process - the mixture of profound emotional matters with figuring out how to go to the bathroom and why he's cramping (beyond the liver/kidney failure that's taking him from us). 

I therefore have moments of peace and clarity and those where I can't catch my breath beyond the sobbing.  Sympathy makes me cry more but I'd ask that you pray if you do such things.  I'd also ask that you do something kind today - buy someone coffee, adopt a puppy (and name him Jim), give extra to charity, call a member of your family.  Just something to make the world a little bit better for Dad's last days in it. 

Of Note (or Not)

• As of tomorrow, I am officially finished with my probationary punishment, in terms of both time and tasks.  I'm relieved.  And pleased.  
• I have been growing depressed - I felt myself withdraw.  Grow anxious.  Get viciously defensive.  Push people away who hadn't been swayed by the initial withdrawal.  I grew increasingly sad and hopeless.
• "Take more pills," Mom advised when I spoke to her this weekend.  I nodded in agreement and upped my dosage, slipping into happy/encouraging mode when talking to Dad.  
• He does the same for me - the happy/encouraging act that can only be sustained for minutes.  
• "Pray," I requested yesterday.  "The only time I feel anything less that miserable is when I'm praying."
• And today - by the grace of God - was better.  Not in that it was less busy or stressful.  But I was less exhausted and despairing.  I felt peaceful.  Settled.  Ready.  
• "Could you pray?" I request now because Dad's been off of chemotherapy for 4 weeks now.  Abdominal swelling.  Leg swelling.  Kidney function.  Excessive Potassium. 
• But he and Mom continue to run errands.  Watch the girls.  Talk to me by phone each day.  I want them to be peaceful and settled and happy.  So very much.
• This weekend, I write the cover letter to apply for a new job.  
• I need to find an old version on this laptop before writing said cover letter - I'm not sure I remember how.
• It's rained!  Chienne hides downstairs.  My weedy lawn grows once again.
• Nobody won American Ninja Warrior.  Did you see it?  Were you as disappointed as I?
• Who's excited about the Olympics?  (Me.  I am.)
• I'm now longer very excited about this post though. 

Proximal

For what could be the last time - for the end is nigh - I'm traveling with Sibling.  We've grown up together in our current roles - slipping into competitive patterns that blended gently into a genuine affection and respect.  We are not the very best of friends, but we are close.

She selected our off-day activities, wandering through a market before selecting a place for a late lunch.  Eschewing outdoor activities (as anyone who knows me is aware of my extreme distaste for being hot) for a local museum, we waited in line for tickets and wandered over gleaming wood floors to stare at paintings and sculptures, ceramics and furniture.

We were scolded for taking certain photos - traveling exhibits pose copyright infringements, I'm given to understand from a suited/headsetted guard.  But just because I took a photo does not mean I created it - I did, not after, build Amsterdam or Versailles.  Still, the artist certainly deserves credit - her touring pieces were undeniably compelling.

But as we wandered, Sibling and I talked.  How I was not offered the job for which I interviewed.  But how she, in contrast, was.  She was beginning to pack, preparing to move, looking over places to rent near New York City.

"You'll come visit?" she asked again and I shrugged and smiled.

"It's not my favorite place," I said, motioning to the Midwestern city we currently occupy that I actually like more.  "Busy, intense, overwhelming.  But, yes - I'll come visit."

 It looks as though I'll be completing some interviews here within my current company.  Not related to the probation period, actually - that should end next week - but because of some managerial changes that are altering our infrastructure.

"Just keep swimming," I murmured, thinking that it's what I tell myself when I'm tired and achy and not near a stopping point.  And I stared a bit too long into Dory's painted gaze and  hoped that life doesn't always favor the wise or prepared or deserving.  That sometimes kindness and mercy arrive from unexpected places.

I reminded Mom of this when I returned to the hotel and called home.  She'd forgotten to change Dad's pain patch on schedule and was consumed with guilt that he'd had such a difficult day today.

"It happens," I soothed.  "You're doing an amazing job taking care of him.  Everyone makes mistakes.  We all love you anyway, just like you love us."

"It seems like you could do that," Sibling said as we stood in front of the large pieces of art created from pins.  I smiled and shook my head, reminding her that I'm too impatient to make a single circle with tiny pins, let alone a bunch of them.

"It's very pretty though," I commented as we walked away, wishing I could take a photo.  (I did so from the floor above, but with a guilty feeling.)  "A conglomeration of small decisions and overall planning.  It makes me want to say something profound about God's plan and being present and doing the best I can with this moment." I told her.

But all I really had was the wisdom of Pixar - Just Keep Swimming.

Raining & Pouring

"I no longer hope for miracles," Mom said.  "It seems that time has passed."

Dad hadn't answered when I called this evening so I tried Mom, finding her en route from delivering the girls to Brother's house.  We chatted - prayer chains and Aunt's broken phone and mothers who don't feed or bathe The Ones in favor of passing the chore to over-burdened grandparents.

"I need you to stay on until I get home," she noted when there was a pause in the conversation and I nodded, telling her I understood.  "Hold on," she directed and I heard her draw a breath before opening the door, both of us exhaling in relief when Dad called out a greeting.

I did the same today when I got home from work and Chienne didn't race to welcome me.  I called.  And called again.  And once more before she crept from the basement, ears perked cautiously to listen for thunder.

"It stopped storming," I informed her, smoothing her coat and scratching her head.  "Pretty unsatisfying overall," I continued of the rain that sputters and stops, attempting to cool the Midwest and deposit some desperately-needed moisture to our crops before seeming to sigh quietly in defeat and make way for more sunshine and incessant heat.

There is so much oscillation - a merciless give and take that offers hope and yanks it back with a cruel giggle.

I should not write that - God is good and loving and I'm praying.  I appreciate any prayers you may have sent.  We are immeasurably blessed and while my current situation can be excruciating - desperately miserable - it is not constantly so.

I laughed with Dad when he indicated he liked a certain commercial - sparing a moment's gratitude for the agency which designed it and offered a moment of lightness.

"I'm alligator man," he noted and I looked up to gaze at the reddened, wrinkled skin on his feet and lower legs, propped as they were on extra couch cushions.

"It's finally draining," I said encouragingly, rising to wash my hands and smooth the sore skin that has been stretched around massive edema for weeks.

But they refill when he lowers his legs to sit.  And he's developing sores from sitting so much.

Mom sobs when she tells me - multiple times - of how he struggled to gag down some medication because his Potassium levels were elevated.

I beg him to eat, saying I know he's not hungry but he has to intake some calories.

Mom wept when I left yesterday, capturing the ever-elusive Mr. Sprout as he hissed and struggled and giving good-bye kisses through a small opening in my rolled-down window.

I returned to my house - its blessedly cool temperature and gentle quiet and access to solitude.  And to a job that is uncertain in more ways than I can bring myself to explain.

I, like the rain, ebb and flow with my interest in these goings-on.  I sometimes care deeply, my ambitious side emerging with vicious glee and manipulating everyone she can find.  But those storms are brief and useless - my overall attitude to endure and reserve strength for what horror comes next.

But it's raining now - a sustained and heavy deluge.  I'm left to hope that the shift with weather will do something for my mood as well.

Of Amstel & Dam

It's lovely even from the air, finding me twisting toward my window to try to get the proper angles as we glided among the clouds above AMS.  Twisting rivers, defined towns and acres of countryside - a perfectly sunny welcome to the Netherlands.

 I arrived, met colleagues who spoke perfect English and were refreshingly straightforward.  We had drinks then dinner in preparation for the Friday meetings and I went to sleep at the Crowne Plaza, positively delighted by the sleep-friendly aromatherapy and little burgundy notes throughout the room.
 

There's a small sign on the bathroom door that says 'small things make a big difference.'  I've decided that's the case when it comes to Amsterdam in general.  From the complimentary water bottle to the field of wildflowers nearby to the bed with extra pillows.  It's just a wonderful place to stay.

My meetings went well - were both friendly and productive.  I answered questions and presented material and indicated that I did not want to leave my current position, but might need to do so, asking them to trust that I'd direct anyone new to take good care of them.

I had dinner at Le Garage with the VI-iest of the VIPs in my circle, giggling with him and his wife as we nibbled at fish and drank a bottle of wine.  My colleagues were most impressed by his restaurant choice and I nodded when my companions made subtle motions toward celebrities I did not know.

"Does he play soccer?  Er, futbol?" I asked innocently more than once.  "I understand you enjoy that."

Upwards of 3 hours after my arrival, my cheeks tingle from the scrape of his stubble when he kissed me goodnight.

"Three times," he laughed when I pulled away after the first and second kisses.  "We Dutch are generous."

And they are - my taxi drivers were the epitome of friendliness so I chatted as I adjusted yet another of my dresses that are cut too low.  (I don't know why I insist on exposing so much cleavage lately.  Perhaps because dresses that are suitably knee-length and flowing try to be sexier in other bosom-based regions?)

Still, I arrived feeling pleasantly tipsy and nearly pretty with my glossy lips and curling hair and dress that flirted with the backs of my knees.  I fell into bed with absent prayers for Dad - they held chemotherapy yet again as his legs remain swollen.  I fear for what I'll find when I return home, but am eager to offer Mom some in-person support.

But I awakened to an email that said he had a good day.  Accepted Kool-Aid to drink and had eaten a bit.  In the event that God favors requests from others (which I don't believe, but am covering my bases), could you pray if you're of that persuasion?  I need him to be peaceful and happy - at least in some moments.  Please, please, please...

 I had a bit of a lie-in (wonderful expression) this morning as it poured rain outside my window.  Yes, I wanted to see the city center.  No, I did not particularly want to be uncomfortably damp when doing so.

Still, when I finally felt like emerging from my pillowy nest, the rain continued.  So I dressed and departed, acquiring a map and then catching the metro, bright green umbrella around my wrist.

It was cold and wet and I wanted to wrinkle my nose, but I mustered my happiness and followed the crowds of umbrellaed tourists down the street away from the station.  It was crowded and I subconsciously move away from crowds, finding myself alone on smaller streets without really meaning to do so.  Still, the smaller streets are charming and I enjoyed the pace - pausing for photos, juggling my umbrella and camera and bag. 

Content was I until a car sped down the flooded street, sending a television-worthy arc of water toward me while I winced helplessly - umbrella already folded at my side as the spray soaked me from ponytail to silver flats. 

So I took a boat ride, determined to dry out at least slightly, and took many pictures blurred by the rain on the windows.  I finally got my bearings and found the flower market.  Had lunch.  Watched a prostitute take a man through her door and behind her curtains (her dress matched my umbrella, actually - my umbrella had far more material).  I peeked in sex shops and inhaled while wandering past coffee houses, trying to determine if the slightly-sweet scent was marijuana during a break in the weather.  

It had started to rain again though and, tired of being wet if not tired in general, I moved toward Centraal and immediately found the metro I desired.  Slipping back to the hotel, I checked email to make sure all was well at home and fell into a nice nap.  

And tomorrow I go home.

Pamplemousse

The trip thus far has been lovely.  Meetings productive.  Hotels luxurious.  Walks beautiful and never-too-far.  I'm far below budget, sleeping reasonably well and finding delicious treats.

The bittersweet component comes in bursts - firecracker swift and loud and startling.  We were discussing healthcare last night over dinner.  I was savoring my roast chicken, already looking forward to chocolate cake, and the topic turned to affordable healthcare.

"That's fine in theory," I replied after it was said that some procedures return too little on the investment.  "But as I'm losing my Dad, I could see myself going up to and including murder to keep him just one more day when we reach the end.  It's just a visceral, human response to losing someone you love."

The conversation continued  and I reached past my wine glass for my water, needing the Evian to soothe my throat and found my hands were shaking too badly to risk raising the glass.  So I stared out the front window at the darkening French evening and helplessly prayed the moment would pass. 

On our walk back to the hotel, Adam and I chatted companionably and remarked over various items professional and pretty.  Placing my flats carefully on the uneven cobblestones between the perfectly manicured trees lining our rue, I debated but finally asked if my probational period was close to ending.

"What?" he asked and I wondered if he was stalling or simply tipsy and tired.

"The plan," I explained impatiently.  "You say I've done well.  I think I've done well.  So when is this over?"  And I nodded when he indicated there was one task remaining and that it was more his fault than mine that we'd not yet checked off that list.  We said goodnight and I moved into my room, kicking off my silver shoes and slipping out of my sweater that covered the plunging neckline of my dress.

"You're fine," I told myself soothingly, but the sense of failure - of shame and pitiful misery - left me breathless.  It took me several hours before I could relax into sleep, leaving me to skip this morning's optional meetings so I could rest.  (Which is probably indicative of my overall problem and why this probational period happened at all.)

I made the three hour journey to the airport - by foot then train then foot again.  Ridiculously proud of my financially and environmentally friendly commute, I grabbed my ticket, cleared security and found a spot for lunch. 

As I waited for my quiche to warm, I shifted my dessert and drink and said a quick but fervent prayer that Dad's oncology appointment would go well today.  That I'd find my professional path and move on it a bit more easily.  That the woman begging on the train and people with real problems feel love and mercy and comfort. 

Now, CDG, despite my frequent criticism, is giving me free internet as I wait to depart to Amsterdam.  (I just don't love this airport though - in all fairness - it's perfectly nice.)  I've not been there so my brain should be bathed in new sights and sounds and smells for the next couple of days before returning to spend some time with my parents. 

I do hope you're all well - that there's far more sweet than bitter in your stories of the day. 

Picture Postcards

Dear Canon PowerShot ELPH 500HS,

Thank you for accompanying me on this trip, like others we have taken together before.  Remember when we were in Versailles in February?  It's much prettier now - more colors to capture as the flowers bloom.  It's rather gently joyful, don't you think?

Some may find it rather pathetic that you're my travel buddy, but I've grown fond of wandering alone through streets and up paths with you dangling from my wrist.  It reminds me to pause and examine the moment.  To capture the way light glimmers and flows and how petals dance in the breeze.  And the output allows me to share pieces of my journey with those I love, though email and online.

I took a picture of us together in a mirror in the lobby.  I'll let you keep it to remember our fun and friendship.

Love and pretty pictures, Katie

Dear European Portion of Travel Adapter,

Please accept my apology for leaving you in my last hotel.  It was a regrettable oversight - I really meant to unplug you and put you neatly with your friends for the other countries and was dismayed to find you missing upon my arrival at my new hotel. 

It was kind of the housekeeping staff to find you and my colleague to fetch you in his car though, wasn't it?  I promise to be more careful for the rest of our journey.  The electronics demand your presence to refill their batteries so you're an important component of our operation here.

Sparky kisses,
Katie

Dear Waldorf Astoria,

I've have never stayed at one of your hotels before and I will happily admit that I'm impressed.  The buildings and gardens, lobbies and rooms - all exquisite.  I was just sitting on the velvet chaise lounge by my large window and wishing I had it in my house.  So - sincerely - nicely done.

Upon reading some reviews online though, I wondered if I might offer some advice around pricing.  I, you see, am using a very reasonable corporate rate (155 Euros) and am enjoying my stay immensely.  If you, however, demand upwards of 700 Euros for a suite - as nice as that suite may be - there's much more potential for disappointment.  Economic times are difficult.  Perhaps you could have a sale!  After all, you really are a place to sleep and shower.

With admiration and advice,
Katie

Yapping Dog Down Hall,

No.  Bad Dog.  This is the Waldorf Astoria, for goodness sake!  Dignity and decorum, s'il vous plaît.

Annoyed but whispering,
Human Next Door

Le Chauffer

“You should have told us before you had breakfast,” the receptionist scolded me.  I sheepishly apologized before remembering that she – in some sense – worked for me.  “It sometimes is difficult to get a car.”

“As soon as you can,” I repeated.  “I’ll wait until the car can arrive.”  Then I smiled politely and took my seat in the lobby as it quickly filled with other guests who had not requested rides in a timely manner. 

Ahmed, my driver, arrived first and stopped traffic with a casual wave, gesturing me across the street and into the back of his sedan.  I fastened my seatbelt, indicated that, no, I don’t speak French and set about the cheerful pantomime that accompanies my English regardless of which country I visit. 

“It’s beautiful here,” I told him as we inched along streets lush with vegetation on both sides. 

“Good bread, good wine, good cheese.  Good girls, good boys!” he replied happily in his lilting accent, making me laugh.  We chatted as we progressed toward the office and I admired the cool breeze entering the window as I gazed at fields of soft amber grasses and ostentatious medians – blooms of multiple hues literally tumbling in charming designs.

I cleared the security building and promptly became lost on campus.  “I found the building where you used to work,” I apologized to a new colleague when she came to fetch me.  “I’m not sure if I was distracted by the flowers or didn’t understand the directions.  But I was nowhere close,” I noted some 10 minutes later as we continued to hike through parking lots.

Upon arrival, I was offered a table in the middle of the room and decided everyone liked me so much that I had to be equidistant from each of the occupants so no one felt cheated.  I did, I decided, take extra care with curling my hair this morning.  So their admiration seemed sensible even though it placed me nowhere near an outlet.

We worked steadily until my first appointment arrived.  “I didn’t have anything in particular to discuss,” I told the women who joined me around my table.  But I answered questions and offered insights long after our scheduled 60 minutes had elapsed.  I need a challenge, I thought of my professional life, but it is lovely to be good at your job without really trying.  

We went to lunch (for-like-ever...) and I stood behind a colleague even as I wrinkled my nose over his choice of ham with some odd sauce.  After confirming that it was pork-body and not calf-brain, I asked if he could order me the same (as, again, I do not speak the French).  

"She wants the same," he said in English and I raised an eyebrow at him.  

"I could have done that," I murmured, trying to figure out how to act out "equal to" to the chef behind the counter.  My colleague quickly said a whole bunch of stuff I didn't understand (and which may or may not have been complimentary to yours truly) and I was handed a full plate that I didn't finish.  

"Oh, wow," I interrupted a French history lesson when I abandoned my entree to enjoy my dessert.  It was this delightful souffle sort of wonder with toasted almonds atop and was somehow at once rich and light.  "This is amazing," I continued as I ate it, shaking my head that my colleagues had access to such treats and did not partake.

I sent an email, using the card Ahmed directed me to use, and asked my new-friend-with-a-car to come fetch me at 4:15.  Then I asked him to confirm that 1615 suited his schedule.  

"Hello. ok thx." Ahmed replied and I decided we were unlikely to be pen pals.  Then he sent the same message again 14 minutes later and I decided he also thought my hair was very pretty today, being so obviously eager to see me again.

After completing some meetings but leaving a bit of work undone, I went to find Ahmed.  I beamed at him as I entered the security office - one of the few French who'd not scolded me and arrived ahead of schedule.  He deposited me in the back seat, closing the door gently  behind me and asking about my day.  

We retraced our route to my hotel and I rested a bit until dinnertime.  I decided a creperie was less shameful than a pizzeria and selected the closest one that was open on Mondays.  After asking permission, I seated myself at an outdoor table and ordered sweet cider while I frowned over the multitude of choices.  

Upon her return, the proprietor scolded me for not deciding quickly enough and watched me from the doorway as I became increasingly stressed and indecisive.  (I ended up with a camembert & salad brown-crepe and a chocolate-almond-whipped-cream pale-crepe for dessert - they were delicate and delightful.)  (My ever-present dining-supervisor was less so.) (Though she did bring me a spoon when I had more chocolate and whipped cream than crepe at the end.  So perhaps she was just bored.  Or couldn't stop looking at my prettily-curled hair!)

I wandered a bit, admiring the wispy grey clouds making patterns in the sky, before returning to climb the spiral staircase to my room.  I shall finish some work before bed.

And email Ahmed to see that he takes me to my new hotel tomorrow morning. 

 

 

Procedure

Step 1, I decided, was to pack and clean.  And so I carefully selected wrinkle-proof dresses and miscellaneous underthings, rolling them into the Vera Bradley overnight bag I received for Christmas.  I brought the same one on my last European trip - that happy time in February where I flitted across France and Italy and the UK.  My plans this time are less grand.  Meetings at the local office in France.  A quick stop in Amsterdam before heading home.

   

My life, this time, is much worse.  Step 2, you see, was going home.  Carting unhappy canine and feline and forgotten items from my family's last trip to see me, I arrived on Wednesday, taking advantage of the holiday weekend to steal a bit more time with my family.  

Step 3 was getting here - to this hotel in this suburb of Paris - and each time I wanted to wince at my plane-related discomfort or swear viciously at people who were thwarting my attempts to move through various lines, I would think, 'Is this worse than watching Dad die?'  So I would shake my head and pray with all my spiritual might, meager as that may be.  

He was grotesquely swollen when I arrived - pitting edema, Friend says - and his legs would barely bend.  I had to place my hand beneath his flip flop and lift as he struggled into the car on the way to the oncologist on Thursday.  The next morning found us at the hospital to have some of the fluid drained.  They took 12.3 Liters before returning him to us.

Can you picture 12.3+ liters of orange fluid on your belly?  Trapping you in chairs because you're too heavy to rise?  Unable to lie down because of the pressure and pain?  And so I sat, staring at him, as he slumped in his recliner or on the nest of cushions Mom made on the couch.  His head bowed, dozing at times, skin hanging from his face because he's lost so much weight but belly and legs distended from all the fluid.  Though I remained quiet, my brain was screaming - calling out in pain and fear.  

As I flew over the Atlantic, moving back to step 3, I wished - just for a second or two - that I would tumble into the ocean.  Disintegrate on impact so that this body - this place - can't deteriorate or attack itself or be abandoned by those I love.  But while I am profoundly sad, I am not suicidal.  I did not attack anyone in the sweaty passport-control line in the bowels of CDG.  I climbed on the train and not in front of it for my trip to the suburbs.  I continued to walk even when laden with luggage and miserably lost from 60 minutes of searching.

The man at reception found a room for me when I arrived, shaken and damp with sweat from the sunny morning.  He brought me a bottle of water before sending me up the stairs to get a cool shower and nice nap - I nearly kissed him. I showered, rinsing the travel and misery from my skin, and climbed into bed to let my mind and body relax into sleep.  

When I awakened, I sent email to let my parents and brother know I'd arrived, pulled on now-dry clothing (I packed light - there's no help for it) and went for a walk, map in hand this time.  I tried to enjoy the pleasant afternoon - the shafts of sunlight amidst shimmers of sprinkling rain, all against the backdrop of French architecture, of whim I'm inordinately fond.  And I did coo at the flowers and pause to take photos, stopping to say prayers at the churches, begging help for my family as fervently as I did yesterday while holding my parents' hands. 

"I ate a banana!" I scolded my calf when it cramped yet again after I rested on the bed I'm renting for two nights.  "Stop.  Relax.  I'm doing all I can."

And after I walked away the pain of spasming muscles, I decided to take my own advice.  Stop.  Relax.  Do what I can.  So I ate pizza (I know, but there were calf brains and snails on the menu of the French place!) and wandered back and think I'm sleep some more before going to the office tomorrow.  

We'll call that Step 4.

Mea Culpa*

I was introduced to a research group who had previously been unknown to me.  As is my typical procedure, I set up a phone call, indicated that, no, I don't have a travel budget that would tolerate a visit in person.  

So we had a call.  And I got overwhelmed by the quantity of research interests.  And one of the fastest ways to land in the 'deal with it later' pile of a busy Industry professional is to lack focus.  The best procedure?

1. What do you want from Industry?
2. Why do you want it?
3. Why would Industry want to give it to you?

In the absence of what information, I can't form an action plan and we just have endless discussions about how great you are and how much we like you but nothing really gets done.  

Still, as an Industry representative who cares about your needs and time, I should always (always, always) follow up with some offer of another discussion.  But let's pretend I deal with dogs, specifically.  This group liked dogs.  But they also liked cats and snakes and birds (of all colors).  Had more than a passing interest in zebras, giraffes and primates.  And those folks over there were fond of cows, chickens and goats.  And that guy in the corner who I couldn't really hear over the speaker phone kept mentioning seals, penguins and blue whales.  

In short, I got overwhelmed, knew I couldn't even begin to tackle this group to begin to make connections and prioritize and passed it off to another individual.  This person shall know be known as Useless.  

I sent detailed notes to the team - people who'd introduced me to this group, Useless, Useless's Boss, my boss and other who might be interested.  I told Adam I didn't have the network of cross-functional managers to adequately follow up and he agreed to the Useless plan.

I had a call to get Useless organized.

I wrote email to remind Useless that I was out of the office for family issues and asked that he keep me updated as meetings moved forward.  

I did everything right!  Hence the * in the title! (Except one notable thing.  Do you know the notable thing?)

Recently, there was a Severe Escalation (read: Everyone Panic!!) because nobody had contacted the site.  And now they were understandably frustrated and Important People wanted to know who messed up and why.  

So there was this flurry of emails and phone calls.  My contribution was to send my original notes, find the emails that indicated I handed off this responsibility and tried (mostly unsuccessfully) not to get upset.  

Useless was trying to follow up.  I got four Useless calls in the matter of an hour asking random questions until I finally advised that we all calm down and relax a little bit.  Then I took my own advice, picked Friend up from the airport and had a really lovely weekend with one of my favorite people on the planet.  

This morning, I drafted an email to the leader of the varied-interest group.  I begged her pardon and noted that we did need someone at a higher level to participate and had meetings to that effect, but something got lost in translation.  I explained that I'd been out for personal reasons and sincerely regretted that I'd not introduced her directly to Useless so that he could follow up.  I expressed our interest in learning more and advised some initial focus to get started.  Then I apologized again, textually hanging my head because I'd been bad.  

And this is OK because I did screw up - I should have included this leader in my follow up plan, ensuring everyone was completely clear on what I expected to happen next.  As I didn't do that, her perspective was that I still owned the next step and that was a fair (and frustrating) assessment.  Which I did sincerely regret.  

But!  Now this email - my thoughtfully-written, head-hanging email - is being circulated throughout the sales team as evidence that Headquarters Has Apologized and We Can Now Move Forward.  And I keep writing responses that indicate it wasn't really my fault!  If Useless were Reliable, we'd be finished by now!  I had email that vindicated me!  I was trying to be the bigger person here and maintain the relationship by taking a hit to my ego.  

But I can't.  Because that does nobody any good.

But at least now you know - * I do not think this was my fault.  And apart from sighing too loudly when Useless calls me (and ignoring said calls sometimes), it seems this was my only option for venting.  

Curb Alert

One of my first purchases upon finding a house was an inexpensive lawnmower.  I shoved it across the grass that surrounded my house in post-doctoral city and then had the movers bring it to my current locale.

I grew weary of my hands numbing from the vibrations, however, and decided to replace the green mower with a self-propelled red one.  Since then, said green mower has remained safely housed in my shed.

My mom, always supportive of underdogs, likes to use it when she visits and last weekend was no exception.  Brother drug it from the shed, using a nifty duck and cover maneuver to avoid the wasps, filled it with gas and yanked on the starter until it roared to life, belching black smoke of the quality and quantity that a dragon would have certainly been impressed and envious.

"Perhaps we should not use it," I shouted from the deck, but was unheard over the roar and then coughing too hard from the smoke to repeat my suggestion.  So I shook my head in affectionate dismay and came inside to tell Dad that Mom was at it again.

"Motor fell off," Brother reported when he walked in from the garage.  Mom followed, looking crestfallen.  (I rose to hug her in sympathy - it sucks when things get old and fall apart.)

"It vibrated awfully hard," I said gently, still patting my mother and she nodded, agreeing that it was also hard to breathe in the dense fog of smoke.  I stifled a giggle but met Brother's eyes and had to laugh.  "Perhaps we could give it away," I suggested, not wanting to try to piece it together again only to face the same problem next time.

"Curb alert!" Brother proclaimed, sitting down and reaching for Dad's laptop, tapping away with his index fingers to log in to his account.  "What else do you have that you want to give away?"

"Her desk!" Mom decided and I nodded my assent.  Upon buying my new couch, furniture got shuffled and my old table became my new desk and my old desk sat on my front porch for a couple days.  (Between my failure at yard work and storing furniture outside, my neighbors are probably ready to elect me Princess of Subdivision.)

"Now we wait," Brother declared a bit later, having published his ad and moved the two treasures near the road.  Mom, Dad, the girls and I all nodded.

I was spraying around my house for bugs when I alerted my family to the vehicle stopped out front.

"I bet he takes the mower," Brother whispered and I nodded in agreement, hurrying inside to tell Dad that someone was here.

"I bet he takes the mower," Dad said and I grinned when I informed him that Brother had anticipated the same thing.  Mom had walked over to chat with him, waving when he left and confiding to us that she almost made him take the desk as well.

I was upstairs with the girls when I heard Brother bounding up the steps.  "Someone came for the desk!  He's tying it on top of a minivan!  With twine!  Come see!!"

The girls scampered down and Mom and I followed to peer out the window and wager on how far he could get before the monstrosity of a workspace fell from his roof and splintered into a million pieces.  Brother narrated, counting the pieces of twine and number of knots.  Dad ambled over to shake his head before returning to his spot on my new couch.  The girls giggled and I grinned as I smoothed their hair, all of us leaning to get a better look as the van drove away.

I hadn't really thought about it - one of many silly moments when we laughed - but I was reminded yesterday when I took an unwanted container of peanut brittle to work.  My folks forgot to take it home and I don't eat peanut brittle, so I stuck it in my bag and set it by the coffee machine when I went to get hot water for tea.

I needed more tea a bit later so I returned to the machine and gasped when I saw that the peanut brittle was nearly gone.  I beamed, glancing around to see if anyone new was coming for crumbs and laughed when I realized that I was a little disappointed I hadn't waited to see who'd taken some and if it seemed to brighten their mornings.

It seems that - for better or worse - I am utterly a product of my family.

Courses & Obstacles

My family visited this weekend - Mom, Dad, Brother, his girlfriend, Little One and Smallest One made the trip and settled in on Friday night, and departing again mere hours ago. 

It is one of those wrenching moments when I acknowledge this may be Dad's last time here in this house that he helped unpack and advised on decorating and sweated through landscaping. 

I recall losing my beloved grandmother in high school and reaching to touch her at the visitation.  I recoiled when I realized how very cold she was, knowing nothing but warmth where she was concerned.

Dad's hands and feet - whether from inactivity or water retention or something else - are cold to touch.  So I found myself sitting next to him and dedicating myself to rubbing warmth back in his fingers.  His abdomen is distended and he isn't feeling particularly well.  He wanders the house at night, seeking a comfortable position in this world and it's so overwhelmingly sad.  The grief, even now, eclipses what I've known before and I struggle with and against it, even in tormented dreams.

The Ones are stunningly spoiled, making any and all demands and allowing little time to meet them.  But whether it's going to buy toys or visiting a playground or going to the fair, they are a beautiful distraction - smart and charming and delightfully cuddly at times.  Little One shared my room on this visit and her presence comforted me - I'd wake and look around, sometimes touch her hand gently where it rested by her cheek, leaving me to try to relax into sleep again.

We rode a train and bought food at farms.  We rode the merry-go-round at the fair and played 18 holes of mini golf.  We went shopping and ate out and giggled over television and internet. 

Little One is at the point where she's interested in family lore, constantly requesting stories and listening avidly.  I remember that stage - begging for slideshows that made everyone groan but treasuring the laughter that echoed through the house as we relived memories, sharing them with those of us who weren't yet born during the live event.

Brother worked, quite frankly, like a dog while here.  His decision to come was a bit late but I was quite happy to have him.  Even if he hadn't mowed and weeded my lawn.  Rid my yard of 8 wasp nests.  Fixed my front door which blew open in a violent wind.  Moved furniture a few times.  Attempted to correct my constantly-running toilet (which I finally turned off and will call a plumber tomorrow).  The boy is nearly 30 - which makes me shake my head - but is a good guy, despite the near-constant drinking.  I wish I knew how to help him battle those mental demons, but I'm proud and fond nonetheless. 

And we talked about American Ninja Warrior.  Brother made videos at the playground of him jumping over a step ("Everyone can do that," Little One offered in response.) and moving across the monkey bars.  We giggled and huddled a bit closer together in a too-hot house that made only Dad comfortable. 

I snuggled with Mom as we cooked and cleaned and talked.  She's helping me make sense of this professional could-be-opportunity so I feel more prepared for whatever news arrives this week.  We clung before they climbed in the car to depart, unsure of the future and what challenges it brings, but blessed there on the driveway to have had this time.

I'll close with a hopeful 'and many more...'