I’ve always envied Micky Spillane one thing: his ability to craft a dynamite opening and closing line to his books.
Which is a tremendously oblique way to say I had putting this off because I had no idea how to begin this after being away for so long.
“Is time for treat, yes?”
Life just got in the way and proceeded to muscle its way into the rest of my time, like a certain little spoiled black dog who feels she is neglected and unloved. Except not as adorable.
It was a long road back after losing our house and dealing with the new rental. But we were empty nesters again (in a new nest) and we were quite happy, just the two of us, the needy dog, and the murderous cat.
In and amongst this, I had the idea for a new column, and though it was far from my usual subject matter, it was something. I began to apply digital ink to a blank page.
And then my mother died.
We had been engaged with her Long Goodbye for a couple of years, or more. She had a particularly violent form of dementia, and was in a secure memory care unit. It was apparently something common among the women in that side of the family. My grandmother was bipolar before they came up with that term, and I remember a few discussions of my Great Aunt Goldie, who was confined to a Hospital for the Criminally Insane after a homicide attempt.
Well.
This is not the time to go into my misgivings of the Deathcare Industry, which I despise. Mom and Dad had made their own arrangements years ago, so I was basically along for the ride. Ride indeed, as the family plot is a three-hour drive away. But it is a beautiful old cemetery with an historic marker and a commanding view of the surrounding hills and forest. Urbanization will not reach it for years, if ever.
And our director was wonderful. Caring and calm. A good representative of the deathcare industry, for which I am grateful. Yes, hypocritical of me, I know. Don’t care.
And that’s over. Still haven’t processed it fully. When I do, it will likely be ugly. My primary memory of her, right now, is her body in that rose coffin. And I hate that.
Anyway.
Back to work, la de da. Decided that struggling little concept of a column wasn’t worth it. Still trying to find the time to do an actual entry in this cobwebsite. To get back into it, but how?
Work started to get a little more difficult. I started carrying less equipment to each shoot, which is necessary for some shoots – but suddenly every shoot was that kind of shoot. Couldn’t move as quickly as I used to, but, you know, I’m 68 years old. Slow down, old man. This allergy season is pretty miserable, isn’t it?
Then, one Friday morning, after taking out the trash and the recycling, I had to sit down, gasping for air. Wow. Surely I’m not that out of shape. The situation got worse. Got winded taking a shower. My albuterol inhaler wasn’t up to this. Finally wrapped up that week’s work and allowed myself to be taken to the ER and the very first CAT scan of my life.
Which is why that evening I was in a hospital bed with IVs in both arms googling Pulmonary Embolism.
That’s him, officer! That’s the one!
I can’t even be dramatic and say it was touch-and-go for awhile there. It was severe and life-threatening, but it was dealt with. I’ll be on blood thinners for the foreseeable future. Ibuprofen is now forbidden fruit. I have become a suddenly old man, shuffling around the house slowly, with the lofty goal of shuffling a little further each day.
Today is Memorial Day, finally time to set some type down, and finally had something to write about. Too much to write about, but those are the salient points. I was discharged a week ago, and I’m finally starting to feel a bit like myself again.
And now that I’ve rolled away the stone, let’s see if I can start being insufferable about movies again.
Maybe we’d both like that?
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