In the Dark

It is unfortunate that Congress had to take additional action on this issue, but the prospect of leaving millions of consumers in the dark was simply unacceptable. - Rep. Edward Markey.

The House voted today to delay the digital TV transition to June.

Get a radio. Read a newspaper.

The Day Before (Part 1)

I am choosing to continue writing about my mom's passing because it has been very therapeutic. I am not wallowing in pain, stuck, or bitter - at least I don't think. I am facing the moment and allowing it to be what is. This is new territory, and, to be true to the blog, these are the happenings of whereabouts, Danville.

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I was at Mary Freear Williams memorial service at the Presbyterian Church of Danville when I received the phone call. It was Aunt Lisa, my mom's sister. "She's probably worried about how I'm making out with no electricity," I thought, and then attempted to refocus on the service.

Freear was a wonderful, delightful woman - her love of others goes unmatched. The service was quite unique and celebrated her life creatively. Don Good, Freear's husband of 18 years, had organized a band to play several selections throughout the service, but the shoddy weather prevented their presence (Don was the fellow I visited on the day of).

So, when it was time for loved ones to bring symbols of Freear's life to the front, the band was supposed to be playing Amazing Grace.

Don, slowly walked to the front of the sanctuary and peeled the harmonica out of his pocket. There was a moment before his lips bore down on the piece of metal where heads were shifting from side to side wondering what was about to transpire.

Don wailed away a jazzy, soulful rendition of Amazing Grace that filled the sanctuary with a mournful piece of resolve. It was perfect. No words, just heart - a broken, but resolved heart.

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After the service, I checked my messages, called my aunt back, heard sniffling, jumped into the car, and started for the hospital. It was almost time, mom's breath was getting shallower. In transit from Danville to Lexington, which takes about 45 minutes, I called my dad. The conversation consisted of 10 words. "Hey, you hear?"..."Yeah."..."OK."..."Call me."..."Over and out."

I didn't speed too much, ran a couple of yellowish-red stop lights, and called 911. Maybe the cops could take me there faster, I mean, they have done that for me before (late for an ACT test).

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Ummm(sniffle), my mom is kind about to die at a hospital in Lexington and I'm in Nicholasville and there is a lot of traffic and I was wondering if I could get some help getting there quicker, maybe send someone."

"Ok, calm down, where are you headed? Ok, good, do you see [name] street?"

"Yes." Perfect, they have an officer real close. I'll hop in and he'll speed me up there, I thought.

"Well, take a left there, then at the end you'll wanna make a right onto Harrodsburg Road. That will take you straight to St. Joseph's Hospital."

Let's just say, I didn't get lost, and I made it to the hospital in under the typical 45 minutes. Thanks 911.

The Day Of

It is hard to go to sleep one night, and know, without a doubt, that by the time you wake up in the morning the person who brought you into this world will have passed on. You try to stave off sleep, flipping through TV channels, rustling in the down comforter of a hotel room - the red numbers on the clock changes from 3:51 to 3:52. To accept death is to accept life. And to accept this is to let go and move on, while remembering, and going to sleep - a wonderful, peaceful sleep.

I woke up groggy and disoriented. I met my cousin and aunt and we sat in the parking lot for ten minutes before deciphering a plan. I was out of it. We left Lexington for Danville, and after eating a hearty lunch, I crept into the church, hoping I wouldn't run into anyone. I slowly made my way down the hall and stopped within hearing distance of the gym. Several kids and adult leaders were laughing and joking around with one another. I smiled. I checked email, made a few phone calls, and then suddenly stopped.

It was one of those moments were time didn't seem to exist. My mind recounted the past 24 hour's events - think John Madden play-by-play recap of a football game. The events sunk in, I blinked, then rustled to the car.

I went to the sanctuary of the Central Kentucky Wildlife Refuge, 20 minutes outside of town. The ice hadn't melted from the trees, so I was anxious to beat the final flickers of the sun's last rays.

The dripping of the forest and the almost silent chirping of the chickadees mixed together, singing rebirth. Spring is coming, and with it new things.

I decided to drop by a friend's house, his partner having passed on just a while back, thinking it would be good time with an old hippie who spent his glory days in Colorado.

After driving another 10 minutes away from Danville, I noticed that power was still out at his farm. We greeted one another with big smiles and some chicken feed.

We fed the 70 chickens, horses, cats, and dogs - farm chores. I am allergic to horses and cats, but no matter, we paced to his work shed where we were graced with warm wood stove.

We chatted for what seemed a while, and I couldn't really tell you too much of what we talked about. I just know that there was heartfelt laughter, stories told, teary eyes, and loved ones remembered.

A good end to a good day.

Painless

Many have tried to muster images of what heaven would be like. Clouds, angels, and unending light. An ever-lasting dance. Complete union with God, questions answered, dreams fulfilled. The song, Amazing Grace seemingly attempts to define heaven.

When we've been there ten thousand years...
bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise...
then when we've first begun.

An evangelical writer, John Eldridge disagrees and once said that heaven can't be about singing hymns for eternity. It is a complete reunion. I agree. Well, at least I hope heaven isn't about singing endless hymns.

I think heaven is pain free, painless, the end of pain.

My mother passed on yesterday morning, and the last thing I said to her was, "No more pain, mom, no more pain." I don't know what heaven is like, but, on no justifiable grounds, I'm sure there is no pain.

Diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia/Alzheimer's in 1997, her long journey with the incurable disease began. She lived with my grandparents in Kentucky in the beginning stages, then digressed into a nursing home. They say the disease degenerates the mind to the extent that the person gets younger. By that I mean, they will begin to loose manual dexterity first - the last thing a young child learns - and move backward. Speech skills falter, then use of other extremities wanes. She was bed-ridden by 2004, and used a feeding tube soon thereafter.

This past summer, doctors termed her illness as terminal rather than chronic. This meant that the feeding tube could be removed. I know there are huge ethical questions surrounding the topic, but our family agreed it was the right thing to do.

She was transferred to a Hospice unit in Lexington about two weeks ago, where she received excellent care. Her struggles finally ended, and now she is free to dance painlessly.

There are probably some who would disagree with me posting such personal information on the net, but I strongly disagree. I think it is just to relay to people, by whichever means, that yes, everything will work out just fine (addage from Beau Weston), but that doesn't mean it won't hurt. Life is filled with struggle and pain, and rightly so. Without it, love would not be able to triumph. Somehow we have been shielded from this fact by the pacifiers of culture.

It is good that my mom passed on, but it hurts. I'll be sore for a spell, but it just takes one foot in front of the other. And as I told my sister, "She'll be right, mate, she'll be right."

Adult Lock-in

At noon today, over ten thoused people in Boyle county were said to be without power, the National Guard set up a water station and traded guns for chainsaws, and the community continued to eek out of their cold and dark homes to provide helping hands. The Mayor has asked everyone to check on their next door neighbors to help alleviate the Danville Police Department.

In the wake of this State of Emergency, there has been an outpouring of charity and goodwill. Two shelters have been opened around town, volunteer clean-up crews are being assembled, and phone lines are busy with concerned citizens looking out for their friends.

There are several aged couples and myself staying at the Presbyterian Church tonight. Murmurings of this event being an adult lock-in have resonated in the church halls. The middle school youth group has a lock-in each November.

"Now remember, boys need to stay in this room and girls need to stay in that room. Blue and Pink. No Purple. I will be staying up all night on watch," I joked with a couple.

"Didn't you hear? This is a honeymoon sweet! And if you hear any snoring, it isn't me!" a male church member retorted.

We should have more adult church lock-ins. It has been fun seeing everyone filter in and out of the church without any scheduled 'programming.'

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The ice downed branches and utility poles alike.



















This is Main St. and 3rd, from a similar view as the banner at the top of this website. Darkness consumed the area, minus the atypical wafarer.















A neighbor's car was trounced by half of a tree. It will probably be totaled, with damage to her roof and rear window. The engine must still run just fine - maybe I'll make an offer.





This lonely lamp was the last source of light heading East on Main Street. Having walked back and forth from my apartment to church at night, the environment felt awkwardly similar to the movie, I am Legend.

Ice

Ice, an inch and a half think, covered branches the size of a pencil. Rain was steady for most of the last day, and upon impact froze to its victims. Trees are bowing to Mother Nature, some falling to the ground completely in adoration. Water was turned off, cell phone towers are still out, and no electricity equaled no heat. A lit candle will increase the temperature inside a tent by a degree or two. I played Risk with some neighbors in a small room with about 50 candles. We were very warm.

I woke up this morning to the sounds of limbs crackling off trees. As they hit the ground, the ice shuddered off with a sound of glass breaking. Silence.

I took a walk down Broadway and awed at the sight of downed electrical lines and demolished trees. I passed a house and saw an 8th graders finish his perfectly formed snowball.

"You having a snowball fight?" I asked.

"Eh, not really," he shrugged. I knew his disappointment.

"Here. You get one shot at me - no, not that close. Ok, have at it," I proposed as I spread my arms out like a winged target. He wound his arm, and heaved it as hard as he could.

Wwwoovvvsshhhh. Good aim. I did a rendition of the matrix and dodged my head out of the snowball's trajectory. It would have walloped me square in the nose. The kid smiled. We walked down the street, exchanging news about the weather and excitement about being out of school.

"Good to meet you," I said, "Maybe if you are here when I get back you can throw another snowball at me."

"No ducking this time, though," he shot back.

Miss Marilyn

This is a short story I wrote last year.

The halls were cold and barren, giving life to nothing, not even pictures or art. Corners felt lonely without the company of plants or fake trees. The lobby produced vintage couches and tables, but a modern area carpet - quite the contradiction. Vintage couches for vintage-aged folks finding themselves in the mess of modern times. The last place they ever imagined spending the last days of their lives was a nursing home.

I walked down those halls that day, noticing the lack of fragrances or colognes filling the air. I guess old people don’t wear them. My grandfather once wore Old Spice, but he wasn’t in a nursing home. I’ve heard that the one thing people who live to be 100 years old have in common is that they all never wore watches. I took of my watch and went in search of Miss Marilyn.

She was never in the same room. I guess the nurses had to keep busy somehow, or at least distract themselves from their urine infested breathing. They liked to play games, I thought to myself as I completed the circle, right back to where I started. It pained me to visit Miss Marilyn, and walking in those circles, clueless, didn’t help.

I took a deep breath, and paced counterclockwise back into the maze. Down the hall, I could hear a man shouting loudly. Upon discovering the culprit, for nursing homes are normally full of whispers and mumblings, tears started to well up in my eyes.

“Iffff…..I haddd……a million…..DAWLERS,” he sung. “I’d buy me…a…new….wife.” The African-American looked to be in his nineties, fragile, but full of spirit. Besides, he’d buy a new wife. He attempted another round of singing, slowly raising himself from the wheelchair, but his strength escaped him as he suddenly hit the seat. No one was in the lobby to hear him. He didn’t care. I couldn’t bare the thought of all the lonely, and seemingly ignored, people.

“Hey Marilyn,” I whispered softly in her ear. She was resting, like always. There was nothing - no response. Her eyes did open, though, but they did nothing after I waved my hands directly in front of them.

Miss Marilyn had a million pictures surrounding her. They were everywhere. On the window sill, tacked to the walls, and laying in piles on the nightstand, where they remained untouched for several years. Reality set in once the feeding tube monitor buzzed.

She was Miss Lewis County back in her youth. A smart, loving woman, she moved to New Jersey after getting married and then gave birth two children. She was a school teacher and horrific photographer, but the multitude of pictures she captured made up for it. The pictures were always of her children.

I’ve heard many stories about Marilyn. She is a corny and stubborn woman with charm to win over the most skeptical. Its probably this charm that draws me to visit her every once in a while. I usually show up unannounced, for Miss Marilyn doesn’t talk anymore. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at age 51. Her son was in high school, and daughter in the 6th grade. Meredith took on many of her mother’s attributes, and that was another reason I went to the nursing home, for Meredith. What a tragedy, I thought.

I told Miss Marilyn what her son had been up to, graduating from college and all, recounting ridiculous stories that would have embarrassed her. No response.

I soon grew tired. Visits usually lasted about fifteen minutes anyway. I took a few steps back, turned to look at her, unaware of the movement wetting my cheeks.

I prayed a quick prayer, retraced my steps, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Goodbye Mom,” I said. “I love you.”