18 years

18 years. That's the time it takes to raise a child from infancy and send them out on their own into the big blue yonder. That's how long Sam Johnson was in my life. We met in 1991, with him being part, if not the ringleader, of the Underground Savannah posse that included my soon-to-be husband, Jeff. They, and Bobby Ruggiero and Andy Pena, had a friendship that was a brotherhood. It was tight. Even when they disagreed with something one of them did or said, it just didn't matter. They were a team, with an irreverent television show, the radio world, the Savannah nightlife and culture. I could tell these guys were in it for the duration, no one was getting out alive, I tell ya!

And so, now one of them has gotten out of this band of brothers from other mothers. Sam's big ol' heart, after enduring five years of dialysis, just gave out on him on Sunday. He'd had a great weekend, including zany fortune cookie messages. That's right, plural. His original fortune cookie told him: A nice cake is waiting for you. Of course, he led into the reading of it the usual way, slowly releasing the message, looking it over and announcing "Boom goes the dynamite!" "Yeah, right, what does it really say?" And with a puzzled look, he says "A nice cake is waiting for you." I laughed my self silly, even reading it myself and then laughing more. Whoever heard of such a thing??? He was so taken aback by the seemingly non-fortune that he requested a new cookie... and was graciously granted one after he told his tale. This second cookie told him "You have infinite wisdom and power." "Hey, man, that makes you a superhero!" That made him feel right as rain. I dropped him off at Steed's, then went home for the night.

Saturday, after almost seven hours in Beaufort with my terminally-ill daddy and his family, I came back to town and caught a nap before heading off to a retirement party for a colleague. Then, off I went to Steed's for some karaoke. Sam had called to say he took a cab there, but I had told him I would make sure he got home so he could hold on to his money. I had gone there that night intending to sing, but I just never did. I even had a list of songs in my car that I had planned to do.. but I didn't. I just absorbed the show. There was a birthday party going on for a husband of the Cumulus crowd, and they were a lively bunch. There were several of the regular Saturday night singers. Even Bob and his mom, also known to Sam as "Mom", were there for a rare visit from Midway. And Sam was on top of his game, handling all with his usual mix of aplomb and bravado. I totally enjoyed myself, even though I was just part of the audience this time around. I even snapped a fairly decent photograph (on my cellphone) of Sam with Bob and Mom when they were leaving. Apropos of absolutely nothing, I took the picture. I remember thinking, who knows when they'll all see each other again?

Finally, the end of the shift has arrived. Last call for alcohol, for songs, for hanging out at Steed's. Gina is about to fall over, her feet hurt so badly. She reminds Sam she had set aside a plate for him from the cookout earlier. She even saved him some cake. Pineapple upside-down cake. One of his favorites, one he had been thinking about lately. Nice cake. Using his phone, I took a shot of him with his "Nice cake", us grinning like fools about the in-joke. I even said to him, on the ride to his place in Garden City, that he should play those numbers on the back of that fortune. After all, how many fortune cookie messages are found to be true?? Yeah, that would be cool. So, at 2:30am, I drop him off at his place, with our "Love ya, girl" "Love you too, Sam" hanging in the air. I stay a moment, making sure he gets inside safely before I take my tired self home. And that was the last I saw of him. He tried at some point to forward the "Nice cake" picture from his cell to mine, but it didn't take. I figured I would have him resend it the next time we talked.

And now, he's to be buried on Saturday. 42 years old, gone already. So many future plans, all on hold now. He was very much looking forward to a family reunion in Orlando in December. He was even going to do the odious task of going through the big box of family photos his sister had and putting them in albums for the reunion. He was going to Dragon*Con again with myself and the Delongs. He was going to go through his blogs for the past five years and publish a book of the best of them, at the urging of his college professor, Dr. H. He was going to finish his paralegal degree from South University. He was going to do all these time-consuming projects and more... but time stopped for him.

I still don't believe he's really gone. I guess I'll have to accept it at Steed's when his hand isn't on the microphone, his voice isn't ringing through the speakers, his presence isn't all over the room.

breathing again

Breathing is something we do with that reptilian part of our brain, a reflex action coerced by the need of our cells for oxygen for their many metabolic manipulations of materials we have ingested. Thank God we don't have to consciously command our lungs to inhale! Fill with fresh air, allow the hemoglobin to trap the oxygen and carry it away in the bloodstream! Then exhale! Blow out the carbon dioxide waste created by the cells, empty the lungs before the issuing of another command to inhale! How on earth would we have time for the many thoughts we think if we had to consciously take care of breathing and the beating of the heart and the working of the liver and kidneys and ... you get the picture.

Concentrating on the act of breathing is something I do to calm myself when I'm agitated, whether due to nervousness or anger or excitement or some other intense feeling. I usually close my eyes and allow only those words directly connected to respiration to visually enter my mind. Inhale. Hold it - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Exhale. I can even use that mantra to get to sleep on those occasions when my brain won't shut up and let me rest. If all other thoughts are banished and only those few are at the forefront, what else is there to do but sleep? N'est-ce pas?

But there is an antiquated meaning of respiration that has nothing to do with the physiological exchange of gases between the lungs and the atmosphere. "Relief from toil or suffering" is the phrase which best describes the obsolute definition; "taking a breather" is another and the one I think of when I need a break from life as I know it. Setting aside - completely - all work-related issues, all worries, all overbearing, nigh impossible loads so as to simply enjoy being alive in the present moment. That's why every so often I "run away" from home, most often to a sandy, salty shoreline to breathe, to arise from sleep unencumbered by the cares of the workday. Even if I am granted but a single morning away from the responsibilities of my life, that will suffice to make me feel calmer, more at peace with the world and all in it.

Breathe.

almost...

I am SO very ready for a little vacation at one of my favorite beaches. Daytona is calling me and I leave tomorrow morning for my home away from home. But first, I await my Charleston man, as I have invited him to come with me. The reservation I made in the middle of February was for a two-bedroom, just in case I wanted company, thinking I might invite a niece or so. You know, flexibility, in case I felt sociable, which is the resolution I'm working on this year. That was about the same time I test-drove eharmony and found it interesting and a fun concept.

Well, a couple of weeks ago, I decided to ask my singing bird if he would like to check out Daytona with me. He didn't respond right away, then I told him, hey, no pressure, it's two-bedroom. He agreed then, remarking that he had never been to that particular beach. A new beach for him, a second home for me. My turf, so to speak. Cool.

I am so looking forward to breathing again.

birthday

Today is Daddy's 73rd birthday. In November, he was in such very bad health, we didn't know if he would make it through the end of the year, so I didn't wait to give him a Christmas present. I wanted to do something different, something that would live on for a long time. At the beginning of December, I went to the National Arbor Day Foundation and ordered something special for him, something that would live on and help sustain new life as well. In "honor of Harvey Goodwin Smith" and his "72 years of life on this planet!", his "one-and-only, ever-lovin' daughter" had seventy-two young trees planted in a national forest (in Michigan), trees needed for nesting by endangered birds. (You, too, can honor a loved one by visiting the site http://arborday.org/join/tictim/index.cfm .) I received the certificate within a week, framed it, and made a special trip to deliver the gift to him. And I've been making special trips to Beaufort almost every week since.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Today is my father's 73rd birthday. I went to Beaufort to have dinner with him and the family, in honor of the occasion, sans birthday card. So later, as we're about to have cake and he is opening the cards from his sister and his youngest son, I said "I'm sorry, Daddy, but I don't have a birthday card for you." He raised his yellowed face so he could look right at me and said, "Baby, every day that you're alive is a birthday card for me."

I'll never forget those words.

invisible trees, still

You would think, after lo these many years, that I'd know to stay out of the path of invisible trees. 'Fraid not. I should certainly be more alert, especially when traipsing along the same paths, especially aware of their hidden nature and frightful effect on my Psyche. It's not even like these particular trees are new or even unique. And yet...
There I was, gaily skipping in a rosy world, a song in my heart and my head, then WHAM! A monstrous limb pops me up 'side my head, from nowhere, leaving me stunned in my tracks. What the fresh hell was THAT, my girl? Lemme tell you what it was. Ugliness, sheer unadulterated ugliness from the fourth dimension which had risen like a mountain before me, rearing its fearsome head and blocking all sensible thoughts, all sanity. Sigh.
That episode is now done, but I know other invisible trees of my own making lurk around the corners, waiting for me to wander from the path just a little so they can tromp all over me again, if I only let them. Because my inner pathways are most assuredly my choice, I do have control over that, if nothing else. Then again, the ease with which the bugaboos spring forth would seem to indicate that I don't have as much control as I would prefer to believe. So, if not control, then I certainly can choose. I choose to not allow my dear Psyche to be mauled by those invisible trees, to only allow glancing blows, near misses. I choose to try gallantly to pare down those mountainous limbs overhanging my logical right-of-way to mere wisps, nothing more. I choose.

surprise! surprise! surprise!

As Gomer Pyle used to say to Sarge in almost every show, it seemed, and usually to hilarious effect. A few weeks ago, my man in Charleston with the sweet sense of humor asked me if I liked surprises. Oh, yes! So he said he might surprise me with a visit sometime. I thought it would be great fun and told him so... and quietly hoped that he would do so. Today was that day!! Beautiful sunshiny day, blue skies, and just the right mix of warmth and cool breeze. A glorious day to be alive and outdoors!

The morning started with a surprise, too. Bonnie called me to say Daddy wanted to spend the day in Savannah with me (!) and they were in the Expedition and headed my way. He was having a lucid day and wanted to take advantage of it... especially as he did not remember my three-hour visit the day before, when I sat by his bed and I talked about all manner of things as he sometimes held my hand, sometimes responded, nearly always was turned to face me. So today was to be a day to remember! When they arrived, I suggested we drive down to Tybee and enjoy some time on the pavilion. And so we did. And next time I'll know where the handicapped parking is, too, you betcha.

We all had a good time in the sun, Bonnie and I munching good beef hotdogs and corn chips. After about an hour and a bit, we headed back to the car, taking the easier wheelchair ramp for the trip down from the pavilion. You betcha I'll remember that next time, too. We returned to town with the windows down, smelling the salt marsh and talking about music and food, enjoying each other's company. Then they dropped me off at my house and returned to Beaufort, where Michael and Bobbi would be waiting to help Daddy get into the house before they went to a birthday party for one of their son's friends. Nice. What a lovely day for us all to remember.

I spent the afternoon doing yard work. I had considered a movie, but the day was just too beautiful to be indoors, even though it has been weeks since I've been to the cinema. Cutting dead lantana, hauling it to the front yard. After a couple of hours, and a trip on a weed-clothed garden timber, I was done, but I still had so much energy that I decided to take a shower and take a trip to the laundromat. And just as I got to my car, my phone rings.

"Hey, Tina! Where are you?" "Hey! I'm at home." "Well, come on down to the waterfront!" "What?" "Come on down to the waterfront!" Brief silence as I tried to make sure I had heard correctly, then "What waterfront??" "The one in Savannah! I'm down here at East Broad and Bay Street." At which point I squealed like a little girl, apparently, said I'd be right down, went in and changed from my ratty shorts into long pants, and off I went!

We walked up and down River Street, hand in hand, listening to the sax playing, the guitarist, the trumpeter. He introduced me to the dark chocolate pecan clusters at the Savannah Candy Kitchen - and they're even sugar-free! We both have sugar problems, him hyperglycemia (aka diabetes) and me hypoglycemia. So here's something amazingly yummy that we can both enjoy that won't be evil to our metabolism! Nice touch.

We finished the afternoon at Emmet Park, sitting together by the Harbor Light. Just talking, with me leaning on his shoulder. Enjoying this lovely bit of time, together. Then, as dusk was nearing, our enchanted time was done and the real world beckoned.

The man drove the two hours from Charleston for two hours here with me before driving two hours back to Charleston. For two hours here with me. Does that make me feel special? Darn tootin'!!! Wow! I am so very blessed...

roller coaster

I have always said I love roller coasters, mostly for the scream value. Truly! You get whipped around, up dizzying heights, dramatically down into narrow pits, around sharp bends into nothingness. And while all of that is going on, you can scream as loudly as you want. Quite a nice primal bit of escapism.

But lately I've been on a ride of a different sort, an emotionally exhausting roller coaster called Watching My Father Die. The highs are fabulous, life-affirming, but short-lived, like radioisotopes emitting high energy gamma rays for only nanoseconds. The lows are draining, frustrating, debilitating, with longer and longer lifespans. For this ride, screaming wouldn't even give the needed release to abate the desperation-tinged terror of watching a loved one lose their grip on both their own identity and that fragile thing called life.

Daddy called me this morning as I was leaving Columbia, wanting to know when I would be in Beaufort. "Throw on your clothes and come on! We're just waiting on you!" "Well, then, you're in luck 'cause I'm already dressed and on the highway!" "Okay then, we'll look for you about one o'clock." Upbeat, he and I and Bonnie looking forward to our upcoming lunch together. That was around 11am and I was on 26E, driving to 95 and down. He and Bonnie had been awake since 8:30 and he was feeling his oats!

By the time I arrived at 12:40pm, 20 minutes ahead of time (he always chides me for being late; "If you're on time, you're late!" he'll say with a grin), the oomph was already dissipating. He looked really good, new haircut, clean clothes, but his energy level was flagging. Still, he insisted that we go out and get some lunch, so that's what we did. First, he had to be transferred from the recliner to the rolling kitchen chair, then pushed out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where we then helped him transfer to the wheelchair. Out we went to the front porch, to the top of the stairs, where three of us helped him get down the stairs and into the Expedition, door already open at the foot of the stairs. And justthatfast, he was so exhausted that he had the shakes. Justthatfast. But still wanting to spend time with me and Bonnie.

We drove down to the waterfront park, but it was crowded, so we drove around a bit more, letting Daddy catch his breath while we all chatted about where to have lunch. Finally, we picked a destination, all got out and got inside... and Daddy had to go to the restroom. By the time he and Bonnie returned to the table, he was too wiped out to even eat. Still, we stayed there for about an hour, again letting him collect himself while she and I ate, talking about things around town. We get back to the vehicle, without incident, get back home, wait for Michael to return, then get Daddy back up the stairs to the waiting wheelchair.

He and I sit on the porch, enjoying the afternoon warmth and sunlight while he finishes a cigar. Fairly normal, right? Done many times in the past. Except he keeps dropping the cigar, his fingers just not able to maintain their grasp on the half-smoked cylinder. After about the twentieth drop, he's done. Done with smoking the cigar, done with sitting on the porch, done with being upright for the day. Michael and I move him back inside, pulling him in the wheelchair in the front door, to the kitchen, where we help him transfer to the smaller chair so he can be pulled into the bedroom, right next to the hospital bed brought by hospice, where we help him transfer into the bed... and pull up the rail so he won't fall out.

I stay a while longer, reading some favorite comics aloud, even doing different voices for the characters in Beetle Bailey, Wizard of Id, Foxtrot. I thought maybe he had fallen asleep, but when I stopped talking, he opened his eyes, so I would resume. I finally finished the readings and told him I was going to go on home. I finished up with a kiss and "See you next weekend." "I hope so." "Me, too."

Me, too.

And I drove home with the radio off, driving and crying, painting my shirtsleeves the color of tears. Eventually I pushed the button for some music: "Silent Lucidity" was just beginning. "Hush now, don't you cry/ Wipe away the teardrop from your eye/...it was all a bad dream/ spinning in your head/ your mind tricked you to feel the pain/ of someone close to you leaving the game of life." My angels, coming to my emotional rescue and using music for therapy. Taking a cue, I turned the radio off after the song, came home, put on Queensryche's "Empire" CD at high volume... and I'm back, tired, but with my head again clear and looking to the new day.