Koa, Hawaiian for courage

We seem to have settled on a name for our little cat -- Koa Kitty. Koa is Hawaiian for courage, or bravery.

Koa continues to make tiny amounts of progress every day, but this will be slow. I discovered a few days ago that she likes cat nip. So for the next few visits to her on her high shelf, I brought her a pinch of cat nip which she rolled in and rubbed all over herself. I also got to pat her more. Now, she pretty consistently comes over to my hand for rubs even without catnip offering.

Last night, I got her to step onto a little ridge around my shower (about a foot below her shelf) by leaving tiny amounts of dry food there and stepping back just a little. She let me pet her on the lower shelf, which meant that I could pat her whole body, not just give her little head scratches.

And last evening, as I was reading in bed (with light on and slight rustling noises), I heard, but did not see, her come into the bedroom and use the scratching post.

She's very affectionate when being petted -- arching her back, purring loudly, making kitty dough, flopping over, rushing off to lick herself, coming back for more. She's also very well behaved, a neat eater, uses the litter box, scratches (so far) on the designated scratching post only.

We've been assured that some kitties are just this shy and it can take a long time to blossom. I'm pleased that the process has started.

RIP, JPM

This week, my mother was in Panama, my brother was in Guatemala, my sister was in Oregon recovering from a grand mal seizure of several weeks ago, my sister-in-law was in Costa Rica with her kids, I was here in Massachusetts, and my step-father was in the hospital in Washington, DC, for the umpteenth time in several months.

My mother was staying in touch with doctors. She was hearing that while my step-father was asking for her, he was also stabilizing after a very scary bout with pneumonia. She kept hearing that he was weak, but basically as fine as he's been, so she continued with her trip. After staying in Panama, she continued on to Costa Rica to see her daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

Apparently when she arrived in San Jose yesterday morning, my sister-in-law met her at the airport, said that my step-father's condition was worsening, and that she should get back to Washington immediately. So without even leaving the airport, she hopped a flight back home, arrived around 11pm last night, went to the hospital and stayed most of the night, then went home. After a long nap, she received a phone call saying that my step-father died late this morning.

She wasn't sure whether he knew she was there, but from all I've read and experienced, I'm sure he did know, and that he was waiting for her, and perhaps also waiting for her to go home, too. Apparently, the last word he spoke was "Lucy," her name.


My step-father was a kind, engaged, passionate man, at least in the abstract. He was a political junkie and a lobbyist, focused on attracting more federal funds for higher education. He had a hand in formulating the GI bill during the Vietnam era, and earlier, had helped establish the community college system in Massachusetts.

He loved sweet little girls and feisty, intelligent women. He just hated the transition in between. Unfortunately, as my sister and I became more able to express opinions, he became more desperate to squash our spirits, using both psychological (more on me) and physical (more on my sister) techniques to accomplish his goal. That approach to parenting, combined with a nasty alcohol addiction created a less-than-ideal environment in which to grow up.

I left home when I was 16. With the support of my mother, I lived with a bunch of responsible and peaceful adults a few blocks away from home during my senior year in high school. My sister went to boarding school, starting in ninth grade, leaving home a year after I did.

In 1983, my step-father had a neurological attack. After the doctors had ruled out every other possibility, they decided that he had central pontine mylenosis, which basically meant that the signals from his brain to the rest of his body didn't work well. (They also said they couldn't confirm their hypothesis until he had an autopsy.)

He spent several months in the hospital and then in rehab, and came home in a wheel chair. He did fairly well up until a few years ago, reading two papers a day, keeping up with his old profession, typing his thoughts, reading books, and so on.

But his mind deteriorated until he had little to no short-term memory and little speech. He couldn't read any more. He had diabetes, a heart attack, a stroke, and perhaps some other medical issues.

All this time, he lived at home in a special apartment my mother set up for him. For much of this time, she had "ladies" come in during the day to take care of him, but a few years ago, she arranged for 24-hour care. The ladies are mostly from El Salvador and have been devoted to him and to his care for years now.

Lately, my mother realized that a corner had been turned, and she and the ladies were essentially at the edge of their abilities to provide excellent care. She had been applying to nursing homes, where she was planning to visit often, but had been told that a few more patients needed to "move to Florida" first. Apparently, those patients were hanging onto their mortal thread a bit longer than expected, and the anticipated opening never happened.

I talked to my mother just moments after the hospital had called; I'll try to reach her again before we go out for the evening. For the time being, then, I wish John Powers Mallan well on the next part of his journey. He is at peace, and no longer suffering.

watch out for the toilet monster, which doesn't have a name either

I brought home our new kitty on Tuesday. I set up the upstairs so that just my bedroom and bathroom are open to her. On the first day, she spent almost all her time in her carrier. At one point, she stuck her head out, looked around, and suddenly, the toilet started running. Oh no! It's the toilet monster! She ducked back into the carrier and stayed there a while longer.

Eventually, I went to bed. When I got up, neither the litter box nor the food had been touched. She was nowhere to be found, but I suspected I knew where she was, and I was right. My bathroom has an interesting ceiling. The shower for the next-door bathroom is actually in my bathroom, surrounded by walls and a ceiling. It all looks very normal in both bathrooms, but it means that above the next-door shower, there's a shelf that's about four feet wide, two feet deep, and maybe a foot-and-a-half to two feet high. I imagine that by jumping on the sink, then on the marble rail around the top of my shower, an agile cat could easily hop up onto the shelf.

And that's been the base of operations for her first few days. After about 24 hours, she hadn't come down, and I started to worry. Would we be cleaning up a cat skeleton any time soon? I brought her a tiny amount of food, and she slurped it up. Good sign. Robert has been able to pat her up there (he stands on the counter-top) and she's happy to be petted. She purrs and rolls around and, perhaps even more important, she doesn't retreat or run away. She's been cleaning herself, too, which is also a good sign. I've been leaving her little bits of dry food on the marble railing, and it's been disappearing.

And then at night, she hops down, eats lots of food, uses the litter box, comes into my bedroom and scratches on the scratching post. One night, she hopped on my bed while I was asleep, jumped up on the headboard, and walked back and forth before jumping down again.

She has let me pet her a little bit, though I can't reach very far on the shelf. She has also come to the edge to observe me when I'm in other parts of the bathroom.

So she's coming out of her shell, and we're seeing tiny amounts of progress. It may be a while, but we're patient people.

My theory right now is that she needs to get used to the sounds and patterns of the house, and it will help if we visit her in an environment in which she feels most comfortable. The other option, of course, is to neglect her entirely until she comes to us, but somehow, meeting her part-way seems like the right course right now.

As for names, several people have said that the right name will come to us. Love Bug is fine, though she doesn't seem to respond to it. My niece suggested Jenny, which is a lovely name, lovely enough for several of our friends to either have that name or a similar one. Another friend suggested a name that means courage or bravery. This little kitty is trying so hard that she clearly is brave, and perhaps a name connoting such would help.

It turns out, of course, that most of the names meaning courage, bravery, or daring are boys' names. (Hmm, what a coincidence.) So for now, we're still thinking about it.

weekend away

Provincetown was of course beautiful when we were there this weekend. But then again, it's always beautiful, with the jumble of little houses, blue sky, and turquoise water.

We stayed in a B&B that was new to us, but we've stayed in another property that was owned by the same hosts. Friends were staying there too, and there were some delightful other couples we got to know, one recently married mixed-gender couple, and the other a lesbian couple who will get married in that very guest house in a few months.

The house itself is gorgeous, a little mini-art gallery with comfy furniture, well-appointed without being stuffy or uncomfortable. We spent many hours sipping sherry by the gas fire place and either talking or reading.

With the house as our home base, we walked all over town, mostly visiting art galleries. We visited one gallery owned by Nicoletta Poli and her husband, both artists. Last year, Robert bought a little dog portrait there. This year, there were a lot of architectural scenes from Italy; nonetheless, I bought a charming little watercolor of a brown cat.

We had a long conversation. One of the most interesting parts for me was when she talked about using watercolors to do her sketches and studies. She then bases her oil paintings on the watercolors and tries to infuse the same level of informality and immediacy into the oil that she gets from the water color. I had not before considered that an artist might tighten up when using oil.

We also went to an exhibit by 80 Provincetown artists. This was not like seeing an art exhibit by creators from any other small town. The Ptown artists are talented, and I felt challenged and intrigued by many of the pieces. While we were there, an artist whom we'd met previously brought in another artist, sat him down, and explained her piece to him. Then they got up and left.

While we were there, the woman who organized the exhibit, Ewa (prounced Evva), came over to greet us and answer questions. We fell into a long conversation with her. She knows all the artists and their relationships to each other and something about the pieces. (In fact, we pointed to one piece that was particularly lovely but also disturbing, and she said "Oh yes, that's by my ex-husband. All his work is disturbed and tortured.")

She moved to Provincetown about 25 years ago after starting in Poland and stopping off in New York. She stayed in New York for a few years where she learned type-setting by watching experts, before she learned much English. Then she found Ptown and lived a hard existence. She said that the Holiday Inn used to show free movies; she and her friends would go for the free popcorn, which was dinner those evenings. She also told us that there's an old tradition that if you meet a fishing boat when it first arrives at the dock and ask for a fish, they have to give it to you. So many nights, she had fish for dinner. But she says she's too old now to beg like that.

She had a beautiful accent and a gracious demeanor. I felt like she spoke poetry instead of prose.

We ended up buying a painting there, too, of swirling carp. It's quite Japanese in shape, but not in color. Many hugs later, we walked back to our guest house, with our paintings.

In addition to walking through town, we walked on Mark's beach, where we left some of his ashes. I don't feel as much connection to that beach as I used to, but I still like going there. It was cold and windy the day we were there, but still, there were a fair number of people there, many of whom had brought their dogs.

Of course, we ate very well and took advantage of having so much fresh fish available. (We got our fish from restaurants, not by begging, though.)

On our way home, we stopped at the gallery of one of Robert's favorite artists, Susan Baker. I don't think he has any of her paintings, but he has some sculptural earrings she made. She's a talented artist with a unique style and a wicked sense of humor. Right now, she's producing a lot of architectural paintings from sites in Europe. She sculpts the frames, too, continuing the picture right off its surface. She told us that she has to stop painting churches, even though she loves them, because she's a "devout atheist."

The gallery is in the front two unheated rooms of the summer cottage in which Ms. Baker and her husband live year round. When she heard that I love Barcelona, she took us into her kitchen/living room and showed us about ten paintings, many from the Sagrada Familia by Gaudi and from a near-by hospital, designed by another architect. She said that the Japanese own the Sagrada and are finishing it, and it's very odd to see tiny Japanese workers in that beautiful site. She also said that most places are free, but that the Gaudi foundation gouges you with entry fees.

A good time away. It felt a little odd setting out, but much better once we had left home. And of course, it was good to arrive back at home, where we'll be for a while before our next adventure.

Leetle luff stories

I'm at a ladies' lunch to wish one of our fellow swimmers farewell as she moves away to her retirement home. Except for one of the people who works at the pool, I'm the youngest person there by far. Our hostess, a young sprig herself, is about ten years older than I, and the others are as old as, or somewhat older than, my mother.

I know some of the ladies fairly well and like them a lot. They're funny and adventurous, and I've enjoyed our breakfasts and lunches over the years. There are other ladies I know by sight and name, but with whom I haven't spent much time.

Our hostess has gone to town, making salads, laying out some of her best china, and setting a beautiful table. She seems calm and collected. She tells a few of us that she returned the previous day from Michigan, where she was visiting her mother and step-father. Her mother has just been diagnosed with cancer and has perhaps a few weeks left. She knows the ropes (she used to work in cancer management) and sounds comfortable talking about it, but still, it's her mother, and it's hard to think about losing her. I think her mind is spinning.

We're all sitting in the family room next to the kitchen, and we assemble and reassemble into smaller groups and are having delightful conversations.

Around dessert time, the hostess asks a few of us "Can anyone recommend a light, easy book? My mother would enjoy having some new books to read." I recommend two series by Alexander McCall Smith -- short stories, funny as all get out, and each self-contained enough that you don't have to read the entire book. Those sound satisfactory, and I'm about to turn back to my conversation, when I become aware that L is sitting next to me.

L is, as my friend Mark would say, "Rode hard and put away wet." The inside of her mouth looks like it was designed by Frank Gehry. She has bags under her eyes that are not grey but purple. She's tall, but very lean. And she has straight white hair that looks like it obeys no master, regardless of efforts to tame it.

In her thick German accent, L says that she is a political junkie. She is absolutely addicted to learning about what's happening in the world today. She occasionally reads a book, but only if it dissects a political era or event. She came to this country because she was tired of war and in search of peace. But this is not a peace-loving country, despite what our leaders say. We have been at war ever since she got here. Her staccato delivery makes her sound like she's spitting in anger as she speaks.

She started out in East Germany, and somehow got out to the West. She sold her own blood to survive. She couldn't visit Berlin because she could not even travel through East Germany. She somehow met her husband and told him that she didn't want children. She had three, and not to brag, but she's very proud of all of them, or at least of their accomplishments.

On the day that she brought her first child home, she was exhausted and lying in bed when her husband came in to tell her that President Kennedy was shot. She used to admire him a lot, but now that more is coming out about him, she's disappointed in him.

She goes on for a while, basically telling me without using these words that her heart was broken early and has stayed that way for the rest of her life. She hates popular culture, and doesn't see movies. In fact, it sounds like she does very little that's enjoyable, ever. I am reeling from hearing all this information, feeling some sort of compassion mixed with horror. I will admit, though, that despite a calm outward appearance, a very small part of me is contemplating slitting my wrists just to get away. And now that she's really worked herself up into a lather, she says "So that is why I cannot enjoy your leetle luff stories."

So that's what this is all about. I feel like I've been slapped. I'm confused, too. If I read funny books to help heal my own broken heart, how does that hurt her? She reminds me of a magpie, swooping in and stealing tiny amounts of joy wherever it sparkles.

I suddenly remember that our hostess recently had a knee replaced and that there are some heavy dishes needing to be brought back into the kitchen. I excuse myself and clear off most of the buffet table, and then bring all the dirty dishes over to the sink. The hostess works alongside me putting food away and she and I chat a bit. It is good to spend time with her.

And as I am leaving and saying goodbye to my friend J, I hiss that if she *ever* sees L near me again, she has to promise to rescue me. I will remind her, too, should the occasion ever arise again.

feb 14 wrapup

Last night, I decided to make Robert a red-and-white dinner. The best I could think of was an Indian dish with whole spices, onions, tomato sauce, cauliflower, potatoes, and paneer (Indian cheese) with some peas thrown in for color. As accompaniments, we had Indian bread, Indian desserts, and some of that non-alcoholic bubbly juice. I thought it was delicious; Robert seemed pleased too.

Today is our 14th anniversary of being together. What a delightfully strange trip it's been. I'll look forward to the next 14 years and the next 14 years after that, should we be so lucky.

I was reminded yesterday of something that happened about 14 years ago. I had a friend named Cindy, who was married to Gary, the love of her life. I think she wished for more romance in her life. Gary loved her deeply, but just wasn't that kind of guy.

Cindy and Gary went out to dinner on Valentine's night with another couple. Cindy's friend happily announced that her husband had gotten her roses that day. Cindy was dejected. She turned to Gary and said "You never get me roses." Gary said "You never know. Don't make assumptions until you know." He kept that up for a while until Cindy said "You know, you've teased me like this in the past. I've always been disappointed, and I think you should stop now."

So they stopped talking about it and went on to happier topics. At the end of the evening, they went home. Cindy told me that she went inside first. There, on the counter, was a florist box with red paper surrounding a nice vase. Her heart skipped a beat. In the vase, were twelve long stems.

She paused -- the stems were surrounded by ferns and baby's breath, but there were no flowers on top. Next to the box was their cat Bridget. As they stared at her, Bridget burped and one lone rose petal fluttered out of her mouth.

For some reason, Gary didn't kill the cat, but he did keep asking her all weekend whether she was hungry. And Gary and Cindy both thought it was pretty funny. Cindy felt that the romance was back in her life, even if most of it had taken up residence inside of Bridget. And they went back to being a loving and happy couple.

beamingly good news

I went back to the shelter today to visit little Love Bug. When I got there, she was in the arms of another, not looking particularly happy. The woman told me she was a volunteer, that she'd taken Love Bug out of her cage, and "had" to hold her because she was so nervous. She also said she wanted to take Love Bug home because she has another cat who's destroying the house and is very dominant, and her original cat needs a play mate. And that Love Bug doesn't like sitting in laps, but that she would change that.

Needless to say, I feared for poor little Love Bug. Would the dominant kitty eat her for a snack? Would she be forced to sit in laps until she resigned herself to it? I quietly said that I was interested in her and had come back to visit her for the fourth time in a week. The volunteer disappeared and came back to say that I would have to take preference if I was interested in her.

So... I spent quite a bit of time petting the kitty. She was happy. At one point, something startled her, and she took shelter under my arm, just heart-breakingly sweet. The volunteer sort of wandered off.

Finally, I got up and went out front to ask whether it would be possible to take Love Bug home in a week. It turned out that the woman I was talking to works on occasion at Dr. Randy's clinic, and that she and I had met there, probably in December, when she was filling in for Kris. We had a nice talk about Dr. Randy. I filled out an application and started to pull out my "proof of ownership" when she said she didn't even need to see it.

We'll be away this weekend, and next Tuesday, I'll go get Love Bug and bring her home. I've already stocked up on tiny roaster pans and some food. We have a vet appointment two weeks from today (that date will be a month and a day after Juliet's death). And then in late March or early April, we'll start to look for another cat to keep all of us company.

I'm beaming.

i got the bug

On Friday, I went back to the shelter to visit Love Bug. She was already sitting in the visitor's cage, so I just slipped in and sat with her. I petted her. She was happy. I stopped, she sat quietly. She didn't want to be held or to sit on my lap, but she seemed pleased to be near me. At my request, a shelter worker brought another cat to the cage, and while the second cat was very nervous and upset, Love Bug had all the appropriate social moves down. She clearly didn't love the second cat, but didn't mind her either.

I told Robert about my visits, and he was patient and sweet and had No Visible Reaction. But I could tell that inside, he was rolling his eyes and saying PuhLeeeze. (He has since verified my perception; I'm not making it up.)

So on Saturday, we both went back to visit. The shelter workers were hesitant to let us take her into the visitor's cage because she had made a spectacular escape earlier in the day. As they thought about it and we stood by her cage, we noticed her shudder every time someone walked by. And every time a dog barked, she cringed. We realized that she's in a tough environment right now. I don't think it's being in a cage so much as not being in a peaceful place.

They finally took her out of her cage and brought her over to the visiting cage. We put her on the windowsill and petted her and she rolled around and purred ecstatically. She also kept looking over my shoulder and looking down at the corner of the cage. Shelter workers and other visitors came by to talk to us. Things seemed to be going well, until she made a break for it.

It turned out that there was a tiny hole, about four inches by four inches, in the cage near the floor. She had spotted it, and after the fact, we realized she was sizing it up. She eventually jumped down, ran over to the hole, slipped through it, ran over to a chair, used that to hop onto a filing cabinet, then jumped up to the top of the cages, which are up by the ceiling. This all happened in an instant, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop her.

Robert, who could see her eyes, said they were wide as saucers. But he stood across the room from her and blinked at her until eventually she blinked back.

I'm glad I saw this, because now I've seen an entirely different side to the cat, a more feral cat in total survivor mode.

Still, we're now both in love and Robert has stopped the internal eye-rolling. We've spent a lot of time talking about how to manage having a cat, especially a frightened one, and going away twice between now and the end of March. I think we have a plan, but there's no guarantee we'll get this particular kitty. On the other hand, if the shelter keepers don't allow anyone else to open her cage, maybe she will still be there next week when I plan to apply for her.

One of the biggest pieces of the plan is that our friend C has said that if there's a cat here when we go on our long trip, he will house sit. We think it would be best for Love Bug to be out of the shelter, even if it means putting her into boarding soon after getting her. But we'd feel far more comfortable if she were in the house the whole time and started the boarding experience in smaller increments.

So yes, I'm still missing Juliet, but I'm also missing living with cats. The sleeping thing is somewhat better, though not entirely. And should we have the opportunity to live with Love Bug, we'll just deal with all of it.

tech pubs babes reunite [sad content]

In 1994, I interviewed for and was offered, a job in an engineering organization. The company had been through some rough times, but was supposedly coming back. I got to hear how rough and how crazy the company was after I joined. I still tell unbelievable stories about the company to amuse other people who think my kind of work is all sweetness and light. While there, I also made a few lasting and important connections with people there, one of whom I still work with, and one of whom I hope to know for a long, long time.

During the boom times, the company had a rather large technical writing department, consisting of all women except for the manager. They called themselves TPB+P, or Tech Pubs Babes Plus Peter.

As a side note, when the layoffs happened, they let go of Peter and all the writers, but kept the editors because, as far as I could understand, they couldn't figure out what editors did, so held on to them just in case. Then, one day, they realized that there were no writers, opened up a position, hired me, and I foolishly accepted the job. Eventually, the company was sold, and I finally left, just before they laid off my entire group.

Somewhere in there, I was made an Honorary Babe. I've now worked with most of the other babes at that job (some came back and contracted) or at my subsequent job. I met Peter a few times at social gatherings.

Now things have shifted dramatically. Peter is currently "gravely ill," there's a web site set up just to help with visits, and Peter's one son has taken a leave of absence from his job to be with his mother and father for a while.

I spent several hours last night talking to my recently widowed friend, a former Babe, who has been talking to Peter's wife. She seems to want to be present and available during this critical time, while also not providing too much information before Peter's wife is ready to hear it. From what she reports, she's doing an amazing job of asking permission before saying or doing anything. She is like a gentle guide, a sparkling angel.

And the Babes are meeting the challenge. They're visiting, they're putting together a wall of pictures, and possibly a scrapbook. It is amazing to me that they've been scattered to the winds for more years than they were together, but in this time of need, they're showing up. Kudos to TPB. And probably more about Peter in subsequent posts.

just plain wrong

There's a local boy who's six. He has been in the news lately because he's been suspended from school for a few days for "sexual harrassment." All the if-it-bleeds-it-leads news outlets have focused on the category for which he's being punished. There's a great deal of debate about whether a six-year old even knows what sexual harrassment is. In fact, his mother says that she doesn't know what he's done wrong and she doesn't know how to explain it to him.

In addition, the little boy doesn't want to go back to school because "they're mean to him there." His mother refuses to send him back to school until he's transferred because she doesn't feel that he can get fair treatment anywhere in that particular school. (His school has offered to put him in a different class, which isn't good enough.)

From the little I've read, the little boy put his hand down the pants of a little girl and "touched her skin". I'm not an expert on child behavior, but I do suspect that most little boys know not to do that, and most little boys' mothers know how to explain how to behave appropriately in that regard.

This is a good teaching moment for media outlets. Regardless of what it's called -- harrassment, bullying, inappropriate behavior -- it seems like a good time to remind children and parents of acceptable behavior and what to do in the case that someone is treated to that behavior. But no, the news outlets are turning themselves inside out trying to determine whether one can call it "sexual harrassment." To date, I haven't heard anyone say that the little boy's behavior is wrong. Nor have I heard one iota of concern expressed for the little girl, who was upset enough to report the behavior, one presumes.

One wonders if this is a first offense, or if the little boy is in the habit of putting his hands down little girls' pants. One wonders if this little boy was "just curious" or if he's on his way to becoming a bully. One wonders why the mother can't figure out what her little boy did wrong, and if she had a little girl, whether she'd be better able to understand. But of course, the news media never delve into these sorts of questions, the ones that are far more interesting to me.

true confessions

I did something today that I swore I wouldn't do for a while longer. I went to visit the cat shelter where I got Juliet. I've been doing some research on other shelters, and this one seems to have the healthiest cats (one had a high ratio of FIV+ kitties, something I really don't want to take on, at least not right now.)

There was one kitty at the shelter that wanted me to love her and kept reaching her paws out and touching me. I scratched her for a while.

But I was actually attracted to another cat. Her name is Love Bug, a nickname I used to have for Ms. J. They let me pull up a chair and pet her in her cage (she didn't want to come out today). She was kind of shy at first, but sniffed me and then presented her head to be rubbed. She just purred and purred and rolled over and slithered around. She's tiny, maybe five pounds, about three years old, and has coloring like a brown tabby, but doesn't have any stripes on the main part of her body, just a beautiful speckled coat. Her head has tabby stripes, though.

Apparently, she was living in a house with *nine* other cats and wasn't "getting the attention she deserved," so her owner brought her in and surrendered her. It's hard to believe that anyone would surrender a cat like that.

I don't know if she's going to be "the one"; I'd love to hold off til after we return from our long trip. But she *could* be the one. There will be other ones, too, I know. It's early, but it felt like time to do some window shopping, at least.

ashes and aftermath

It was an unusually warm January, and now there's no snow on the ground. The snow drops have decided to make their appearance a full month ahead of my schedule (they're most likely on their own schedule; some years they bloom now; other years, I don't see them until April).

The snow drops are in Mark's memorial garden, which is supposed to bloom on the anniversaries of his birth and death. I'm sure Mark is laughing somewhere because of the futility of trying to schedule mother nature.

Soon, but not too soon (apparently, you can't schedule crematories either), a few of Juliet's ashes will join Mark's memories -- I don't have any of his ashes here, but as a sidenote, we will be visiting some of his ashes in a few weeks. I don't remember that they particularly loved each other, but I think they were peaceful together. And it *is* a memorial garden.

More of her ashes will go under the tall decorative grass by the dining room window; she loved hiding in the grass and sleeping on the bark mulch. I have another spot picked out in my bedroom for ashes in a container. Not sure if there will be other distribution points; Robert may have some ideas.


People have asked if I'll be getting another cat, and the answer is yes. I'm hoping to get two short haired cats, relatively young but not necessarily kittens, and relatively healthy, though not necessarily physically "perfect". Of the two cats that have caught my eye recently, one was missing her tail, and just learning to live with it, and the other is deaf (easy enough to deal with). But who knows what we'll end up with. I'd like two because there are two laps in the house, so that they can keep each other company, and so that when one dies, there will be a spare cat; this latest experience might have been a tiny bit eased by having another cat around the house.

I know I'm not ready yet. For one thing, I still have a physical hunger for Juliet, felt especially when I go to bed and when I wake up. I don't want another cat there just to fill an empty space; it seems like the cat would have to work too hard to get into my heart. I'd like to wait longer so that I can love another cat for itself.

For another thing, I'm still not sleeping very well. I mean, I sleep fine but in short spurts. The other night, I slept five hours in a row, which I haven't done for months. But it's taking me a while to go to sleep, and then when I wake up, I can be awake (or at least not asleep) for 1-3 hours. I'm not anxious or fretting or anything. I'm just not asleep.

I think to get a new kitty, it would help everything -- patience, love, availability -- if I could be better rested.


Work is a little challenging right now, but not in a bad way. We have a huge collection of short files that need to be converted from one format to another. There was a brilliant idea a while back to figure out a way to automate the conversion (don't worry, don't worry, we'll take care of it), and I hadn't had a chance to look at the results until recently. Apparently, there were some insurmountable problems which required manual intervention. When I saw the results, my opinion was that there were more than a few problems; the manual fixes would have taken way too long.

So I proposed (much to the delight, I'm sure, of my team mates) that we throw out the semi-automated conversion and perform the entire conversion manually. I think the results will be far better than the results of the earlier plan, especially because we can do a light edit and update the index in the process. But we have a very short window in which to do the work. So the three of us are scrambling to climb this particular mountain. Perhaps when we're done, I'll have more room in my brain for creative thinking again.


So I'm stumbling along, feeling incrementally better but not all better, but making my way.

swimming, weird coffee, visits, gratitude

Today, I got back in the pool after not going for something like three weeks. Given that I was sick with something that affected my lungs and breathing, I was fairly forgiving of myself that I just went for 3/4 mile, though I'd been hoping to swim for the whole 1 mile. I also didn't push myself really hard; I thought it best to work up slowly. I'm hoping that resuming swimming will help with aches and pains and maybe even sleeping. A lot to ask, I realize.

I have to mention a silly incident. George Howell, who started the much-revered and -lamented Coffee Connection, opened a roasting business a few years ago in the next town over. For months, I saw a sign about a "Coffee and Ice Cream shop" by the train station in that town, but the store took forever to open. It turns out to be GH's store. How cool! CC coffee, once again, or at least its descendant.

I went in today and the young woman, whose English was less than superior, said that of course she could give me Cafe Americano. She then handed over a nearly-overheated cup of plain old coffee. Perhaps in Europe, that is Cafe Americano, but here, you typically get an espresso drink. I'll go back again, especially since Robert has been raving about the place, but my first impression is one of being severely underwhelmed. Alas. (And I could have gone to Starbucks and gotten what I wanted.)

I realized before Juliet died that when she did go, my loss would be compounded by the immediate loss of the wonderful closeness I feel to her medical staff. OK, women crave connection (by stereotype) and I had that in spades. Of course, everyone at the clinic is trying to make a new business fly, and also has to focus on living (not dead) pets, and the owners of the living pets. But it is hard to stop; I am awfully fond of the people there.

I stopped in for a visit this morning; it was a little easier than my last visit. I mostly talked to Kris and saw Matt briefly. I hope that Kris and I can get together for an occasional coffee, perhaps on one of my days off.

I also stopped by the surgeon's office and talked to her and two of her three assistants. They were in the middle of surgery, but stopped for a little bit to give me a hug and talk to me and tell me how well I'd done, which was very sweet. One of the assistants said that when I bring home a new cat, it'll look around and realize that it has it made . And they asked me to bring any new kitties by for a social visit, again, very sweet.

I have now written personal thank you cards and made personal visits to everyone on Juliet's care team -- her doctors, Kris and Matt and her regular vet's clinic, and the people who boarded her. That feels especially good -- to express my gratitude to people who have been so very helpful and reassuring. I know that Juliet and I could not have done as well, or gone on as long, without help from all of them.

a little better

It was a baby-shampoo day yesterday -- no tears. I wore black for the seventh day straight, and finally ran out of clean black clothes. So I'm switching to "somber" today. I'm not in the mood to wear bright colors, not quite yet.

I'm still not getting enough sleep, though I'm going to bed and waking up at reasonable times. It's the in-between that's so tough, with several hours a night spent awake thinking about how nice it would be to go back to sleep.

There were some kind things that happened yesterday; two of my team mates took me out for a belated birthday lunch, especially appreciated. And I received incredibly nice letters from the two places where I made donations in honor of Juliet's medical care team. The letters didn't make me cry, but they did touch me.

I'm still finding that I can spend a little bit of time downstairs with RP in the evenings, but after a while, I want to go zooming up to my room. This is an old habit, one I thought was mostly broken, that dates back to my childhood and involves safety and comfort. Right now, I'm relishing a little time by myself every day.

A part of me feels like I've "forgotten how to grieve," while another (perhaps wiser) part says to just follow my heart and deal with the consequences later. I can't tell if any of what I do is helping me or is a reaction to an in-the-moment impulse. For now, I'm trying to listen to myself and take whatever next step seems right to me.

sad

Apologies in advance to any readers who would like to be reading about snow fall, rain fall, leaves in yards, spring bulbs coming up in January, crazy Massachusetts weather, deer, the Superbowl, anything but little black kitties. But the little black kitty weighs so heavily on my heart.

I've put up pictures of Juliet in my office and showed them to a few people today. I felt ok today (though not really endowed with a good quick brain -- good thing I was working on something more mechanical than creative) until I got in the car.

I cried half the way home, thinking about how much I loved my little cat, thinking about the last ride to the vet's on Friday when I kept telling her over and over again how much I loved her, as I had been doing for weeks.

I stopped at the kitty museum on the way home and played with some of the cats; I felt like I needed a friend fix and a kitty fix, both. Somehow, I lost track of time and ended up staying a while, keeping my friend company (and vice versa) while she cleaned cats and cages.

And then when I got home, I discovered a beautiful card that Dr. Randy, Kris, and Matt had all sent; they'd each written something gorgeous in it. I read it a few times, then brought it upstairs to put on my desk, where I've just read it again.

Randy has now said a few times that he learned a lot from Juliet; I'll have to ask for more details on that one.

Robert and I had dinner, and then I burst into tears, right at the table (no, I'm not a New England native, can you tell?). And I'm crying again. I'm sure that each tear shed lengthens my life a little bit. I know this will get easier. But right now it doesn't feel very easy. I always tell people who ask that the blow is never softer even after a few deaths; you just recognize it all more quickly.

planning a mini-trip and some more travel

At times, Robert and I have travelled once a month, sometimes more often -- fairly frequently. I don't think that Robert and I have been away since dance camp in September. During the last month and a half, I've felt unable to travel at all, even for an overnight, though Robert has gone away on his own a surprising number of times.

It seemed like Juliet required too much care and her health was too iffy for us to rely on the people who board her, even had they been willing to take her and take on the responsibility. I'm sure they would have been totally capable of caring for her.

But even before she got sick, they were starting to get really nervous about having her die in their care, and who can blame them, with a 21-year old cat. (I, of course, would have been fine; at least she would have died in excellent hands, literally and figuratively.) There was a time recently, though, when they asked me to sign all sorts of paperwork -- again -- saying that I would not hold them responsible for anything that happened to Juliet while she was in their care. Understood, unnecessary, but message received.

Anyways, I think Robert sensed my itchy feet. He's offered to arrange a short trip to Provincetown, one of my favorite haunts, in a few weeks. It'll be so nice to be there. We're staying at a guest house owned by two of our favorite B&B owners (we stayed at their other place several years in a row). Two of our friends will be there that weekend, and I expect some other regulars will show up too. (I of course have this nagging feeling that I should be calling the cat boarding place to make arrangements.)

While there, we'll probably spend time with friends, go to Mark's beach, haunt the galleries and Art Museum, eat great food, go to church (the only UU congregation I know of that doesn't need a Welcoming Congregation designation ), and walk for miles.

We have some other trips planned, too. We'll be going to Egypt later this spring, and I'll be delivering a paper at a conference in San Francisco in April. We're likely to go to spring dance camp. And then in late summer, we'll go to the Berkshires twice and probably go to Colorado (I briefly, Robert for longer?) to help celebrate Roberts' 'rents' 50th anniversary.

I imagine, too, that at some point, we *will* be calling the cat boarding place. Not sure when there will be more kitties in the house. Not quite yet, that's all I know.