Hotel Hell, Alaska

In my defense, the picture on the website made it look nice. That was my downfall - it was cheap and it looked decent so I called for a reservation. THAT was when I should have gotten my first clue.

When you're traveling (by car - not RV) through a big, spread-out place like Alaska, you pretty much need to schedule your stops and have reservations ahead of time. We had decided we wanted to drive from Cantwell across the infamous Denali Highway (Highway 8) - which would be a full day's drive with berry picking, photo taking and bird watching mixed in (that's another story) and we knew we'd want to stop at the end and stay in an inn.

The town at the other end of Highway 8 is Paxton. On the internet I came across an inn in Paxton and called. Their rates were good and the lady I spoke to was pretty much normal. So done deal - I tell Ang and we discuss our potential itinerary and decide it might be neat to stay in that area an extra day. So I call back to extend our stay. Someone way less normal answered this time. The conversation went something like this:
Her - Hello (said as though through a strong barbituate haze)
Me - Hi - I just called a few minutes ago for a reservation, my name is Lynn ...
Her - (silence)
Me - Yeah - well, I think I want to add a night to my stay
Her - (prolonged silence)
Me - This is the hotel, right?
Her - Yeah
Me - Well? Can you put me down for another night?
Her - Whatever. We'll deal with it later. There's lots of rooms.
Me - Ok. Well. Ok. Thanks.

So - weeks pass - we're on our vacation - have spent a nice couple days with my friend Sue in Ninilchik, have gotten lost in Denali National Park (see my post - A Denali National Park Adventure), and have spent the last several hours on Highway 8 driving and exploring. We're ready to stop, take a nice shower, have a nice supper and go lay down.

We enter Paxton - it's small and very smoky - hundreds of thousands of acres of Alaska was burning and we were relatively close to that sad action so the smoke was really bad.

First we see a cute little inn and are all excited ... till we see the sign. The cute little sign at the cute little inn doesn't carry the name we're looking for. But within a stones throw of the cute little inn we see this huge, ugly, claptrap of a building. It does, sadly, display the name we're looking for. We pull over there, I get out (Angela is sure there must be a terrible mistake - she won't leave the car) and go in and try to find someone to confirm that a) I'm in the right place and b) there has been no terrible mistake.

The office is in what would be a bar in a normal place. But there will be no serving of alcohol in this Godly establishment (did I mention that the old ugly claptrap of a building had a brand spanking new chapel in the parking lot?) The odd thing was, though there was no booze, everyone looked and acted drunk. I mulled that over way too long, I fear. The lady I originally spoke to, apparently the mother of the zombie, checks me in. That whole scenario was weird and invoked images from Dawn of the Dead but once again I ignored common sense and signed the receipt and went out to get Ang and our bags. She's still hesitant at this point to leave the car but I convince her we can stand it for one night. It won't be so bad.

I was wrong.

To get up the rickety stairway you have to go past what was once a proper bar with the requisite neon signs and everything. But it was locked up with chains and padlocks and undoubtedly prayers for the destruction of anyone who would dare to look wistfully upon the place. That was odd. The stairs were odd. The room was odd. I had a sheen of smoke and sweat on me and yet, walking into our room I felt even dirtier. At a glance things might seem just a little off kilter. But then you notice a) the windows don't shut b) there are holes in the screens c) the sheets may or may not be clean and certainly didn't match d) if anyone has vacuumed in the last few months, they neglected for many years to change the bag e) you wouldn't want to use the towels and f) you really wouldn't want to take a shower.

Except that I really did want to take a shower. How can you screw up a shower.

God help me. I can't even go there - it was too horrible.

We take a little drive over to the cute little inn and beg the innkeep for a room. We'd take a broom closet, we tell him, we'll sleep in the kitchen. We'll pay you double. You must have checked into the "Bates Motel" he says with a grin. But alas, there is no room - he's booked solid and the smoke is so bad that all his birdwatching tours are cancelled and there is nothing for us to do but risk dying from smoke inhalation or go back to our room. We actually tossed a coin. We decide the only thing to do is try to go to sleep and leave as soon as we wake up.

Angela won't take a shower (can't blame her) and won't even remove her clothes to lay down. We do pull the spread down because we fear it more than we fear the sheets. We lay down, expecting to be bible thumped at any moment - or attacked by rightous dust bunnies - and close our eyes. Eons pass and finally I guess we went to sleep because we awaken to the same smokey view and absolutely no birds singing and no sound of happy coffee-filled people downstairs but indeed feeling a tiny bit rested.

Time to go. Post haste. I don't think I've ever cleared out of a place so fast. We hit the road, head to Valdez, and eventually are able to laugh about Hotel Hell. But I'm not allowed to make hotel reservations any more.

Pardon me, honey, but isn't he nekkid?

So this was our first trip to Alaska - 1997 or something like that. I had booked the entire trip online - B&Bs, the car, flights, everything. I was especially excited that we were staying in B&Bs the whole trip, I found that appealing (before the fact).

We were driving around outside of Homer, completely drop-jaw awe struck by every beautiful, different thing we saw. Moose were abundant that year and I was cataloging every moose sighting on video.

So we were on this long relatively deserted road, looking for moose and heading, roughly, in the direction of our B&B to call it an evening. Scanning the horizon I saw what I at first, and occasionally since, believed to be a grizzly bear. Not very tall, actually, which surprised me, but very hairy. Then I noticed it was wearing a hat. And boots. And a backpack. And nothing else.

Being the consummate vacation-sight cataloger, up came the video camera. "Slow down, slow down" I begged, "They'll never believed this!"Angela is imploring me to please please put the camera down. What if he doesn't want to be on video. What if he is crazy and has a gun. I figured crazy was a foregone conclusion, but, hey, it's not like he has a pocket for a gun. Besides, if you're outside buck nekkid, your image is up for grabs. Some things are worth the risk.

So we drove by, I chronicled the sight, we talked about it all the way back to the B&B and that's where the fun began.

Booking B&Bs online can be tricky. You typically get a good feel for the establishment, but not always for the proprietors. These proprietors were extremely religious. Which is fine, usually, unless you're a couple of gay chicks excited about a nekkid guy/local crazy. When we first got to the place, earlier that day, it was obvious the male of the couple was uncomfortable with us. I know for a fact he had a discussion with his wife, presumably about refunding us our charge and asking us to move on. But the wife must have said something to the effect of "get over it" because he reluctantly welcomed us to their home. We put it behind us relatively quickly - we're on vacation, after all, and if someone is uncomfortable with us, that's their problem.

But now we're back from our trek and Angela, being a demonstrative Cuban big on hand gestures, launches into the description of our nekkid guy the very second Mr. Religious asks how our drive was."We saw a nekkid guy hiking! He was about this tall (gesture) and he had on a hat and hiking boots and a backpack and otherwise he was totally nekkid. His (gesture, gesture) were hanging out but his butt crack (gesture, point) was the first thing we saw. We thought maybe for some strange reason he had on a g-string (gesture) but nope, he was nekkid - everything (gesture, point) was hanging out."

Mr. Religious is trying mightily to contain himself but he is beet read and desperate for a phone to ring or something to get him politely away from Ang.

I couldn't help it - I was hysterical. I knew from the second Angela started talking that she was thinking only about our Grisley Adams, not the fact that she was speaking to Mr. Holy Roller. Every gesture and point compounded his discomfort and it was so funny!

Anyway - we get home and I show everyone the video of our vacation. The comments from the peanut gallery were something like, "ohhh moose, ohhh mountains, ohhh dahl sheep, ohhh moose, DIOS MIO!, ohhh moose... "

Going down is the easy part ...

The Grand Canyon is a sight to behold. And a bitch to climb out of.

It all started one beautiful May day on the banks of the Colorado River at Lees Ferry, Arizona. Angela and I and a bunch of people we didn't know and didn't get to know, piled onboard a giant raft contraption for a three day two night river trip down to Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the Grand Canyon with an outfitter. And honestly, though the river wasn't as powerfully wicked those particular days as we'd hoped it was still fun and beautiful and interesting. The guides gave an ongoing history, geography and wildlife lesson and we'd stop periodically to take hikes and visit points of interest. All and all a wonderful trip down a beautiful river.

Let me get back to the rafts - they are huge. I think we had about 19 people on our raft and a waterproof duffel for each person or pair and foodstuffs and a camp kitchen to boot. We'd stop at lunch and hike around while the crew made lunch and go back down to the river and eat and rest and swim if we were so inclined and then pack everything back on the raft and take off again. Later in the day, well before dark, we'd pull over and make camp for the night. The crew would cook up a bunch of protein and carbs and campfires would be built and the beer and other beverages would be enjoyed and eventually you'd sleep. Well, that is, unless you're obsessing incessantly about bugs ... and snakes ...

Camping in the Grand Canyon has an awful lot to offer, the very least of which is a grand perspective on life. Imaging laying back on the bank of the Colorado with bats and birds swooping around catching bugs, the colors of the Canyon subtly and wonderfully changing as the light of the day fades, and all of a sudden nature calls in another way.

Going Potty in the Grand Canon entails an intricate and highly evolved series of events and hardware. The toilet consists of a large ammo can with a toilet lid, aka The Duke. The toilet paper is left in a conspicuous spot a few dozen yards away from The Duke. In theory, as pottier #1 you will retrieve the toilet paper and proceed to The Duke. Pottier #2 will realize the paper is missing and assume that there is a pottier #1 on The Duke and stand out of the way and wait till pottier #1 brings the paper back. That was bearable - but extremely frightening after dark. For me anyway. A flashlight can only show you just so many of the numerous perils awaiting you on a trip through the brush and rocks and rattlesnakes and scorpions on the way to The Duke. But God help me, sometimes you just can't hold it till sun up.

Enough of that.Going to sleep was another issue altogether. We're back to the rattlesnakes and scorpions here. I was an extremely fearful person back then. Not quite afraid of my shadow, but close. I had a major ordeal to go through each night to ensure myself that I was duly protected from snakes and bugs even though I was lying on a mat with nothing above me but the stars. I would spend hours visualizing a snake and bug-proof barrier around me and, I guess, eventually fall asleep from simple exhaustion. I failed on those mostly sleepless nights to visualize a barricade for coyotes. I awoke one morning to find tracks leading past me, stopping at my head, and continuing down to the "kitchen." Oh well ...

At some point on the third day we came ashore and hiked to Phantom Ranch. Phantom Ranch is a very rustic place at the very bottom of the Grand Canyon where hikers and adventurers simply lay their head and grab some grub. We were going to spend one night down there and hike out of the Canyon the next day. You sleep in bunk beds dormitory style - one big room with rows of bunk beds. One building for the women, one for the men. One big mess hall to grab your dinner, and the next morning, have a hearty breakfast and pick up a bagged lunch and hit the trail. For dinner you have a choice of two entrees - stew or steak. For breakfast, I can't remember ... I didn't sleep well and was really tired.

See, it's even more pitch black in the dorm than by the river. There is a roof blocking your star light and did I mention that the dark was one of the things I was afraid of? Plus, I snore - always have - and I was very conscious of not keeping our dorm-mates awake with my snoring. And I was also quite cognizant of the ever-present scorpions. An awful lot to worry about, let me tell you.

Enough of that. Day four - we awaken, albeit somewhat groggily, to a fresh and cool morning, grab breakfast and our packed lunch (a sandwich and an apple) and fill up our water bottles and hit the trail.You have two basic popular choices for hiking into or out of the Grand Canyon: Kaibab Trail or Bright Angel Trail. We chose Bright Angel Trail (a milder hike compared to the other trail) and headed up and out of the Grand Canyon. 9.8 miles of switchbacks and a mostly very gradual incline up to the SouthRim.

Ok - I don't know what possibly could have possessed me to think I could hike out of the Grand Canyon without a hell of a lot of drama and pain and exhaustion. I left the Ranch clean and fresh and looking human. I ended up many hours later with my clothes in tatters and covered in blood. Ah yes ... fond memories ...

It started nicely enough and, honestly, it is a sight to behold - the Canyon, the wildlife, other tourists hiking out with plastic sandles ... passing me ...

It is truly an adventure I'd undertake again, eventually, but this particular time was pure hell in a canyon. There are very few potty stops (one or two, I think) and just about as many watering spots. Water wasn't an issue this time (unlike during my Denali adventure). I had plenty of water. What I didn't have was energy, the sense to take advantage of the last potty stop or a change of clothes.

At some point, either I was goofing off or too tired to stand, I can't remember which, but I ended up shreading both legs of my jeans and getting dirt all over my clothes and face. I was a mess ... but that was nothing. We still had a few hours of hiking to do, well past the last potty station with no turning back - trust me on that - and yours truly entered "that time of month." God help me. Here I was tired, dirty, my hair looked like a tazmanian devil had nested in it, and now I was covered with blood.

Alright - we make it to the South Rim ... I, in relief, exhaustion and embarassment, start bawling my eyes out and make a dash for the visitor center ladies room. I'm staggering, I'm bleeding, I'm crying, I'm filthy and I bust through the ladies room door like a drunk, crazed canyon dweller who everyone suspected existed but hoped never to lay eyes on. And the place is packed to the gills with fresh clean ladies who just got off the tour bus to look over the edge of the rim so they could say they had done the Grand Canyon.Well let me tell you ... I cleared that place out in about 15 seconds flat. As the ladies decided "oh I can hold it" they fled the restroom like a flock of pigeons fleeing a cat and the door closed behind them on utterances of "don't go in there ... really ... you don't want to go in there."

I don't think I need to go into the gross details but after about 20 minutes of taking care of business and basically bathing in a tiny sink I was still tired and wearing dirty, tattered and bloody clothes, but I no longer cared. I had proven myself - I'd done what fewer than one percent of Grand Canyon visitors had done - and by God - I wanted a beer. So we marched proudly into the first restaurant we could find and settled in.It took slightly longer to clear that place out ...

A Denali National Park Adventure

So we were in Alaska, in Cantwell and decided to go to Denali National Park again. We’d been there twice before in previous years but what the heck, it’s a beautiful place so we went again.

We drove in to the park, drove as far as you’re allowed to drive then parked and set out for a hike. There is an extremely accessible loop hike around and over the Savage River, but we’d done that before and wanted something different … not too difficult but not too easy - so we stopped by the Ranger’s post to get suggestions. That very well may have been our first mistake.

Let me make this perfectly clear: we are not exactly triathlete material and we only had about a quart of water each. Nevertheless -Mr. Ranger set about explaining that if we headed up the first leg of the Savage River loop and instead of taking a right and going over the bridge, took a left and went up to the ridge, we’d see a nice easy hike down the other side of the mountain, through the valley and up the opposing mountain. He said when we got to that peak we’d see the Wonder Lake road and could just stroll down there and wait for a blue tourist bus to pick us up and take us back to the parking lot. Said it was an easy hike …

Yeah, right.

So we get to the bridge across the Savage River and look up to the left and, sure enough, see various people (quite a few, actually) standing/sitting/laying on the ridge watching a family of dall sheep who seemed to be, in turn, watching the tourist with some amusement. So up we hiked and once we got to the ridge we realized we had done this walk before and had actually gone a little bit into the valley. We figured we were up for an adventure - after all, we had two quarts of water between us and brand new hiking shoes to boot! We’d do the whole hike. Piece of cake …

At the risk of repeating myself … yeah, right.

So we’re walking - walking - walking - it’s a beautiful day, we’d see people ahead of us or down by the river here and there … at first. At least the trail is obvious and relatively clear - lots of boulders to shimmy over but that’s the fun part anyway.

At one point, we came across this dall sheep coming toward us on the trail. It was a stand-off. He decided he wasn’t going to move and wasn’t going to let us by. Trust me, we tried to reason with him but he chose to ignore us and graze and pee and generally be rude and non-responsive. This is important. We spent about 15 to 20 minutes on this outcrop trying to stay out of his way so he’d go on about his business. It felt like home away from home almost. I took pictures of the boy-o, admired the landscape below us and waited. Finally Angela decided she’d had enough and boldly strode toward Mr. Sheep who played chicken with her for a split second then jumped out of the way and stuck his tongue out at us. Really!

So off we go … hiking down into and through the valley for a couple, three more hours. Then something went terribly wrong. We had been walking for a while, the trail was getting thicker with brush, there was no one around but us … but we still thought we could make it. But then the trail eventually got so congested with brush and boulders that we finally realize we, at some point, had actually lost the trail.

Long story short (that means I don’t tell you about the roughly two dozen temper tantrums and panic attacks) - we end up down by the river; at times in the river, literally walking back and forth for a good half mile stretch looking for anything remotely resembling a path to civilization. We’re exhausted, the water is gone, it has gotten so damn hot, and of course the cell phone has no signal down there. I was ready to call for a helicopter to pick us up - I didn’t think I could walk any more. But so much for that idea.

Now - remember what I said was important? We walked along the river and got to a point where we were directly under the outcrop where we’d had our close encounter of the dall kind. Notice I said “under” … about 600 feet under. The only way to get up to familiar territory was straight up the mountain side. Think of it as rock climbing at the gym, but without a rope and with further to fall … onto the boulders … into the water.

Have I mentioned we’ve never rock climbed before? Sigh …

There is no other choice. The water is gone. We can’t exactly stay there - it’s been close to five hours at this point and we’re hungry and thirsty. So up we go. Straight up. I’d never in a million years imagined myself climbing, clawing, pulling myself straight up a mountain side. I had to step really high to get a foot-hold and get a death clutch on each hand full of tundra to hold on to and with every foot of progress I found myself alternately laughing with joy and crying with frustration … so far to go! And I was scared. I must have said the Lord’s Prayer about 50 times. Angela, in the mean time, has made her way up and is cheering me on. I claw and push and pull and finally I get over the edge and onto the path where Mr. Sheep had taunted us and fall onto my back sobbing and gasping for air and giving thanks and uttering curses all at the same time.

My hiking buddy is on her way … I yelled at her to offer the first people she saw 10 bucks for any water they had.

Finally, back at the little bridge, on the other side, I find her with a couple of lounging tourist, regaling them with the story of our adventure. I barely make it to them and collapse again uttering “need water … have money.” But these were kind folks - they gladly gave us all the water they had and boy, was I thankful for that! But we still had a hike to do to get back to the car. So off Angela goes and I trudge and stumble way behind her. I was so exhausted I had to just sit on the trail a couple times and rest. But I’d get up and trudge on and eventually I saw the cars and started a brand new prayer … “come back with water … come back with water … come back with water” … I was trying every visualization trick I knew to will Angela to head back my way with water. At least she met me at the trail head which was better than nothing.

So we survived. We went back to Cantwell, had dinner and went to bed by 7 pm sore and tired. I surprised myself, I must say. That isn’t the first time … I’ll have to tell you about my Grand Canyon Hiking Adventure. Now THAT was a trip …I

think I’d like to try rappelling next … on purpose, though.

Beaver Damn!

Beaver Dam, North Carolina isn't on most maps. You pretty much have to be already lost to find it. It's a small community up in the mountains on the "other" side of the Hiwassee Dam. Hiwassee Dam is a dam. Beaver Dam doesn't actually even have one. But that's neither here nor there.

We have 5 acres and a trailer in Beaver Dam, NC - we bought the property to use as a retirement place. We were looking for land and this was perfect and came with a bonus ... a very old but still ok mobile home.

The mobile home is basically alright - rain doesn't get in, no holes in the roof, it has a door ...... and mice ...

You only hear them at night. During the day there is plenty of nice mountain noise to mask their devious scuttling in and about the trailer ... they know this. They use the daytime white noise to get into place and practice their nocturnal choreography.

And then, at night, I'm tired from working and playing and hiking and I'm so sure I'll just crash the second my head hits the pillow ... I turn off the light ... and that's their cue.

March!March!March! - the little buggers must wear Army Boots to stomp up and down inside my bedroom walls! In sleepless delirium I can almost imagine them, in unison, like a cadence, singing "Up and down these walls we go ..."

And it doesn't stop. I throw myself at the wall, fists flailing and bang on the paneling and scream STOP IT! They do. For a moment. Then, before they start marching again, I'm sure that sound I hear is a mousy snicker.

So I come back from vacation exhausted and bleary with red eyes underscored by dark bags ... snarly and obsessing about mice in the trailer. And glad to be home ... in Central Florida - home of "The Mouse."

For RayRay

My goodness but you're growing up. And you're so beautiful and smart. I'm very proud of you.

I saw you recently and really wanted to say things to you but the time wasn't right. You were with your friends and I know 14 year olds don't want to hang around with their old biddy aunt, especially when with their peers.

But let me try now. Take of it what you can, make of it what you will. Know it comes from the heart.

But where do I start?

I missed a lot of your growing up. That is not only regrettable, but entirely my fault. In choosing to distance myself from my brother, your father, I ended up distancing myself from you. And I'm sorry about that. Maybe I'm being idealistic or self righteous or naive, but maybe I could have helped you if I'd been there. He didn't make life easy for you, either, but you seem to have come through ok. I hope so, anyway.

I grew up with a lot of terror and fear and scars from you dad. I distanced myself because I had to. Because I could. One day after a call from him I decided I'd had enough. I not only wrote him off as a loser, but wrote him a letter and told him I was writing him off as a loser. Not a pleasant thing to do. But done is done.

Your dad lived with a lot of demons, and I inherited a few of them as well. His drug abuse and alcoholism was beyond his reach by the time you came around. I think he wanted to be a better person, a better father, but he didn't know how - wasn't capable. I'm not making excuses for him, just sharing my views. Forgiving someone doesn't make them any less of a liar, any less of an abuser, an less of a violent, twisted person. Forgiving is for the forgiver. And I forgave. Eventually.

So years passed and your dad died. We all had mixed emotions, I think. Certainly you and I both did, I'm sure. So Tip took care of things and got Kelly's ashes and you know the softball field where we drove up and watched you play that Saturday? You know that stream that has a bridge over it right there? Well, I hope this doesn't freak you out but that's where we put them. Your dad's ashes. Tip and mom and dad and Angela and I met up there and went on the bridge and I was going to put them in the water because I thought he'd like that. But first I felt moved to say a prayer - that's what you do. And I have to admit that when I started saying the prayer I was saying it for mom's benefit. She was so overwrought, so sad and upset. I wanted to comfort her. But as I spoke, I felt the truth of my words and they weren't just for her, just for everyone else. They were for me and they were the truth.

I said, in part, "Dear Lord, I feel certain that as my brother saw death approaching - as he knew his time was up - he called out to you to forgive him and because you are a loving and forgiving God, you did forgive him and took him in your arms and took him to heaven." And RayRay, I knew it was the truth. I felt it in my heart. God always forgives and God always answers prayers.

You think I'm rambling now and maybe I am. But I have a point. Saying and believing those words healed me. Helped me. Cured a huge part of me. They helped me become a better person and a better daughter. I don't know why or how. Maybe it was just because my heart got a big bunch of cobwebs wiped off of it. But anyway ...

Months pass and we discover that my mom is sick. She has lung cancer. She goes into the hospital on April 1st (what a lousy April Fools joke, huh?) and dies on May 2nd. She'd spent a couple weeks in the hospital, a week in rehab (to no avail) and a week in Hospice House. When she moved into Hospice I moved in with her.

Are you familiar with Hospice? It's an organization, sometimes a place, where people who are dying can die with dignity and without pain. The nurses who work at Hospice Houses are angels on earth. Consider yourself lucky if you ever meet one.

Mom spent the better part of that week in Hospice in a drug induced coma, pretty much, beyond the first couple days she felt nothing. She was peaceful and calm and I was at her side the whole time. I spent those days and nights holding her and brushing her hair and making sure her lips were moist and praying for her and singing to her and telling her, "You let go whenever you're ready, Mom. There is nothing holding you here - we'll catch up with you later."

When mom took her last breath, I was there, holding her her, looking into her eyes. I felt her last breath, I saw the last glimmer in her eyes before she saw her Savior. I cried out "Thank you Jesus, for taking her home."

But see, I don't think I would have had the patience and desire and ability to spend a week at my dying mother's side had I not had those cobwebs wiped from my heart. I fear I would have done what the rest of my family did ... choose not to deal with it ... escape it somehow.

My week in the Hospice House, my exposure to those angels, made me realize not only that I had the patience for the dying, but that I wanted to be part of that fine group of humans. So I became a Hospice Vigil volunteer. I sit with dying patients and ease them on to the other side. I hold them and sing to them and tell them "you go on whenever you're ready ..."

I've kinda lost track of what I wanted to say, RayRay. That happens ... let me just try to pass some "words of advice" on to you ...

a) Believe in Angels - you are surrounded by them ... your dad and my mom, included.

b) Believe that you deserve all the love in the world - because you do.

c) Believe that God's Grace will touch you when you least expect it - and when you feel moved to reach out - to forgive - to build a bridge or tear down a wall ... follow your heart.

And know that I love you.

Be strong, speak true and love like there is no tomorrow.

Always, Aunt Lynnie

Purity

My dad had surgery today. It didn't go quite as expected, but everything is ok. In the Ambulatory Surgery Center the prep/recovery rooms each have a framed photo on a wall - always a flower but each room's flower has a different word ... "love," "gratitude," "sharing." The flower in my dad's recovery room said "Purity."

I watched him sleeping ... looking so peaceful ... and was touched by the way his face would light up and a smile would appear if I so much as touched his forehead or squeezed his shoulder. Even drugged and mostly asleep he knew his baby girl was with him.

I had never noticed before how much my father and my no-longer-with-us brother, Kelly, looked alike. It was shocking, actually. Kelly's been on my mind a lot lately, for a lot of reasons, and for long surreal minutes in recovery I was drifting between comforting my dad and comforting my brother. Surreal, to be sure, but also cathartic.

Kelly died alone. I had chosen years before to cut off contact with him. As time passed and word got to me of his illnesses as well as his troubles, I started feeling guilty. I'd help a stranger on the street but had turned my back on my brother. He was sick, weak, living in public housing in North Carolina and Christmas was approaching. I was thinking of him one night and felt the hand of God on my heart and felt moved to reach out.

I went Christmas shopping for my brother. I hadn't seen him in years, hadn't welcomed communication from him in years, but I remembered what he liked. I bought him a Summer Sausage (boy, we both used to love those), a jar of mustard, a carton of cigarettes, some stamps and envelopes and paper, and I packed it all up and included a card. I couldn't break down all my walls at once and was hesitant to face being rebuked, so the card simply said "I'm here. Merry Christmas."

A couple weeks later, shortly after Christmas, my brother's body was found on the couch in his apartment. My other brother, Lewis, had been keeping in touch with Kelly and trying to help and was contacted by the apartment management. Lewis went up to NC to take care of things and talked to people who lived around Kelly, his friends, and they said he'd been happy recently. He'd gone all over the complex telling people he'd gotten a Christmas present from his baby sister. He was proud and happy - I'd remembered what he liked. It had taken so little to brighten his life. And I cried and cried and cried and still cry.

So I'm in the recovery room, comforting my father and he gets an expression that looks just like Kelly. Just like Kelly. And he's sleeping but he's smiling because I'm there. I start to cry silently and this time it isn't the hand of God I feel on my heart. It's the hand of my brother, comforting me.

Too little too late, but ... I'm so sorry. And I do feel you with me. And I love you.

Recent events ...

I was scheduled for a vigil with an old fellow who was dying from prostate cancer.
But he died before I got there. How sad.
His wife is old and sick and battling her own cancers and couldn't be there.
Had been there but was so tired, she had to leave.
I think he waited for her to leave so she wouldn't see him die.

My other patient is an old man I go see on Thursdays.
He isn't actively dying, but is a tad disoriented now and then - Alzheimer's.
Can't take care of himself and has major heart issues which will get him eventually.
Sooner than later, I fear.

I went to see him this past Thursday but he was sleeping and on a full compliment of oxygen.
He had always been up and in his wheelchair waiting for me - waiting to chat and go outside and eat whatever treat I'd brought him. He likes candy.

I didn't wake him. But I left him a note. And a treat on his wheelchair - candy.
So he'd know I was there.

For Marion - 1978

God we've had our differences. The memories of late night arguments (Where were you? What were you doing? Don't you know how I worry?) come back to me every time I walk through the door of my dark, quiet house late in the evening. I remember the morning cold shoulders, breakfast in silence, the "if looks could kill" expression on your face every time I'd displease you. I didn't do it on purpose. We were just so different.

We were so much alike. Birds of a feather just can't roost together. I would do and do and do for you, trying to make up for the negative in our relationship; trying to appease you. I did try. I just never saw that you were trying, too.

How did you feel? Destroyed because I couldn't always return your love in a way you could understand; couldn't share the things that meant so much to you? Hurting because my soul was so obviously in turmoil and I wouldn't let you help? I was hurting, too. I didn't know how to let you know it.

Parting was sweet sorrow, but it made us so much closer. I eagerly anticipate our times together. It's a long drive to see you, but it's worth it. I do so love you.

You were the first woman I ever loved and the most important woman in my life. I've matured now, I can say that to your face and accept your embrace without shrugging you off. I do see that you did so much for me. You tried and tried when others would have given up, when I had given up. You gave me an example to live by, an example to love by, an example by which to judge myself. I think I'm a lot like you. If we could do it over again, I'd try to do it different, do it better; but I don't know that it would turn out that way.

I'm sorry for my anger and my temper and my refusal to let you into my life during the times when you most needed me and I most needed you. I'm sorry for the past, the hurt; which probably wasn't as much as it seems, but which casts a shadow over everything else. And I'm grateful for the present, for the joy that we share, for the love which is so abundant now and so willingly accepted, and so admittedly needed.

I wish you happiness and a safe journey through your life. May what time we have left on earth be spent as soul-mates. I love you, Mom.

A poem - 1993

Come to me, she whispered
Come to me, she cried
Come to me, I love you, she promised, but she lied.

Come to me, I need you - come to me, I'll try. Come to me, lay with me, stay through the night

Come to me, I begged her
Come to me, I sighed
Come to me, stay with me, don't say goodbye

The refrain never changes
It echoes in my mind
Come to me, I need you, come to me, I'll try

The door gently closes
Silently I cry
Come to me, lay with me, at least stay the night

Regarding My Mom’s Passing

My mom ended up in Hospice last year. She died of lung cancer and was in Hospice care for only a week before she passed. When she moved into the Hospice House, I moved in with her and rarely left her side. I held her, comforted her, prayed for her, sang to her, put cream on her skin, dabbed water on her lips and when the time came, when her realization came that it was time to go, I held her even tighter and let her know it was ok to move on, Mom, you go on – I’ll take care of things here.

After all was said and done, after I’d had time to empty myself of tears and to reflect on the sad strange journey that lead from my mom laughing at the dinner table to my mom dying, I realized two things. First, that what I had done for my mom was something that I was good at; that I had the patience to simply be there 100%. The second thing I realized was that I no longer cried as much any more. I couldn’t muster the tears for mundane tender moments or for someone else’s passing.

As a result of the first realization, I became a Hospice volunteer. A Vigil Volunteer, specifically. I sit with patients who are actively dying so they won’t be alone when they pass. Hospice believes no one should die alone. I believe no one should die without someone holding their hand at the very least.

Regarding the second realization – well, I still don’t cry as much as I used to. It isn’t due to a lessening of compassion so much as a new perspective of life … and death. I used to sob during commercials and at proclamations of love and such. But no longer – and no big loss.

But I do still cry for my Mother.

A Poem

I don't want to be a mother,
and see a crimson life tumble from my womb,
to make demands on me
and cling to me for years
and then insist that I let go.

Vigil

When she finally went to sleep, fitful though it was, she looked like a sad bobblehead whose noggin has gone slightly askance. Hanging to her left, my right as I studied her intently for any sign of distress, her head looked too big for that tiny, wasted body.

On the wall at the foot of the bed was a bulletin board with cards from her friends; only two friends, actually, apparently a married couple. There was one Christmas card with a Collie looking through a wreath and several birthday remembrances adorning the board. And a valentine that made me cry.

She isn’t a fan of the dark, nor of her diaper, which between the two of us we managed to undo and cease its evil annoyance. Me? I’m not a fan of the staff around her – waking her thoughtlessly and for no obvious reason.

She wakes, partially, and fusses and moans and readjusts the remnants of the evil diaper. Her movement is my magnet and I am at her side in a flash – vacillating in a calm yet frantic manner between holding her, just in case, or just settling for proximity so as not to wake her fully if it’s just a false alarm.

She’s an old lady with no one, really. Waiting to die yet not quite ready. There is a photo on a piece of utilitarian furniture in her room of two ladies – “a friend is forever” the caption reads. I assume one of the ladies is my tiny Ms. Bobblehead but I can’t tell – there is so little left of her. She’d blow away in a stiff breeze yet would maintain a death grip when her hand would find mine. She doesn’t know me from Eve – but she knew she wasn’t alone.