Lost in the Twilight Zone

I just heard the Twight Zone music drift in from across the hall. That resident doesn't hear well, so she shares her favorite tv shows with the rest of us. 

This place is a bit like being in another dimension. In fact, my entire life these days is empty of time or dimension. For all I know, this entire nursing home, grass and all, is floating in the black void of space. I wouldn't know. I never leave my room, and it's been ages since I was in a wheelchair and able to look out the front door.

If I sound a little twisted, blame it on the old black and white episodes of the Twilight Zone. I was about 10 when it first came on. My dad was a sci-fi fan, so we watched it every week. Every. Single. Week.

Before long, I put a radio on my bookcase headboard, volume just loud enough for me to hear it. I did that so, if I woke up in the middle of the night, I'd hear it and know that everybody else in the world hadn't died. That was back when humans ran radio stations. I lay backwards in my bed so I could reach the window next to the bottom of my bed and put my head on the windowsill. I often fell asleep this way, drifting off while watching for alien spacecraft.

Then I saw an ad -- just an ad on a b&w tv, mind you -- for The Blob. The image of people running, terrified and screaming, out the front doors of a movie theater while The Blob lumbered after them, squishing its way through the door openings is etched indelibly in my memory. I was scared out of my socks. There wasn't much I could do to protect myself from it, so I cowered in my bed until the ads stopped showing.

I don't remember why, exactly, I came up with my next paranoid plan. I had a lot of stuffed animals. I reasoned that, if I covered myself with my stuffed animals while I slept, then if anybody came in and tried to stab me, he would stab the stuffed animal and I'd be saved. Poor stuffed animals. I loved them, but was ready to sacrifice them in order to save my own neck.

I think the crowning occurance in my little paranoia-land was going to the movies with my dad. This had never happened before, to my knowledge, so it was a rare treat. I loved my daddy an awful lot, so I was happy to go anywhere with him.

The movie we saw was The Incredible Shrinking Man. I don't remember much about it, except for the tiny man fighting a giant spider with a sewing needle. That was it for spiders, as far as I was concerned.

I began to ride my bike all the time, often having daring adventures as Zorro's sidekick. It was much healthier for me. I eventually grew out of the paranoia. Mostly.

So if I seem a little odd, just a little twisted, with a tinge of paranoia, blame it on Twilght Zone. I do.

More Lessons Learned From Lyra

I've spent today listening to soothing music, studying spirituality and reading a book called "The Afterlife of Billy Fingers" by Annie Kagan. I'm not quite finished with it. It's given me a lot to ponder. It's one of those books that I need to let soak in for awhile, or I'd be writing about what it made me think about  in tonight's entry. Instead, I'm going to share a companion column to yesterday's offering, published when Lyra was 5, not long before she started showing symptoms of her brain tumor.

This was published in the Stillwater Newspress, stillwater, Oklahoma, November 3, 2007

More lessons from Lyra

Kay Thompson, Editorialist 

If I look closely, I find that my 5-year-old daughter, Lyra, has plenty to teach me. I’m constantly learning new things from her, whether I want to or not.

Cheer for others’ accomplishments. We were watching “Wheel of Fortune” one day, and Lyra started yelling, “Yay, girl! She won! Yay girl!” Lyra didn’t know the lady’s name. She probably didn’t even understand what the game was about. But she knew that the woman had won, and she was happy for her. What a good idea! I realized I should get excited about other people’s accomplishments, as excited as I would about my own. I’m glad for other people when things go well for them, but I could celebrate better — really feel the excitement.

Get up and dance. When Lyra hears a good tune she gets up and dances to it. She doesn’t care if anyone is watching. She just does it for the sheer joy of it. I would be self-conscious, even if I were alone, but not Lyra. I had the opportunity to get up and dance in front of some friends the other day, but I remained sitting in my chair. I wish I had danced, now, even though I’m pretty sure I would have looked silly to others. I would have had fun, though, and life’s too short to pass up a chance like that.

Stand your ground. When I’m exasperated, I think Lyra’s stubborn. She has a bad habit of ignoring me when I tell her to do something, especially if she’s otherwise busy at that moment. 

After all, brushing her teeth isn’t as important to her as finishing her game on the computer, and why would she want to get dressed when she’s engaged in playing with her toys? 

These may seem like stubborness to me but, to her, she’s just being persistent.

 

Sometimes I need to be more persistent and stand up for the things I believe in. I can be too accommodating, I fear — too willing to give up the things that are important to me, to acquiesce to others’ desires.

Look at flowers close-up. When there were still wildflowers growing in our little patch of yard, I watched Lyra get down on her hands and knees to look — really look — at a flower. I can’t do that. I’d never get back up again. But I do often look at things from too great a distance. I don’t inspect things in my life — don’t touch them, smell them, really examine them. Lyra found wonder in a stalk of crab crass. She picked it, felt it, even tasted it before I could tell her not to. To me, crab grass is a nuisance. To her, it was a fascinating thing, worthy of great wonder. How many things in my life have I brushed off as nuisances, when I could have found wonder in them?

Yes, I have a lot to learn from my little girl. I hope I never stop recognizing these lessons, because, I admit, I’m a more than willing pupil. And Lyra, even though she doesn’t realize it, is an excellent teacher.

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Lessons Learned from Lyra

Today is Saturday. Guess what happened today? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. This is about how long my entry would be if I wrote about that. So, instead, I'm sharing one of my favorite columns with you. I hope you enjoy it.

Published January 27, 2007, in the Stillwater Newspress, Stillwater, Oklahoma

LESSONS LEARNED FROM LYRA

Kay Thompson, Editorialist

I have a 4-year-old. Lyra is, by birth, my granddaughter, but we adopted her when she was a baby, so I think of her as my daughter. I do my best to teach her, but recently have noticed I’m learning as much from her as she is from me.

We should congratulate ourselves more often. I sang her a little song and, when I finished, she yelled, “Yaaay! “ so I did, too. Then I noticed how good I felt about it. I’m not saying we should yell out loud when we do something we like, but a little internal cheering doesn’t seem amiss. She’ll also congratulate herself by yelling “I DID it!” when she’s done something she considers particularly hard. What would be the harm if we gave a little cheer to ourselves when we did something we considered an accomplishment?

We should be more polite. Lyra is always thanking me. It’s very pleasant to be thanked for doing something like blessing a sneeze, or getting a drink for her. I try to be as polite as she is, which makes the cogs of our particular interactions run smoothly. She even apologizes when she says no to me. “Sorry,” she’ll say gravely, “no go to bed.”

Sing even when you don’t know the song. I overheard Lyra singing a song along with the TV. She didn’t know the words and she didn’t know the tune, but that didn’t slow her down. She sang out loudly and clearly with great enjoyment. Why are we so afraid to enjoy ourselves? I hope she never loses that ability to sing out, unabashed and unafraid.

Say what you feel. When Lyra is mad, she’ll just say it: “I’m MAD!” I can then immediately talk to her about what’s wrong. I don’t have to guess. There’s no question that she’s mad about something. All I have to do is get to the bottom of the problem. We’d be so much better off, as adults, if we could just say, “I’m mad.” or “I’m hurt” instead of waiting for the other person to read our minds.

Take pleasure in small things. I was washing dishes, a chore I don’t really like to do, and Lyra was standing on a stool, watching me. Then she said, with clear pleasure, “Bubbles!” 

And sure enough, there were bubbles on my hands — tiny, iridescent and delightful. I had been so intent on getting my chore done, I hadn’t noticed the wonder that was right in front of my eyes. How much better off we’d be if we noticed the small, but delightful things that life presents to us.

I’m sure I have many more lessons in front of me and feel equally sure I have a good teacher in my daughter. In the meanwhile, I’ll determine to pay better attention. I’d better learn fast, before she becomes a teenager and I don’t know anything at all.

Lyra, age 4.  She was a mischievous imp sometimes.

My Evil Deed

Forgiveness. It's important, I understand, if I ever want to "awaken", "become enlightened", ."reach Nirvana", "get to Heaven" or whatever name you call it by.

For me, forgiving others is a snap. OK, maybe not that easy, but I can reason myself out of grudges. After all, I hurt myself much more than I hurt the object of my anger and doing that makes no sense. I may as well just punch myself in the face whenever I have anger toward a person. I would probably do less harm to myself.

But forgiving myself? That's a thousand times more difficult. You see, I had a beautiful calico cat named Rosie.  We adopted her and her sister, Gilda, the summer of 1994. And, when she was 14 years old, I caused her death. And I knew what I was doing.

My daughter, Lyra, had been battling cancer for a couple of years, and her immune system wasn't in good shape, so we had to be careful. Then, for no reason that I could understand, one of the cats started pooping on the comforter on Lyra's bed. I couldn't figure out which cat was doing it, so I tried to catch her at it.

No luck. I finally decided, though I wasn't absolutely certain, that it had to be Rosie. I spent days calling around, trying to find someone who would adopt her. No one wanted her. The Humane Society didn't take pets from individuals. Finally, the only resource left was the animal control center.

So one afternoon I put her in her carrying case and drove across town to the animal control. I was crying my eyes out.  Finally I'd filled out the paperwork and the worker opened a cage door. I pulled Rosie out of her carrier and put her in the cage. When I let go of her, she turned around and looked at me with bewildered eyes. As if she spoke it out loud, her face asked, "Why are you doing this to me?" It was a look of betrayal and utter heartbreak.

The next morning, I walked past Lyra's room and there, on her comforter, was a pile of fresh poop! I'd blamed the wrong cat. I immediately called animal control and, when the lady answered, I asked her how much it would cost to get my cat back. She ascertained which cat I was talking about. She said, "oh, we don't have her anymore."

I was mystified. Had the Humane Society taken her? I didn't understand, so I said, "What do you mean?"

The woman said, "We put her down early this morning."

How could that be? Rosie hadn't even been there 24 hours. I found out that they'd decided she wasn't adoptable, so they just... killed... her. And it was my fault.

I cried for two days straight. My counselor came around for our session, but all I could do is cry. Lyra would stand by me, looking worried, pat my arm and say, "Don't cry, Mommy!" But I couldn't stop. Taking Rosie to the pound was the most evil thing I ever did. I sacrificed her. I betrayed her love and her trust. It is unforgivable.

My sweet Rosienose. I hope, after I die, I will be able to see you again so I can tell you how sorry I am and how much I love you. Maybe then I might be able to forgive myself.

If self-forgiveness is a prerequisite to reaching this place with its many names, I'll never get there, because there's just no way I can ever forgive myself.

No two calicos are alike, but Rosie looked an awful lot like this cat:

Late for the Sky

(Thanks to Jackson Browne for the title of this entry. I sure wish I could find a copy of the Reneé Magritte painting that was on the cover of this record album. I love Magritte's art. So playful.)

So now I'm sleeping, sometimes during the night for awhile, and sometimes during the day for awhile.  Sometimes both. It happens at random times. I feel like I'm inside a shattered mirror, looking out, trying to make sense of what's going on out there. Is it day? Is it night? Is it still yesterday? Or maybe it's already tomorrow. Who knows?

I've never been good at sticking to schedules, but this is ridiculous.

Despite this empty randomness that is my life, and the lack of promised antibiotics, and the Alice-through-the-looking-glass perspective, I still feel like I'm on the right track, spiritually. A lot of it is observing myself under different circumstances. When I hear that children are being denied food because of this pointless government shutdown or that children with cancer are being denied treatment at government-run research centers, it breaks my heart and I get plenty steamed at the House Republicans, especially the Tea Partiers who put all this in motion. Anger is not good for my well-being. Nor is the frustration I feel about being absolutely helpless to change anything about it.

There are times when this life with all its challenges seem far away, as if I am looking at it from a great distance. From that perspective, floating high above the clouds, none of it touches me. It's restful. Things are so far away, they have nothing to do with me. I always go back. That's a given. I still have things to do here. Also, I'm not ready to give up all the delight I get from learning and seeing what's around the next corner. And, for reasons I don't quite understand, even if I go around the next corner and find something monstrous waiting, I still welcome it, in my heart, because I know it's part of my learning process. Sometimes -- hell, most times -- it causes me some kind of pain, but as I said before, if my body can't deal with it, my spirit will.

I feel one of those sleepy-time episodes coming on.

This is the closest I could find to the album cover of "Late for the Sky." Evidently, Browne's cover artists altered it a bit. That's OK. Both paintings are good.

Sleep well. Be happy.

Strange Journeys

I have an new abcess on my back. I had one, in the same spot, before. This happens, I believe, because I'm constantly lying on my back. It's not as bad as the one I had a few months ago, thank goodness. I'll spare you the gory details of having had that lanced with a scalpel, having liquid expressed from it manually, then having packing stuffed into it with only a squirt of topical anesthetic sprayed on it, a method which failed miserably at numbing the pain. I'll also spare you a graphic explanation of the high-decible inhuman-like screams of pain I emitted, nor of the gasping sobs and the feeling of suffocation they caused.

Someone, a nurse, I think, said that it didn't hurt that much, and that I was just being dramatic. That was not said in my presence, of course. If it had, I believe the jury would have found me innocent on grounds of justifiable homicide.

So this time I was just prescribed antibiotics. That may change if the Wound Care Doctor sees me Friday and decides it needs excising. I wouldn't mind so much if she does that. She's awfully good at numbing the area and she will promise to stop if I tell her to, if it's hurting me. She treats me with respect and understanding. I like her.

I wish I was better at communicating with my guardian spirits. I'd ask them for a few answers, like why the repeating abcesses on my back? I'm well aware of how dangerous a location that is to have an infection, and it's painful. And, of course, I'm always lying on my back, which makes it hurt. So what's the point? I need a little guidance here.

Being in pain has a way of dampening one's mood. I'm not afraid of it, but it really slows down my learning process, not to mention my enthusiasm for life. I know there are people who suffer with much worse chronic pain and I send them vibrations of healing, love, and joy. And peace. Much, much peace.

I feel a need to read, now, about things pertinent to my questions. Occasionally, answers will pop out of the blue, but most of the time I have to search for clues myself. When I find something useful, it's like I hear a tiny "bingo!" In the back of my mind, so I know I'm not totally alone in my quest.

What a strange journey I'm on, which we all are on, on our separate paths. If it's true that we choose our lives before we incarnate, I must have had an awful lot of lessons I wanted to learn. I think maybe I got a little overenthusiastic. Still, i am having fun now that I've begun being conscious of some of the lessons my soul is learning, and I can't wait to see what's coming next. If my body can't handle it, then my spirit will.

I'm so glad your paths and mine have met. Namaste. Happy traveling.

Imaginary Moon

I haven't seen the sun in years. The moon, either. They are figments of my imagination now. Oh, I see sunlight out the window when I can get someone to raise the blinds. To my roommate, it doesn't matter if the blinds are up or down. When they're down, she is in no way confined to this universe. Tonight she saw a boy looking at me. Just for a nanosecond, I saw him. He was cute -- a roundish face with dirty-blonde hair falling across his forehead. Much too young for me though.

I'm not losing my mind. That was just a bit of whimsy I indulged in. Why shouldn't I? I've spent far too much of my life being serious, worrying about the future, fretting about how to pay the bills, and all kinds of grown-up things. As The Doctor said one time, "What's the use of being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes?"

Somehow, when I was in a freshman in college, i figured out that floating on the wind was the right thing to do. Following that philosophy led me into some interesting adventures and not just a little trouble. But I had, and still have, a strong innate sense of responsibility.

So after I found myself on my own with a 10-month-old baby girl, I traded whimsy for responsibility. That was fine with me. I don't know how she survived me, though. I'd never even held a baby before she was born.

What is worse than a woman who has a strong sense of responsibility but nothing and no one to be responsible for? A lost bed-bound, isolated woman with no outlet for those feelings.

So now I need to turn loose again and find all that old whimsy which was such a good and joyful companion when I was younger. Giving into it is so exhilarating. But, so far, I'm like a balloon with a 3-inch string tied to it. 

Maybe the trick is to stop being so afraid to use my imagination. I must. If my body is so restricted, my only other choice, other than giving up altogether, is to let my mind fly.

Is that boy still looking at me? Maybe he and I can take a walk together and gaze at my imaginary moon. That would be peaceful and companionable. And we could create a universe of bubbles.  :-)