« January 2005 | Main | March 2005 »
February 27, 2005
Thank you note
Dear You Know Who You Are,
I received an e-mail from Donors Choose telling me that my adopted map project has been fully funded. Thank you very kindly! You are charming and your hair looks lovely!
What Donors Choose did not send me, unfortunately, was any information about who the map contributors were. It's entirely possible that donations were made that had nothing to do with me and my blah blah blah, of course, but some of you donated just because I expressed a desire that it should happen, and I am tickled. I do wish that I could send you cookies, but secret identities make that so difficult, do they not?
I hope that you are well and the weather is not too cold down/up there in __________! How are the kids, pets, sciatica, etc?
With Best Wishes,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 05:15 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
February 22, 2005
Filing
I have a file in my Dad Drawer labeled PSYCH, a holdover from when I was sorting through the piles and piles of crap in his apartment, while freaking out about, among other things, the guardianship hearing turning into the trial of the century (in actuality: "Can I be The Guardian?" "Sure. Next?") If I were feeling whimsical, I could now retitle this folder REMEMBER or maybe CONTEXT.
It's not a fun file to look through. My dad has always been a dedicated note-writer - even before he had anything diagnosable, his memory was terrible, and his apartment walls, the kitchen table, the nightstand were always covered in slips of paper: "Don't be indolent - ride trike today!!!" "HHE [that's me; always a fan of the shorthand, was my dad] visiting Friday." Not exactly a diary, but a layered, constantly updated snapshot of what was on his mind. Even when things started to go downhill, when he must have started losing the routines and abilities that kept him afloat, he still kept on with the notes, and so sifting through this hastily assembled collection of the scribblings from the last six months or so he lived on his own is like holding his disease in your hands, an archeology of dementia.
Most of the slips of paper are stained with coffee from spills or sloppy settings-down - there was no surface in the apartment that wasn't covered in paper, so this was inevitable. You could easily organize the notes by theme, because they are sadly limited in their scope. There are notes about money: endless lists of numbers, credit card debt that we've never figured out the origin of; seethings over an inheritance from his mother that was left in trust to pay for end-of-life care he was sure he wouldn't need; frantic questions regarding charges drawn from his checking account, the product of a swarm of telemarketing schemes: we'll take care of your credit record for a one-time fee of $299, you've won a lottery but we just have to find a way to avoid the taxes, don't want those fat cats in government getting YOUR MONEY, just read us those little numbers off the bottom of the check and we'll take care of everything, small processing fee, etc. And round and round it goes: "$399 taken from checking acct on July 1 (2003?) - WHY?" "Spoke to Bonnie (nice, attractive woman) at bank. Will clear charges, but MUST NOT DO THIS ANYMORE! These 'nice' people (AmeriGold, Inc. - this same as that 'woman' from Texas who called yesterday??) have now STOLEN hundreds of $$ from you! DON'T BE STUPID!!"
There are notes about medication: my dad was taking Ativan, and probably taking it wrong, too much at once because he forgot he already had his pill that night, stopping suddenly because then, of course, he ran out unexpectedly. So there are the notes about where to get it, how much it cost, how to pay for it, how much he should be taking, how it wasn't working anymore, and, if I'm interpreting a couple of the notes correctly, how much you would need for an overdose, because in trying to get his hands on that trust money, my dad exposes a certain "I've got this all under control" attitude that makes me think he had no intention of letting his demise be decided slowly and vaguely in a nursing home, like it will be now.
Then there are the notes where my dad tells himself, over and over again, the story of his life: three wives and three divorces, two daughters, Phi Beta Kappa from Princeton, born in New Jersey, brother, mother, father. Sometimes the details get fuzzy: sometimes I become the older daughter, sometimes he met my mom in Chicago, sometimes my half sister grew up in New Hampshire. Sometimes his anxieties shine through: "Older daughter, Sarah - did she inform you that she no longer wants contact w/you? Check on this - IMPORTANT." Where did that come from? Lingering embarrassment over an incident where his birthday check to my half-sister bounced (thanks to a "subscription" to CheapMeds Inc. or the like, of course)? The misapplied memory of a fight I had with him, years ago, where I told him not to call me again until he stopped being an asshole in a particular way that my dad excels at?
Almost all these notes can be distilled as asking the same questions, reciting the same fears, over and over again, without ever finding a resolution. They make me see my dad chewing on a bone of worry and obsession like he couldn't get enough, even if it provided no comfort and no nourishment.
There is a small group of notes that stand out from the rest. The longest is about two pages long, and although as far as I can tell, it came from well into the Really Bad period of my dad's decline, the handwriting is almost up to his old snuff and the style is lucid. It is a deadly-eloquent description of his situation: the money problems, the health issues, his own memory loss, his girlfriend's (later to be diagnosed with Alzheimer's) inability to help him, her drinking problem, their lack of reliable meals, the mess in the apartment, their fear. And then he writes about how they might get help - call the police? A doctor? 911? He briefly mentions and then dismisses the idea of contacting his brother, because he thinks they "might not be speaking to each other anymore." He never mentions the possibility of calling either of his children.
I'm just guessing that the other notes belong with this one, because all my dad did here is rewrite the numbers for the police department, his physician, 911, over and over. The most striking of these is written in shaky letters three inches high, with an angry-seeming admonition at the bottom: "Beverly - DO NOT throw this out! This could SAVE OUR LIVES!!!!" Of course, to save your life you have to make the call, and as far as we know, neither of them ever once reached out; even when my mom finally cajoled her way into the apartment last year, neither of them (Dad on the floor, unable to get up; his girlfriend walking around barefoot, unsure of her apartment number) could figure out why she was making such a fuss. So maybe these notes aren't so different from the others after all - just more impulse with no follow-through, and none of it did any good.
It's hard to resist the urge to put the notes in order - not by date, because few of them are dated and of those that are, the number is usually accompanied by a shaky question mark. The temptation is to sift the notes into a narrative: here, Dad's loopy penmanship and legendary, pretentious writing style are still intact. Here's where the handwriting starts to go. Here's where the financial obsession changes from regular Dad canoodling to something both frightened-seeming and ominous. Here's where he gets the name of his older daughter wrong. Here is normal and here is bad and here is worse. But it's an exercise in futility to try to draw a line of progression. I have no doubt that the chronology I want to build here is all wrong; even now, under care and with three squares and the right pills every day, Dad's improvements are spotty and inconsistent at best; why would his decline have made any more sense?
This file doesn't have any practical purpose anymore, and it's painful to read, and I should probably throw it all out. But I'm reluctant to do that. I think I want to hang onto it because it's easy to forget just how bad things were last February, just how grim the picture of my dad's final months of independent life really is. And I need to remember it, because shepherding his life is such a complex and murky job, the victories so tiny and so frustrating to win, that it's easy to fall into my own version of the trap in Dad's notes, asking, again and again, did I really do the right thing? Can things be this sad and still be better?
The PSYCH folder reminds me that yes, unfortunate as it seems, they can: that there are measurable differences between malnourished, and not; between falling every day, and using a wheelchair; between making it to the bathroom almost none of the time, and most of the time. Small victories, yeah - but even though it is important to strive for the best, some days the striving has gone right out of you, and you need to be able to fall back on "the best you can do right now" instead. So here it is, for the record: things are tangibly better now, however far from good they might be. And I will try to believe that, and we will see if I can subsist on writing it down just this once.
Posted by hilatron at 02:11 PM | Comments (9) | TrackBack
February 17, 2005
There's no 'I' in 'Repressed Masses'
Well, you just never know where bemusement will strike next. I just stumbled upon the Motivational Posters section of the office supply catalog here at work, and I am agog.
No, no - the poor grammar, the labored phrasing, and the ghastly stock photography are not what set me off, although I am a little alarmed by the cultish sentiment under the heading Think Win-Win: "Win-win is a belief in the Third Alternative. It's not your way or my way; it's a better way. A higher way." Now drink your Kool-Aid, kids! It's Better!
But even that is not as inadvertently telling as the "Teamwork" poster, sloganed "Many hands, many minds, one goal" and available in poster-size or as a framed 8x10 print. The picture selected to illustrate the concept of Teamwork is...The Great Wall of China.
Now, I was not sure if perhaps some piece of esoteric information had managed to pierce my history-resistant brain, so I just polled my co-workers, and no: it is pretty much common knowledge that, although the Wall is an imposing monument, it was built mostly by slave labor, cost China uncalculable resources, and "the difficult conditions under which the laborers worked was in essence a death sentence." Many hands, indeed...not to mention legs and torsos and heads, all buried inside the wall, according to legend. This is either a really stupid move on some poster publisher's part, or a subtle and brilliant piece of subliminal influence, designed to reinforce in cube-dwellers the sense that they literally have no choice but to show up, wear a tie, and file those TPS reports. At any rate, I salute their monumental bad judgment/Machiavellian evil, as the case may be. Nice job, guys!
Posted by hilatron at 03:47 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
February 14, 2005
A Little of the Old Good/Bad
Good news: an afternoon at the thrift store completed my outfit for the Snow Bunny Party I'm co-hostessing in March.
Bad news: it also completed, as well as possibly starting, a couple of other outfits, because OH YES YOU NEED NEW CLOTHES AND ALSO TO SPEND MONEY ON THEM. IDIOT!
Good news: the wine Josh and I had last night at our substitute Valentine's dinner was very good.
Bad news: the curry Josh made for same was so good I'm seriously considering marrying it. Sorry, Josh.
Good news: but if Josh agrees to make the curry, say, three times per week, I am sure we can come to some arrangement. Call me!
Bad news: our copy of Kiss Me Deadly crapped out on us, and what else says romance besides unprovoked assault, dewy assistants, and glowing nuclear...uh, dealies?
Good news: our copy of Evil Dead 2 worked just fine!
Bad news: work is so boring I could crawl right out of my own skin.
Good news: I am unsupervised enough to fart around writing binary-format entries and such.
Bad news: I am undisciplined enough to take advantage of this fact, with the end result that I am even more bored with work.
Good news: mysterious benefactors have already funded 62% of the map project.
Bad news: my computer is still in the crapper, and has now developed additional symptoms, so maybe I should've saved my shills for people's money to use on www.savehylatronslaptop.com, instead.
Good news: got inspired to rewrite something from here and submit it for publication.
Bad news: in looking for the thing, realized that this website has been yaaaaaawntastic lately.
Good news: refrained from saying "what do you think I am, your assistant?" at several key moments today.
Bad news: oh crap. Yeah, I kind of am.
Posted by hilatron at 03:17 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 09, 2005
Please Adjust Your Lexica
An e-mail from a friend about the Christo exhibit in Central Park reminded me about talking to, I think, Josh, about when Christo wrapped the Reichstag. The conversation reflected our reservations about conceptual art in general and wrapping things as art in particular; however, we came to the conclusion that in the case of the Reichstag, a building I've never found particularly appealing, maybe it was actually better wrapped. Christo, you devil, you win again!!
Thus, it was inevitable that the next time we encountered something ghastly - in this case, one of those overly and theatrically intimate couples that are so prevalent in New York City, slurping and groping on the Uptown 6 platform - the phrase "that needs to be wrapped" was born. It was such a pleasant image: the writing forms of our unwelcome performers swathed in muslin and hidden from our view. Such a delicate way to express our disapproval.
I would like to propose that we all work to inject this into the lingo. The piles of sad dirty snow? Those need to be wrapped. That guy cutting his toenails on the bus? He needs to be wrapped. Those dishes your roommate swore would get done yesterday, and possibly also your roommate? There's some wrapping to be done there, oh yeah. Now if you will excuse me, I am at work, which means I have some serious wrapping to do.
Posted by hilatron at 10:44 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
February 07, 2005
Pzzzzt. Bjong. Waaah!
Hey, perhaps you are sitting around today thinking that it is sad you don't have a mantra to chant. Feel free to borrow mine. It goes:
"It is not a hardware problem; we just need to reinstall the operating system. It is not a hardware problem; we just need to reinstall the operating system. It is not a hardware problem; we just need to reinstall the operating system. It is not a hardware problem; we just need to reinstall the operating system." And so on.
Because, you see, it is time I guess for my annual crappy beginning-of-the-year thing to happen,* and in leiu of a new topic, we're back to computer issues. My darling laptop seized up last night, and though Josh was able to work some magic and verify that the data is all safe (whew, and thanks), it's not clear what it'll take to get the little sucker up and running again. It appears to have some form of detachment syndrome, where it does not recognize its hard drive. So, your good thoughts would be appreciated, because otherwise, oh holy shit and crap, can't a girl get a break?
*Seriously, what is up with me and the January-February time period? I am getting superstitious over here. A quick exemplary rundown:
2000: A good friendship explodes in a complex and spectacular way, starting on New Year's Eve and culminating in final contact and Official Notice of Fuck You, Hilatron on my birthday.
2001: I accept a job offer in what proves to be the single worst professional decision of my young life. I spend THIS birthday working a frantic 13-hour day that includes getting yelled at by about 65 angry customers and being shut down by the fire department. I will not see my next day off for 27 days after that, a portent of the working environment to come.
2002: Having said "no more, thanks" to the craziness of Crazy Job, I am safely settled into a restructured version of Crazy Job that works for everybody. Except, I guess, not: in late January I learn that I have been demoted and replaced when my replacement shows up to train with me, and am then moved into a poisonous and mind-numbingly boring position surrounded by people who hate and resent me for having rebelled against their crazy 70-hour-a-week nonsense,** there to remain until I quit and flee the state.
2003: The first and most spectacular of my computer mishaps. Josh breaks his knee: Happy Valentine's Day!
2004: The saga of Dad starts right on schedule.
These are not the only bad things that have ever happened to me and my dear ones, but they sure do seem to comprise a majority of the lowlights of the last five years. There are certainly not a lot of other terrible events, or beginnings of drawn-out suffering, to spread around the other ten months.*** Does anyone mind if I take to my bed until March 1st, just to be on the safe side?
**I feel compelled to note that the co-workers from this certain former job who I've told about this site do not count among the poisonous, resentful types. Those types were not invited here, so if you were, you're cool and might very well have prevented a workplace murder spree of some sort.
***Which by the way, THAT IS OKAY. I HAVE QUITE ENOUGH THANKS.
Posted by hilatron at 02:04 PM
February 01, 2005
In Which I Cause Miss Manners's Brow to Furrow (and Am Also Not Very Original)
So I was thinking...actually let's skip all the thinking, and just say that I'm on a balance-restoring campaign of late. One of the things I would like to do this month is to sponsor a project at Donors Choose.
So (sorry, Miss M.), if you've been itching to send me a present this month for no particular reason I'll mention here at all, or if you were wondering what to do with your five bucks in February, or if you have any other reason you're looking to throw some money around, I would think it would be great if you'd consider helping some fourth graders buy a map. When you read through the proposals, there are a lot of worthy projects and dire needs, but this one really got to me for some reason. They DON'T have a MAP. This seems so contrary to the very idea of an elementary-school classroom I don't know where to turn. How can...? What the...? What are we supposed to be TEACHING kids, anyway? And then we are all suprised when college students can't find England. RAAAAAH!
If you know me in real life, you can search for my real-life name and donate through my gift registry and I will get a card or something, or you can donate through the link above and I will have the pleasure of watching the counter go up through agents unknown, or you can not donate anything at all and still be the fine, lovely person you were before. I will now return you to your regularly scheduled non-solicitation.
Posted by hilatron at 03:06 PM | Comments (5)