“The connections we make in the course of a life–maybe that’s what heaven is…” Fred Rogers

Hello, friends. As they say in the South, “It’s been a hot minute.” I think this phrase can refer to a plethora of things…in my case, it’s writing, and anyone other than my handful of loyal folks reading my writing. And this minute finds me drinking “Devil Dog,” an oatmeal stout put out by Roak Brewing Co. in Detroit. I stole it from my husband’s birthday gift beer collection, but no biggie. It’s not his favorite style. It’s good, though. Chocolatey-malty, nutty. Here’s hoping my belly won’t protest, after mixing it with the 800 mg ibuprofen ingested a few hours ago. I’ve been worried out of my mind for my eldest son and a medical emergency involving bowels, but in reality I’ll be the one to probably need a new stomach lining in the near future. Ah, well. I hope you’re not squeamish with bodily functions, before reading further…

About that writing. I decided to take a break from my failing fictional attempts and come here instead. You know that advice, focus on others to get your head out of your ass? There is something to that. And for better or for worse I’ve witnessed a friend go to hell and return, to help me remember what to concentrate on. Occasionally we really need the reminder. So, thank you, Roy. And buckle up, readers. With his stated permission, I’m going to tell (some of) his story, in a few segments. I’ll start with some recent events and go backward, then circle back again. I hope I can do it (and him) justice.

Roy P. Thompson lives in an adorable gingerbread-like house a few hundred feet away from me. Husband John and I met him when we built our own home back in the nineties. I got to know him even more when I realized we were attending the same church, and we were both active there in different aspects. A lifelong bachelor, Roy was a greeter, a scripture reader, a Eucharistic minister, a leader of the church’s men group. And a tireless helper. I saw him as the model of what the catholic church supposedly sought from us: good works in every form. He spent countless hours tending to ill or compromised parishioners, whether it was driving them around or helping them settle affairs. We even carpooled together to attend volunteer hospice classes…which I recommend everyone take. You think you know a lot about death and dying–until you show up at a house and the wife tells you where the diapers and wipes are if her husband soils himself. I choked back the words, “I, uh…we’re not trained to do that…” as the exhausted woman slipped out the door for a one hour reprieve and I fervently prayed her partner had a bout of constipation. Much as we respected the organization, the association with hospice was short-lived for both of us. As fate would have it, he would come in contact with them later for very different reasons.

I truly enjoyed (and still do) Roy’s witty intelligence and company, and admired his selfless dedication to those in need. He also became a lifesaver when I needed a solution to early morning care for my then-elementary-aged kids. There was about a one hour gap between my having to leave for work and the school bus arriving, and I didn’t want them to be alone. I asked him if he’d be willing to pop over and chaperone. Thankfully, he said yes, and I think it was one of those win-win situations. Not having his own kids, he liked the boys and vice-versa. He has watched them grow up, been a part of their celebrations, and a cheerleader to all.

The years flew by, as they will. We did what caring neighbors do: got the mail and watered plants on vacations, spent a few holiday dinners together, laughed and cried at shared grief, and I always had a willing recipient for my baking and cooking extras. Along the way Roy received a rare cancer diagnosis by the name of Waldenstrom’s (seventeen years ago, believe it or not…but more on that later). Although he had many associated challenges involved with a terminal disease, in general he was doing okay.

Until a few months ago.

For some time, Roy’s belly had expanded unnaturally, to the point he was in a constant state of feeling like his innards were going to spill out. He was in pain and embarrassed at his physical appearance. Doctors were typically dismissive, and this past summer as I was taking him to the first of a few ER visits, I said: “Roy, some type of surgical intervention has to be done. This is cruel, for you to be in this kind of agony.” And he’d say he was a hot potato. Nobody wanted to deal with the liability of treating or operating on him, because he’s in the end stages of his condition. And he was literally praying for every day to BE the end. I felt terrible hearing this, but who could blame him? These are the times when you question who’s in charge of the universe. Here is a guy who, while far from perfect, had devoted himself to helping others, and this is the reward? Years of discomfort, uncertainty, deep loss, loneliness? But, I digress. More on spiritual conundrums later…

Finally, he had an appointment with our mutual neighbor Pamela Klint, a physician assistant. She took one look at his “hiatal hernia,” gasped, “Oh, no, Roy,” and made the surgical intervention happen. Thank God.

However…it was a downhill nightmare (until a week ago) ever since. He had the hernia repaired, but with it came the unexpected event of swelling so extensive he couldn’t urinate. As in, totally blocked. I was appalled they had merely kept him overnight after the surgery, and sent him home, with twice weekly nurse visits. So we went to the ER, where they put a catheter in and pretty much said it was a post-op side effect. The next day was January 14th, Roy’s 73rd birthday. I brought him some cake and of course, wanted to check to see how he was doing. He opened the door. Unsteady and a wild, panic-stricken look about him, he hobbled around with a wide stance, his legs splayed as if he’d ridden a horse too long.

“Ellen, I’m not better. The swelling has doubled. I now have twin cantaloupes where my balls used to be.”

Me: “Oh, no.”

“I want you to look. I’m not trying to be weird or inappropriate. Just take a quick look and tell me if you’ve ever seen such a frightful sight.”

This was a man I’ve known for more than twenty-five years, a man I would trust with my life, but I’m not of fan of looking at anyone’s nuts, even on a good day. But he is sick and scared, and I feel awful for him. I say, “Just tell me if it’s worse than yesterday.”

“It’s worse. You can see, I can’t even walk, that’s how monstrously huge and grotesque they are.”

This really isn’t an odd of an exchange as it sounds. Funny, yes, because we have to laugh. Due to the predator-like nature of his cancer, which is slowly attacking his internal organs, Roy and I have had dozens of conversations centered mainly on urinating, defecating, and now, his malfunctioning package. That’s what chronic illness does to you. It reduces you down to where you’re nothing but your deficient parts. If you’re not laughing, you’re definitely crying. And that’s okay too, I tell him.

Back to the scene…

“Okay,” I say. “I find it hard to believe this is normal “post-op” swelling. You said your (home health care) nurse is supposed to come later. See what she says and call me. We’ll take you back to the hospital if you want.”

As it turned out, the nurse didn’t show because they don’t work on MLK’s birthday. So…on the snowiest, iciest day of the year, Roy donned a robe that made him look like the Star Wars villain Darth Sidious (he was about as furious as him by that point), climbed precariously into our car trying to balance a catheter bag and horrifically painful, oversized testicles… and off we went to the ER yet again.

Stay tuned, ya’ll, this saga is to be continued….

Hello, friends. Today’s post is accompanied by a beer my son brewed, called “Pep Talk.” It’s a tasty lager, put out by his employer Bearded Iris Brewery in Nashville.

Do you remember that song, “Love Hurts,” by Nazareth? I was only eleven when it was a hit, but we had a real jukebox in our basement at the time. My dad had fixed the thing so you didn’t have to deposit money, and this song was on repeat. I loved it, even though I didn’t really understand how “Love Hurts” could be true.

Ah, youth.

If anyone ever needed a pep talk, it’s probably me right now. Not to be overly dramatic, but I feel like Matt Damon’s character in “Saving Private Ryan,” when he grabs his startled wife by the arms and tearfully demands, “Tell me. Was I a good man? Did I lead a good life?” It’s as if one act has cancelled out anything decent I ever did before it, and it wasn’t even illegal. Just soul-crushing, is all.

Please don’t flood me with messages telling me that “Oh, Ellen, you must know you are a wonderful person!” Thank you, but it won’t help, because right now I don’t believe it. I’m only writing about this awfulness so I can process the emotions somehow.

Eight days ago I asked my hubby to take our tuxedo cat, Shadow, back to the place we got her twenty-two months before. Specifically, the humane society twenty-five minutes away. Even just reading that makes me sad. I’m supposed to be the person ADOPTING animals from the place, not returning them to those cages of fright. I’m supposed to be the person helping them, not causing distress, and it’s breaking me in ways I didn’t even know existed. The difference between this and euthanizing is that at the very least, you know your pet is free of suffering when you make that final decision. In this case, it’s my decision that’s causing the suffering. Almost nothing is more upsetting to me than being a painful conduit for an innocent being. Even if it is the “right thing,” or whatever.

I mean, I guess it’s not surprising. In high school the guidance counselor asked me what my interests were, to help clue him in to my future endeavors. I shrugged and said something like, “Uh, I like writing and animals.” He undoubtedly looked at my substandard grades (EXCEPT for English, band, art, and home-ec), and probably thought, “What the fuck do I do with this kid?” And promptly enrolled me in an AGRICULTURE class, with eight smelly boys in overalls and cowboy boots caked with cowpies. I learned nothing, and got in trouble for skipping out on the field trip to the “kill facility.”

Also, there is the fact that the word “paws” is in my blog name, if that tells you anything. What it tells me is that I’m a fraud, and I’m saying all of this to convince you and myself I’m not.

So, sweet Shadow (and she really was. She loved people, playing with hair bands, and talking up a storm) was plagued with chronic anxiety, usually traced to separation fears, which resulted in chronic spraying. It wasn’t every day, but enough to be a real problem, as you might guess. “Spraying” is not just urine. It’s loaded with chemicals to give it a pungent odor, and trust me, it’s gross. And this proclivity was noted in her previous adoption papers as well, which I really was not given to read until AFTER we chose her. My bad. I wonder all the time at what trauma she experienced to produce this reaction, pre-adoption, but then again, sometimes we just don’t know what brain quirks might be contributing. Suffice it to say she was fully vetted, she was otherwise healthy, we tried everything, and still it went on.

It went on because we could not meet her needs, and I adopted her to meet MY needs. That’s the selfish bottom line. I hated being pet-less, hated coming home to no furry greeter, and because I couldn’t look ahead to how often I might be gone to go visit a new grandbaby or be camping, I’m right back to where I began. Empty spaces staring at me, even if those empty spaces do reek of her nauseating pee scents. I spent hundreds on products, pills, vet appointments and cleaners, but none of it mattered because I could not give her the one thing she wanted: our 24/7 presence.

Worse, she, too, is back to where she began. Scared, alone, confused as to how her life was upended, and how her humans let her down yet again. She doesn’t conceive that I “saved” her for almost two years. She just wants her heating pad back. And likely me, too, since she got her re-christened name from following me around constantly.

Having said all this and cried on and off for a week straight, I know re-homing her had to be done. Someone else out there is better equipped to give her what she deserves. Or if not new people, she’d be a great “office kitty,” or mascot, if you will. I outlined that argument in a full-on one page letter to the humane society, begging them to place her with care or keep her with them. I have no idea whether my words were even read, so I have to let go. I need to let go of the vision I had of people who surrender pets as uncaring and irresponsible, or else I have to include myself in there too. Guess I can add it to the list below of things I didn’t think I was.

Still. Even if I had managed to tape pee pads on every crevice of the house, (which I basically did), it wouldn’t have changed the fact she was trying to tell us she wasn’t happy. She was communicating and we were not listening; we just kept trying to “stop” the behavior.

So here we are. Three traits I always thought of myself as possessing, traits central to who I am, are now feeling obliterated: unselfishness, animal lover, good at listening. Boom, gone…just like her.

I know, as grown adults know, this too shall pass, that we did our best, that we loved her, that I need to forgive myself, and eventually it’ll get easier. Until then, my friends, cuddle your furbabies for me and blow some healing fairy dust my way…and hopefully the next Pep Talk brought to you via Bearded Iris will be exactly that…

…”What did you see, my blue-eyed son, what did you see, my darling young one? I saw a newborn baby with wolves all around it…” -Bob Dylan

Good afternoon, friends! Yes, it’s 1:06, and yes, I have popped open a beverage. Don’t judge me. If a piece of your heart just drove away in a loaded, unwieldy moving van, I wouldn’t judge you. Unless you chose a drink unworthy of your sorrow, but there’s too many of those to name. I assure you, mine is up to the job, the name of which is “Smuggler.” A silky-sweet imperial stout put out by the Nashville brewery Bearded Iris, a lovely place which now employs our eldest son in its production. He’s gone from making stellar cider to stellar beer, which, besides music, was his goal.

Nashville. Such a vibrant city that has remained so, in spite of last year: a destructive hurricane, a beast called Covid, and a bombing that took out a good portion of downtown. Ya gotta admire that resilience, as well as being jammed-with-talent, fun, and every kind of quality music you can imagine. Now it’s claiming our younger son too. Not for musical purposes, although like his brother he has a fine voice. No, this is about forging a new path. A new job, apartment, co-workers, the whole shebang, and though it pains me to say it, a new home. Let me tell you, it’s been one hard-earned journey.

I’ve written numerous times before about Danny’s previous academic struggles, as many of you well know. When I think back, I’m not sure how we even made it through. I feel like I was like that Facebook meme that shows the bedraggled chicken missing feathers. She’s got a broken beak, with one eye up and another down, and the caption reads, “I’m doing fine. How about you?” It really was like that, a lot of the time. Dreading a school or teacher email, a conference full of “if only Danny would ______,” (pay attention, FOCUS, be organized, stop talking, being silly, turn IN WORK, the list of fill-in-the-blank options interminable). I’ve been there, done that, and have no wish to re-hash. I guess I’m recalling it now, in a weak attempt to justify why letting go is so tricky.

Because it’s hard to retire the mama bear’s claws, isn’t it? In addition to swigging potions at an unreasonable hour, I’ve been listening to music, my other therapy. Enter Bob Dylan. Now, I admit I don’t like listening to Bob sing. At all. However, I do like other people covering his songs. Two of the members of Walk off the Earth do an incredible job with “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall,” of which the lyrics are shown here. You-tube it and listen. Word has it that Bob wrote the song about the threat of war between Russia and the US back in the day, but like all excellent songwriting, the lyrics are wide open for interpretation. For me, when I hear, “I’ve stepped on the side of twelve misty mountains, I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways, I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests…” I actually picture myself doing those things to pull my kid out of the quicksand mud that was school.

Take the words above, “What did you see, my blue-eyed son, what did you see, my darling young one? For I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it.” When I hear that, I see myself standing in front of him, a vulnerable child, a mere seven year old thinking he’s already failed, and I’m snarling at all those arrogant authority figures who have made him think that way. Whose thoughtless words and actions I wanted to chew up and spit back at them. I know it sounds ridiculously melodramatic, but if you haven’t experienced it, you can’t imagine what it’s like. And not just once, but for years. He and I have talked about this, about how it could have been different if I’d have homeschooled him. Today, particularly in the current climate, I would do it. Protests or not. But as in all of life, there are always trade-offs. One of them would’ve been that he wouldn’t have formed the strong bond he had with his best friend, Mat.

Ah, yes, Mat. Sweet, funny, deeply loyal. Much like Danny himself. They were life rafts for each other in the shitstorm that is the existence for kids that “need help”, as evidenced by one asshat teacher. This fu@#stick actually announced in front of the class, “Here’s the Chapter five test for you guys. Oh, except for you, Danny, and Mat. Here are your exams. Do you need Mrs. Shuler to read them to you?” I wish I could say this was an exaggeration, but it wasn’t. That MF-er is lucky I didn’t murder him. In fact, my ears are turning red just thinking of it, so perhaps a big drag of Smuggler is in order to cool off.

Okay. Better.

As I’ve detailed before in other pieces, from almost the minute their lives were released from that educational jail, the chains came slamming back from the weight of loss. Mat was killed in a car accident a month before turning twenty-one, and I watched helplessly as my son grappled with this senseless blow. Again, I had to reign in the instinct to run in and rescue. Friendships hadn’t come easily to him, and I fretted at the magnitude of this gap. In the end I had to trust. To trust he possessed the fortitude to heal and go forth in a way Mat would be proud. To trust that God had his back. And you know what? He did it. He showed up, partially by getting his own place and by working hard at his job. To the average snob, stocking grocery store shelves for six years and not asking his parents for money might not seem like much, but he was determined not to be a failure-to-launch stoner in his high school home’s basement. By avoiding that fate he already exceeded what I’m sure many of him teachers predicted for him.

When his supervisors declined to give him a shot at management with no reasonable explanation, other than vague excuses anyone could see through, I felt that warrior in me momentarily surface. “I should go in there and give them a what-for!” I growled at the dinner table. “Is this how you reward years of an employee’s dedicated service, no calling in sick, working crazy hours? Those SOB’s!” He looked at me as though I’d grown a third eye. Of course, I wasn’t serious. But don’t think it didn’t cross my mind.

In truth, I was secretly relieved. I thought if he’d gotten a promotion he’d probably get stuck here, in a job and geographical area that isn’t exactly bursting with young people ready to socialize. I mean, it happens all the time. Hope and promise become a distant memory, as “lifers” dutifully clock in and out because they were too scared to take a leap of faith years before. When Danny applied and was hired for a job as a Dr. Pepper distributor in Nashville, we were all excited. Here’s a chance. An opportunity to go where there’s no preconceptions, nobody he has a history with, and….far from the clutches of this clucking mother hen. It’s the normal order of development. Roots and wings and all that. Logic dictates it. But I literally could not help myself when I asked his brother if he would ‘drive him around” when he first arrived in town. Sean gave me the third eye look and said, “Um, what do you mean? He’s twenty-six.” I laughed and said, “yes, I know, but he is still used to small-town stoplights, and these people are the most unhinged drivers on the planet here.” (Which, I’m sorry, is true). He just shook his head and probably thought Danny wasn’t getting out of Michigan fast enough.

He doesn’t know yet. Heck, neither of them do. About with the coming of a baby, comes the forever wearing your heart on your sleeve part, and the constant worry. The worry simply changes along with the offspring. From choking, to when will he talk, to when will he stop talking, to will he meet a nice girl, to college or not, to setting out on their own and the hundreds of ways those choices can implode. Add that in with a child who won’t “fit in the box” (nor would I force him in). Can you blame me for my hovering?

Well, I suppose you can, because overprotectiveness does have the potential to go off the rails. I don’t write this post as an attempt to win “Attagirl!” comments. In the name of all that is Holy, do not tell me how fantastic of a mom I am. I’m not. I faltered so much, did too much, did too little, I’m sure in all the ways that mattered. I write about it because writing is my way to express emotions and to make connections. Right now I’ve got a bunch of feels. Who am I, if I’m not fighting for him? Who am I, if I’m not making mostaccoli and chocolate chip bars, and buying watermelon Propel, because those are his favorites when he stops by? Who will we go to Mug Club with, that we like as much as him? (Okay, we’ve got some suitable stand-ins, but you get the gist).

Milestones like this also mean you revisit those life lessons you were supposed to impart. A long time ago I bought a fancy little book with butcher block type paper, and the title was, “Did I Ever Tell You?” It’s filled with these gorgeous plant illustrations, accompanied by sentences like, “Hyacinth is for hope. I hope I told you somewhere along the way to stand up for what is right.” I’m making that up, because I don’t know where the hell that book is, but that’s how it went. My intent was to give it to Sean at graduation. Maybe I did. I hope so, because my daughter-in-law would love it. Anyway, these thoughts float around. Did we tell him enough about insurance? IRA’s? Changing his sheets more than once a year? I used to work with pregnant teens, so pretty sure I covered the “use condoms” one. Ad-nauseum. Still, we probably left out a lot.

These are the days that we parents prepare for, watching our hatchlings fly. It has to be according to their timeline, and not ours, and it might be one filled with a lot of turbulence. For all my mournful musings I am thrilled. To see him (and his brother) thrive in whatever ways they decide are right for them is the end game. It’s worth every sleepless night, every dirty sock left on the floor and every teeth-gnashing moment of anxiety. The last couple of days, I must have told him a half-dozen times to use the blindspot mirrors and stay in the right lane when he drives that truck. “I know, mom, I know!” Exasperation in every syllable. Be patient with me, I wanted to say. Mama bear instincts die hard, even harder when they’ve had so damned much honing and practice.

Friends, thank you for all the prayers and well wishes you’ve sent our way on this next chapter. As of the consumption of this pint, my cub has arrived safely and is fervently unpacking, and his beloved felines survived the journey intact. My belly is beginning to unclench, thank God. Good things await, once I can see through this glossy film in my eyes. You young mamas, hold on tight, and don’t ever regret going to bat for your baby when it’s called for. Nobody else will do it for them, until a day like this comes, when you realize they’ve learned to do it without you. And that’s a win-win, all around.

CHEERS!

Good Morning, friends. As some of you know I’ve eased off the pints the last couple of months, in an apparently fruitless attempt to feel better and/or lose some lbs. The only thing that seems to have changed from trying to eliminate gluten and sugar is that everything tastes awful now. Too sweet, too this, too that. Maybe I did have Covid and never knew? In any event, not sure how long this shindig will last, since I’d give my eyeteeth for a crunchy piece of toast right now, and I don’t want to change my blog name because of some diet whim.

I guess I seem to only do posts here when I’m irritable or sad, but writing is my outlet and more effective than jumping in front of a car at a Trump road rally and waving a middle finger. (Which really did happen not far from me, but I won’t get into politics today). No, today is devoted to the story of my fourteen-year-old-dog Guinness, a mixed breed rescue whose bloodline was unknown. Judging from his fur and herding behavior it was safe to assume he was border collie, with possibly lab and setter or spaniel thrown in.

A couple of years after our golden-retriever-lab Allie passed, I decided it was time for another family dog (as it turned out, he wasn’t a family dog. He was unequivocally mine, though this wasn’t by my design). An internet search pointed us to a shelter an hour and a half away in North Judson, Indiana, a rural area with a population of not quite two thousand. The place was called Starke County Animal Control, and to say it was stark is putting it mildly. The facility was about as ramshackle as it gets; understaffed, peeling paint, smelly, with adoptable dogs tethered outside on concrete. The guy in charge literally looked like what you’d envision a meth addict would. Rail thin, bad teeth, crooked glasses, straw for hair. Every shaky step he took looked like it might be his last. I’m not exaggerating, either. The kids are my witness, and so would my mother in law be if she were alive. It was the definition of grim. No doubt everyone we dealt with that day were good people trying to do their best with a bareboned budget, and this is what I told everyone in the car later as they twittered about the walking dead manager.

The kids had their eye on a couple of dogs, but the one I kept coming back to was this sleek, handsome black and white guy yelping nonstop at me. They all were, of course, which if you’ve been to a shelter you know it’s deafening and sad. The reality of these animals watching you go away without them is horrible. So we took “Skunk” home (yes, that was his very redneck sounding name, and being Irish, well, Guinness seemed a good fit for a re-christening), and guess what? Within twenty-four hours he was ill. Not just garden variety sick, but the hospitalizing, IV-giving, house-payment-equivalent kind of sick, in which he had to be monitored for days.

He was diagnosed with parvo. I was utterly flummoxed, but I knew, amongst arguments and debate as to whether to take him back to Starke County, I knew I could not do it. I knew they’d put him down the minute I came through the door, because they didn’t have the resources to care for him. And I did.

He recovered quickly, once home and showered with TLC, and his true nature burst forth. Boy, was I ever schooled. The vet guessed he was between six and nine months old, and he had every undesirable puppy trait you can imagine. Peeing on rugs? Check. High pitched yiping? Check. Annoying jumping? Check. Destructive? Well, let’s see. Gloves, shoes, rare caps from Ireland that couldn’t be replaced, a tent, pencils, pens, a DS player, Star Wars figures, and AT LEAST fifteen different types of dog beds. All shredded over a two to three year span and maybe even longer with the beds. I’m sure there are more valuables I’m forgetting.

We were informed that a tired pup is a good pup, that he did these things out of boredom, and he had working dog traits and we needed to provide substitutes for that and we should enroll him in classes. So I dutifully walked him and walked him and walked him, and our oldest son helped me the most with this. I even tried running with him (and trust me, I am NOT a runner), but all he wanted to do was sprint and then jerk to a stop to sniff every blade of grass in between. I was told all of this could be trained out of him. It was all training, training and more training. Eager to do whatever I could, son Danny and I took him to obedience classes, and that, too, was a complete fail. He leaped around constantly, anxious at the other dogs and the incessant barking/whining around us. The instructor told us we were too soft, our voices weren’t firm enough, that we needed to be the ones in charge, and on and on. We became official doggy school dropouts.

I had dreams of whatever pup I adopted becoming a therapy dog. Needless to say, this vision was put to rest in record time. Not only did he not have the temperament, but HE should’ve had one for himself. And one for me, too, now that I think of it.

Aside from the chewing and typical young dog stuff though, he was sweet, whip-smart, and he kept me active, which, as much as I might have groaned at all the rain, wind and snow storms I walked through with him, was good for me. I was at a point in my life where my kids sadly didn’t need me much anymore, and he filled that gap and then some. He depended on me, worshipped me, loved me in the way we humans can’t, and that goes a long. long, way when you’re feeling invisible.

It went a long way to help make up for the other behaviors that soon were unearthed, that’s for sure. When he reached dog “adolescence”, his protectiveness kicked in. He began acting unpredictably around strangers coming to the house and also strange dogs. If he didn’t like what he smelled or saw, he’d nip or snap with a lip curled and the hackles raised. I became an expert at interpreting his signals, but it was exhausting and embarrassing. And, I was worried it would spiral and lead to something really bad.

My mom was in the hospital, dying, when hubs and I took him to another trainer for a consultation. It did not go well. He was his usual anxious, non-listening, whining-at-being-restrained self, and she wasn’t impressed. She snapped her fingers at him, yelled “SIT DOWN”, and he did, to his credit, but not for long. She looked at me and said, “this dog is incredibly rude. He needs appropriate manners.” Of course, that meant enrolling in her classes. I said I would think about it, fled to the car and promptly burst into tears. I had tried so, so, hard, and with one dismissive wave of her hand and my mom slipping further and further away, I felt complete defeat.

Perhaps we just were not the right fit for him, I thought. Even with our endless hikes, every single day he eyeballed the front door for an elusive crack in which he could pry open, the tiniest opportunity to slip through and bound out like a reindeer into the freedom of the waiting forest. He’d be gone for hours, even in the bitterest cold, trailing after the thousands of animal scents and chasing God knows what. I’d wake up every couple of hours, calling him, getting in the car sometimes to drive our circle and try to entice him to the car. Frustratingly he would run up to me or one of the family, head to toe in creek filth and slime, and leap off the second we got close to catching him. If you have dogs, I don’t need to tell you the rage that bubbles up at this “nah-nah-nah-nah-nah” cat and mouse crap. And yet, what do the “experts” recommend when your animal decides to saunter home? “Greet them joyfully, do not scold them, or they will be afraid to return.” I actually managed to achieve this, MOST of the time, because damn it, he knew. He’d slink in apologetically and sleep off his jaunt for hours. Until the next time, again and again.

All these things combusted to make me wonder if I shouldn’t try to find a loving farm home for him. He probably would chase off all the undesirables and whatever else is needed in an outside dog, and he’d get to do his favorite thing. Run. Constantly. In the end I decided I would make the best of it. The idea of another adjustment, of him sleeping lonely in a cold barn at night, and his strong attachment to me, won out. And I’m so glad it did.

Like many of us, Guinness mellowed as he grew older. He became gentler, more accepting of other animals and people, and more enjoyable to walk. He always, always, attracted comments for his beautiful coat and form. “Such a handsome fellow,” folks would say. Kids naturally gravitated to him, wanting to pet him, and for all his tendencies, he never showed aggression toward children. That would’ve been and is a deal breaker for me. He loved camping and laying in the sun and breeze, and he truly was easier as time went by. Someone I knew once said, “That’s the thing about dogs. You put up with their bullshit for years, they become the perfect dog, and then they die.”

Yes. They do. They lose their hearing, their teeth get bad, their hips and hearts fail, or they might get crankier or more anxious. Sounds like a day in my life. And just like the human dying I’ve witnessed, what felt especially cruel to me is the way in which Guinness met his end. The fastest, most agile and light-footed dog I had ever seen, falling victim to a weird and evil syndrome, attacking his balance and ability to even stand. Of course, death in any form is never pretty, but this. This was on a level that knocked us both to our knees, with the worst part being I couldn’t explain to him, “Look, dude, this is what’s going on.” All I could do was lay next to him, stroke him, tell him I was sorry, and make the dreaded call. I hope he knew.

We wonder what is wrong with us that we keep signing up for this heart-wrenching gig over and over, knowing the end is likely the same. Sort of like when you give birth to a baby and you think, “that’s it. Never again.” Some people don’t, so scarred by the loss, or life circumstances, but most cave in at some point for one reason or another. As for me, we shall see. I’m in love with my granddog Grace, the BEST, BEST, BEST, dog ever, and that’s enough for now.

First, I gotta get used to the vacant rug, beds, dog dish, leash, and the heartbreakingly empty space next to me as I walk our beautiful Michigan trails. But even with all that, there’s the hardest absence, that thing we humans haven’t conquered, which is absolute, total adoration and unconditional acceptance of the ones we love. That was his gift to me, effortless on his part, and I thank him for that lesson and the many others he taught me.

Cheers, friends. We’ve got work to do.

“There’s not even room enough to be anywhere

Not dark yet,

But it’s gettin’ there…

Well my sense of humanity is going down the drain,

Behind every beautiful thing, there’s been some kind of pain…”  —-Bob Dylan

God, I love that song.  Don’t look up Bob’s version, either.  Look up “Not Dark Yet,” on Youtube, with Alison Moorer and her sister Shelby Lynn.  They are INCREDIBLE.

So, warning: this post is probably not a feel-good one, but if you follow along with me you may recognize many of my blog entries are not always mood-lifters.  I process through my writing, and this is what’s in my hot-flash-addled brain these days.  By the way, menopause and masks are not a good combo, in case you were wondering.

Good morning, friends. Today’s post is brought to you not by beer but by coffee.  It’s happened before, believe it or not.  Although I am now reminded of a bottle of coffee porter our friends dropped off the other day that I won’t hesitate to break open.  I never in my wildest dreams would have thought beer and coffee flavors would go together…but trust me, they do.  Porters are roasty and so is good coffee.  Enough said.  There’s also a dark chocolate bar those same friends gave me that would compliment this menu.  A breakfast of champions, right?  Let me just roll my over-caloried  and alcohol soaked self right out of April, where it’s been Groundhog day every day.  Here’s what I’ve become: Get up.  Coffee and toast.  Maybe shower, maybe not.  Maybe change clothes, maybe not.  Check email, Facebook, and current rants about corona. Deal with animals and check for evidence of poop, puke, and pee throughout the house.  Decide what will be for dinner.  Maybe write.   Think about doing zoom yoga and decide not to.  Walk.  Clean, then bake and eat hordes of butter-laden items.  Walk dog.  Check for pee again.  Make dinner and take pictures of dinner.  Dishes.  Drink.  Watch latest shelter-in-place- show, in between checking social media rants again.  Go to bed.

Sound familiar? Many of you are homeschooling and working, in addition to all of this. It’s hard, and so is the relentless monotony.  Also, I’m not joking about the animal excretions part.  Having two geriatric pets guarantees this clean-up is part of my routine now; as is nature’s miracle, Skout’s honor laundry additive, smelly kidney-helpful cat food, homeopathic drops, an extra litter box, pee pads, and arthritis meds.  Scarily,  this is possibly my future, too.  The other day I looked at the dog’s gray hair and bowlegged gait, and I announced to my husband, “Everyone’s old in this house!”  He didn’t disagree.

Most of you have seen those posts, “Take advantage of this new time!  Be at one with your spouse and your cadre of ever-growing children! Play board games and cook eight course meals! Re-evaluate your life, your inner glow, your neglected goals! Be grateful for family!”  I try, I really do.  I’ll bet you’re trying, too.  And I’m already over it, sorry to say.

Having an “empath” personality, which I do, sounds like hippy guru type stuff.  Very in touch with the universe and all that. Which I guess might be true, but it also means it’s extremely difficult to turn the thoughts off:  “I hate what this virus is doing to divide our country even more”, “I hate not seeing my family and friends, and my live music,” “I hate what’s happening to our small businesses,” “I hate that people are in nursing homes all alone,” “I hate that everyone is paralyzed with fear at the idea of touching another person,””I hate that kids are glued to computers more than ever, can’t see their friends, and might be cooped up with maniacal family members…” It goes on and on in a loop.

Sorry.  I did warn you.

It occurred to me that part of the virus-fueled fear I mentioned above, is closely related to our relationship with death. Maybe that sounds too obvious, but what isn’t obvious to many is how unskilled we are at grasping the reality of death happening.  Everything in our culture is geared toward how to stall and prevent it.  I believe the majority of us get a big fat zero at “being comfortable” at the inevitability.  Of course, with good reason.  We’re wired to fight for survival.  The older you get, though, (theoretically), the more at peace with the afterlife one becomes.

I learned so much about death when I took a hospice volunteer training years ago.  This was before I began losing family members in what felt like a three year plague.  When that plague hit I remembered what Hospice taught about dying.  I remembered that it’s natural, that we should take control of the process as much as we can, to see that it happens peacefully and with minimal suffering.  For ourselves, and our loved ones.  I think that’s what’s so terrifying for the world at this point.  A disease like Covid-19 attacks our choices, our say in how to carry on, and how we might die.  My preferred method sure as hell isn’t laying with a ventilator behind a partition, petrified that I might be infecting the nurses taking care of me.  My personal mini-pandemic a few years back resulted in me clarifying what I DIDN’T want for myself when that time came, and to make sure others were aware too.  So when I think about my end I’m not really afraid, unless it’s that above hospital scenario.  If I knew tomorrow would be my last day on earth, there are two things I would regret: missing out on grandparent-hood, and not finishing my #@$damned book.  No pressure on the kiddos, but I hereby put my writer friend Kris in charge of finishing the manuscript if I don’t.  She’d make a fine author.  I might have to will her a lifetime of coffee porters to see it to the finish.

Here’s the eternal, painful, predicament: the deeper the connection, the harder the loss.  But what else would we do?  Not have the experience?  It’s certainly tempting to take a pass after a pet dies.  Who can stand the thought of going through that over and over?  My son and daughter-in-law are in this anguish as I speak.  Yesterday, their kitty of seven years named Beatrice passed away quite traumatically.  Black and white, docile, chubby, and agreeable Bea, with her rotund belly and disproportionately tiny head.  She enjoyed sitting in boxes too small and lounging on the windowsill, but most of all she liked laps with blankets.  Unlike most cats, she was decidedly ungraceful, making us all laugh with her failed attempts to land jumps.  But also unlike a lot of finicky felines, she was cuddly and loving as could be.  As fate would cruelly have it, one minute she was there, the next she was not, and we are all heartbroken.  I can’t stop crying as I think of her, and my daughter-in-law trying to help her.  Although it’s on another level, this kind of jarring loss is comparable to that of a violent crash.  The unexpected shock, vs. the long, downward decline everyone dreads.  And always, always, the question that haunts: was there something else that could’ve been done?  The answer for people who wonder this is almost always no, but asking it means you loved, and you cared.

It hurts.  Living hurts, I guess, if you do it right.

It all stings deeply, whether its the old, young, animal, human, and if the demise is fast or slow.  I feel the effect is magnified during a time when we’re forbidden from having contact except through a screen.  I’m sad in a myriad of ways due to the last couple of months, and although I may want to drink through it, I won’t make the mistake of clamping down or denying it, and you shouldn’t either.  Why are the tears we shed from an onion chemically different than ones shed from grief?  There’s a reason why God made us in this fashion.  Not to be overly dramatic, but this limbo we are in is like a mourning, and we should treat it as such.  It’s when we wallow endlessly and obsess in our despair that we need a change to take place.

Ready for my one paragraph of positive prose?  I think I detect a pattern in my blog writing.

There is light coming, like shards of sun peeking through the blinds.  Logically, we know this.  Spring is here, and so are the blooms that give us joy.  Babies will be born, kittens and puppies will frolic and be adopted and help heal aching holes, and there are bluebirds nesting in my twenty-something year old box.  Orioles will come to feast on the fruit and grape jelly, dazzling in their orange and black glory.  I have to tell you how much I cherish those birds.  In elementary school, my son Danny brought home a mother’s day card with the word mother in an acronym. The other words for the letters were typical adjectives describing me, clearly suggested by a teacher.  With one exception.  For the E in mother, he wrote, “E is for eager to see oreal birds.”  I was so glad his teacher never corrected his spelling, making it that much dearer.  And never have I been more eager to hear their lovely warbling than I am right now.

Along with nature, in the coming months some shops and pubs will emerge unscathed, while delicious beer will be made, and concerts will be held again.  We will get to kiss and hug without personal protection equipment, and even if so and so says we shouldn’t yet, I will do it anyway.

I’ll be okay.  I’m even going camping this weekend, where 6 feet away friends and a campfire await.  It’s not dark yet.  And that was more than one paragraph of good news.

Cheers, friends. Until we can meet in person, send a little love or good vibes toward the famed rainbow bridge that just welcomed another furbaby, and the two humans who loved her the most.  Rest in peace, sweet Bea.

Wow, ya’ll.  (I can say ya’ll legitimately, because my son and daughter in law live in Nashville, and so will I.  Sooner rather than later).  It’s been a long time since my last post, so let it be a warning I’ve got something important to say.  Just kidding.  I don’t, not really, but I wanted to pontificate longer than a facebook forum would allow me.  I should be working on my novel, but lately I can’t seem to string more than a paragraph together in one sitting.  So, here we are.

Tonight’s consumption is fueled by local brewery Haymarket: an IPA named Aleister.  Crisp, with just a hint of hops.  Not too grape-fruity, which is the standard by which I rate all but black IPA’s. And a couple days ago I made hubby go out and buy it, because they were featuring a six pack for six dollar special. That, my friend, is cheap in the craft beer world, but like every single brewery and restaurant in the United States right this minute, they are scrambling.  Scrambling to figure out what in the hell they need to do to balance the bills, their employees’ needs, and the safety of the public.  And still make the good stuff in there somewhere.  All in the meager and unforgiving timespan of a week.  The Michigan beer industry generates MILLIONS of dollars into our state.  Am I selfishly wishing to preserve it?  Yes, but not just for me.  There’s all the infrastructure affected, of course, from the suppliers, to the brewers, servers, kids to feed, mortgages..I could go on and on.  It’s the same story all over.  I’m aware we need healthy people to drink the beer.  We also need an economy in which to live.  Can’t have one without the other.

What is causing this unprecedented state of affairs?  Well, unless you just woke up from a coma or crawled out from under a rock, the world is in the grip of a pandemic caused by a dangerous disease called coronavirus. What we don’t know about it far outweights what we do, which is that it’s highly infectious, kills old people, people with deficient lungs, people with underlying and immune-compromised conditions, and…then there’s this.  We are also told it doesn’t kill most people, but that it will cause utter chaos in hospitals.  And you could carry it unbeknownst to you, and kill your grandma and grandpa or somebody else’s, because there’s a horrifically long incubation period.  There.  That’s my thumbnail sketch, if I ever look back.  Kindly do not message me with whatever aspect I left out.  I’m already aware my memory is precarious, and within twelve-ish days, everyone is already on operation covid overload.

Basically everywhere on the developed planet, schools and colleges are closed, businesses shuttered, people are to avoid contact with anyone not in their household, and nobody is to go anywhere unless they have to.  All in an attempt to slow the progression and not overwhelm medical facilities.  This makes sense to me in theory.  It doesn’t mean I like the new rules, but then again, only the weirdos claiming they’ve waited all their lives for this moment do.  Make no mistake, they’re out there.  I’ve seen their memes and posts celebrating “permission” to hibernate.

Here’s some of what I hate about the current situation.  I might add there’s nothing particularly unique about my rantings, nor is it a comprehensive list.

Then, later, if I’m feeling charitable, I might give a plug for the positives.

I’ve bitched before about kids and teens being chained to their phones and technology.  They substitute and over-use media platforms instead of face-to-face contact, and have been doing so long before this outbreak.  Now, it’s all they’ve got.  God knows how much sexting is happening now, how many genital pictures exchanged.  At least, I think to myself, they can’t get pregnant.  There is a chance, however minute, that after this nightmare is over they will be so lonely for a friend’s physical presence, that the almighty screens could diminish in appeal.  Phone sex has to be a poor substitute.  I’m guessing.

How about the complete disappearance of all live music?  I feel like in this house, we’ve been cut off at the knees.  This isn’t an exaggeration.  For a myriad of reasons live music is our lifeblood, and after awhile you-tube gets old.  So with all concerts and gigs cancelled, musicians are trying to keep their livelihood going with livestream appearances.  For a minute there seemed to be a glimmer of hope.  Alas, it was quickly snuffed out, as our experiences thus far have been fraught with technical difficulties.  Due to all the buffering it was like watching those Asian Godzilla b-movies, when the actor’s mouth wasn’t moving the same time as the dialogue. Whose mouth WAS moving was my husband’s, bellowing profanity at the computer and tv screens.  Not only that, but the performers looked and acted disappointingly like…us.  Wearing pajamas, un-showered, no make-up, half drunk in their messy living areas or bedrooms.  One female singer literally smoked a joint in between songs and sat cross legged and made no sense from that point on.  Another guy I am fairly sure was recording from his mom’s badly lit basement.  It wasn’t pretty.

I will say, the one upside to the gigs playing to an unseen audience, is that you don’t have the annoying side-talkers there, ruining the show.  Oh, and I could watch in MY sweats.  So, I guess that’s two upsides.  I joined Patreon to help support one particularly favorite musician, but it’s a mere raindrop compared to the hordes left out to dry.  As if hoofing around the country trying to make a buck with your guitar and heartfelt lyrics wasn’t hard enough in the first place.  Not to mention, trying to get young people off the couch and out of their bubbles. They’ll be so neck deep in their snapchat and Instagram after this I wonder if they’ll ever resurface.  They did make it to Florida for spring break, though, which I found mildly amusing, as well as feeling a tinge of envy.  People clucked and fussed, but are we that surprised?  People in their twenties think they’re invincible and as a general rule, aren’t exactly known for their selflessness.  And, they want to party.  Hell, I want to party.  Now apparently some of them have tested covid positive.  Possibly a lesson was learned.  Possibly not.

The we have the politics.  Before and during this unsettling time, Pete Buttigieg and Tulsi Gabbard were thrown under the bus, (the only two Dems I would’ve voted for), and this was a bummer.  Meanwhile, Trump is digging his own grave every time he opens his mouth (which you may or may not be rooting for), and Senators have been outed for insider trading as the rest of us watch our own stocks wither and die.  Is it any wonder Americans have been so frustrated with those in office?  Accusations as to how the virus coulda shoulda been or be handled fly faster than an intern trying to get away from Joe Biden’s massaging fingers.  Don’t even get me started on him.  It’s sad, actually, to see the clips of him looking confused and inept.  I don’t get it.  Is his family really on board with him as President?

If we thought party lines might be softened now in an effort to achieve solidarity, we are sorely mistaken.  With these new restrictions in place our freak flags are flying.  There’s the extreme ends of the spectrum, of course.  Marky Marxist is screaming about sheeple caving to a Communist regime, Socialist know-it-all Sally is shouting at shoppers to staythefuckhome, and Militant a-holes Mac and Morgan are stocking up and decimating store shelves of water, Gatorade, instant rice, and you-know-what.  Then there are the moderates (like me), in the middle somewhere, complaining about salons closing, trying to feed everyone and deliver toilet paper like an underground railroad.

When it comes down to it, most of us are probably a mix of all of these components.  We’re attempting to do the right thing in scary, unknown territory.  And stumbling.  I joined a couple of Facebook help/aid groups specific to our area. Unfortunately…even THAT turns into a shitshow of opinions.  The good soul moderators have a fulltime job just closing threads off to the mudslinging.  One of the sites showcases which restaurants are still offering curbside service, etcetera.  More than a few chimed in on this “Buy/support Local” group with wagging fingers at the ready.  “All these drive-through, take-out options don’t sound like social distancing to me.  All those hands touching the food!”  (As if being at the store is that different).  When an EMT driver commented he’d have a hard time if drive thru-s closed, he was told he should “make his own lunch.” Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  This is the kind of nitpicking nonsense we do not need right now.

Like many states, Michigan has the “essential businesses and services only” order in effect.  It took less than a day for the arguing and debating to begin about what/who is deemed “essential.”  One area laundromat posted they were open and following appropriate sanitation and protocols, and Joe Schmo had to skewer them to the wall.

“There should be ONE laundromat for our whole area!  This is why this virus is spreading!”

Says the guy as he loads his lovely, operable Whirlpool unit in his home, blissfully unaware that with 1,600 square miles in Berrien County to encase (yes, some of it is water, but still), one laundromat would be a mob scene.  And a throbbing petri-dish.  Let’s not forget to ask, who would decide WHICH lucky laundromat gets the grand prize?  It’s enough to un-join the groups, and I don’t want to do that, because I want to help.  I want to help as I read the posts of the frantic parents thrown into homeschooling with about one hour’s notice, where these situations carry the same ends of the behavior spectrum.  You’ve got over-the-top mom Annie, spending every free minute making color-coded schedule posters that would put Sherwin Williams’ paint chart to shame. There was a father I could only assume was near tears on one site.  He said, “I’ve organized everything I can think of.  I’ve asked my kids how they want to learn, what subjects they always wanted to know more about, and they just stare at me dead-eyed!”  A long-time homeschooling mom gently referred to this period as “unschooling,” where kids used to having every minute regimented are at a loss.  It takes time, she assured him.  Someone hand that well-meaning mama and dad some weed.  Soon.

Passed out at the other end is loosey-goosey Lori, chugging a bottle of wine while throwing pinterest-generated worksheets at her brood of house-destroying monsters.  She’s given up after a week and a half.  It’s enough for me to want to dive into my old Parents-as-Teachers bins, which are loaded with activities, and offer to come by and have fun again.  But, there’s that damned six feet mandate.  Don’t tell me to take to the internet with it, either.  Some things cannot be translated to the screen.

There are those parents in the middle, too, shuffling along and waiting for April 13th in vain.  All joking aside, though, it’s the ones dealing with true addiction, food scarcity and other dysfunctional lifestyles that are worrisome.  Trust me, I saw this firsthand.  It’s bad when the world is spinning as it should.  When it’s in turmoil, I can’t even think about what those kids’ lives might be like.  There were times when I knew my coming to visit a family was the only thing they looked forward to that week.  This isn’t a humblebrag.  I know it because they openly told me.  I’m sure it’s the same for the elderly, mentally ill, or fragile folks who might have certain services suspended now.  These are the populations who are desperate risk due to enforced isolation.

So, let’s get to the good, before I get too snarly or end up crying in my beer for real.

Isn’t it wonderful how we’re checking on our friends and neighbors?  And the fact there’s going to be a baby boom in November and December?  We’re also re-discovering nature, going to parks and preserves we didn’t make or have time for before.  We’ve created networks providing vital connections regarding unemployment and area resources, ones I believe will flourish long after corona has departed.  We are appreciating teachers, healthcare professionals, and our families more.  We’ve cast a grateful eye on convenience store clerks, janitors, child care workers, maintenance crews, fast-food workers.  Maybe you won’t dismiss the employee working in a grocery store so casually after this.  Or a truck driver, or a construction worker.  Where would Nashville and surrounding areas be without them right now, as many of their facilities lay in ruin?  Every sector I mentioned is truly the backbone of our country, and I wish to God this would be reflected permanently.  Not just in pay, but in status and lasting respect.  It’s sad it takes national hysteria to unearth the hidden gems right under our eyes.  We need to pay attention to those “essentials” every day.

It could be that this craziness will result in a major mind-shift not only in our nation, but in the world.  On many fronts.  We can only hope.

Be well, friends.  There’s gonna be so much celebrating when this is over.  Until then, check on your middle-aged female pals.  We are not coping well with our shaggy gray roots, our unkempt nails, and rapidly expanding waistlines.

Cheers!

…”I’m the sound of money washing down the drain,

I’m the pack of lies, baby, that keeps you sane,

I am your one true love that sleeps with someone else,

I am your Nemesis,

Baby I’m life, sweet life, itself…”

….Nemesis, by David Gray

Good afternoon, friends. Today’s post is accompanied by a delicious brew called “Michigan Stout,” put out by the delicious brewery Tapistry. Every ingredient has been culled from Michigan in some form, a concept you foodies out there go orgasmic for. Me, I don’t really care if the vine the hops come from is from Alaska as long as it tastes good. But I guess the Michigan ingredient thing IS kinda cool, and the bottle itself is way cool. Let me assure you this stout is very, very good, and it’s also fortunate that I don’t think twice about drinking something that looks like motor oil ( thanks for that description, Kristin K.). Plus, it’s a bomber! And I’m alone! Which means I can drink twenty two ounces all to myself. I know what you’re thinking. Uh-oh…drinking alone, isn’t that a warning sign? Well, I’d share if you were here with me. Which you kind of are, if you’re reading this. And anyway, I’m having….one of those days.

The lyrics above are from one of my favorite songs and songwriters, David Gray. And when I went for my daily trek with my pain-in-the-ass dog, I kept listening, because it hit so close to home. How many different ways do you feel overwhelmed by your every effort? More importantly, because of what you tell yourself?

This post is really dedicated to we “creative types”, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. I think every one of us has been gripped by the demons of self-doubt at one time or another. Well, except for my husband. How I have envied him for his lack of second guessing and his seemingly effortless confidence in his abilities and decisions. He just charges forward and doesn’t look back, and yet he is the least arrogant person I know. That, my friends, must be a gift from above, because I am sure the forces that fill one’s mind with uncertainty are from below.

So. I’m sort of in the throes of a head-banging thing with my writing. Most of you know I have embarked on a novel, and everyone close to me is very supportive. “That’s so great! You’re so talented! Good for you for going for it!” All comments appreciated and duly noted. But in the meantime, I’ve been hacking away at this monster (I’m calling it that today), for over a year. I’m more than halfway through a first draft, but have revised it a million different ways already, which you’re not supposed to do. You are advised by writing pros to just write, write, write, and get to the end. Then, go back and revise. Well, I can’t. I must have enough OCD in me that if something is off to me, I’m like a shark with a piece of a surfer in its mouth. I won’t let it go. So it’s back to my notebook and my computer to delete and move and re-do and obsess over scenes, ad-nauseum. And I feel such a lack of progress as a result.

This isn’t atypical, mind you. I belong to enough writer groups to know this is par for the course, and so is what I am feeling right now. Which is, namely, thinking I’m f$&$ing crazy for thinking I can do this. That spending hours sweating over paragraphs and dialogue is the most colossal waste of time known to Man, while wondering who in the f%#k is EVER going to read this other than my four friends and family, let alone find an agent, a publisher, a way to market it, etc. The negativity catapults if I find myself blocked, too. I start thinking, “you can’t do this because you’re too stupid. Only SMART people can put plots together that are engaging best sellers. You can’t even remember what you had for breakfast today, let alone get characters and story lines straight. You’re an imposter and an idiot all in one.”

I know, boo-hoo. Writers and artists in general are notorious for their insecurity, their narcissistic whining, weirdness, and inability to produce genius works without being soused or high, or heartbroken. Like all stereotypes, there is probably a grain of truth in there somewhere. I keep thinking I’m like the guy on TV…” I don’t ALWAYS drink when I write, but when I do, it’s…craft beer.” Now, c’mon. Don’t get all worried. If I drank whenever I wrote, I’d be half in the bag by ten AM. And back in bed.

I don’t know. I think the appeal of substances lies in their ability to kick out inhibitions and let inspiration in. Because artists are desperate for inspiration, wherever we can find it. And we are desperate to beat down the beast known as Resistance. Yes, there is a term for the self-induced head-banging I described above. Through one of my writer’s groups I discovered the author Steven Pressman, who wrote a book called, “The War of Art.” It’s a quick read, a fascinating book and I highly recommend it. Not just for artists, but for anyone who struggles with believing in themselves and their endeavors. So he coined the term,”Resistance,” as an evil force that has the strength to bury us, if we let it.  It is “the enemy within,” whose aim is to prevent us from doing our work. He doesn’t call it satanic, but he comes close.

In the book, the author refers to Hitler. Did you know that he wanted to be an artist? Neither  did I. He apparently had an inheritance and moved to Vienna, applying to the Academy of Fine Arts and went…nowhere. Pressman says, “Resistance beat him. It was easier to start World War two, than it was for him to face a blank canvas.”

Wow, I think. That must be some powerful thing, I think. And it is.

Resistance comes in the form of believing I am delusional for this undertaking, that I should just chuck this whole damned manuscript and go bartend and learn how to pole dance or something.  It comes in the form of dismissing any accolades, such as getting published in an anthology, and dismissing any positive reinforcements. In my defense, I will say this much: it’s not in my makeup to enjoy attention or praise, and I fear I have passed this down to my adorable sons. They don’t care for it, either. Perhaps there is a nirvana where humility meets assertiveness. Let us hope.

In any case I can’t let this Resistance force consume me, and if you have similar issues, you shouldn’t either. So I will use one of my weapons against this, which is prayer, to soldier on. I also believe in the power of my current story more than anything I’ve ever done, even as I get an ache from the head bang. I truly think it’s bigger than any of my little petty complaints, because its coming from a source that I can’t comprehend. And so maybe this belief will be my salvation. For I sit down day after day and not only am I trying to tune out Resistance, but the constant distractions of animals, Facebook and email. The good news is I have at least gotten myself disciplined to looking at electronic items twice a day only, so that’s a start.

I am at the end of my pint now,  and so it signals the end of my post. I ask for your prayers, if that’s your thing, to give me strength to continue on this journey. And if not, send some good karma my way.  May your heart be bigger than the thoughts that threaten to defeat you, my friends. A healthy bomber is a hell of a good defense, by the way.

Cheers!