The Dragon Slayer's Guide to Life

Quiet by Paul Simon

This is one of my favorite Paul Simon songs although you may not have heard of it.  When I contemplate Michael's life on this, the 32nd anniversary of his injury, and the questions he makes me face in terms of mortality, suffering and learning to let him go I often come back to these lyrics.  While Paul may have meant the line about fists figuratively, in Michael's case, this is literal, his hands having been contracted permanently into fists by his spinal cord injury. It is a beautiful song, if you would like to hear it, follow this link to Rhapsody.

I am heading for a time of quiet
When my restlessness is past
And I can lie down on my blanket
And release my fists at last

I am heading for a time of solitude
Of peace without illusions
When the perfect circle
Marries all beginnings and conclusions

And when they say
That you’re not good enough
Well the answer is
You’re not
But who are they
Or what is it
That eats at what you’ve got
With the hunger of ambition
For the change inside the purse
They are handcuffs on the soul, my friends
Handcuffs on the soul
And worse

I am heading for a place of quiet
Where the sage and sweetgrass grow
By a lake of sacred water
From the mountain’s melted snow

You Have to Admit, It's a Really Fun Cemetery

Last Friday, The Day of the Dead, found Michael and I at the cemetery, visiting his mom, his own (future) gravesite and the statue of Mother Mary, who is honored over at his blog today.

We started our visit by listening to a tape of Ram Dass talking about dying and his experiences in tending to those who were in this process. (I'll have to see if I can get the reference for you, it was really excellent.) He talked at length about how you have to be with this reality: When I'm with someone who is dying, maybe I'll say "How are you?" and they'll say, "Well, I'm dying," and then I say, "Well, I'm living. And here we are." And he went on to discuss paradox (the state of seemingly opposite conditions both being true) and how joy and suffering travel hand in hand all through the journey of our human lives. And how suffering is grace.

Cat Predicts Nursing Home Deaths

A recent issue of *New England Journal of Medicine* (Volume 357, #4, July 26) includes an article: "A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat" by David M. Dosa, M.D., M.P.H.

Here's the article:

Oscar the Cat awakens from his nap, opening a single eye to survey his kingdom. From atop the desk in the doctor's charting area, the cat peers down the two wings of the nursing home's advanced dementia unit. All quiet on the western and eastern fronts. Slowly, he rises and extravagantly stretches his 2-year-old frame, first backward and then forward. He sits up and considers his next move.

In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has been living on the dementia unit's third floor for 3 years now. She has long forgotten her family, even though they visit her almost daily. Moderately disheveled after eating her lunch, half of which she now wears on her shirt, Mrs. P. is taking one of her many aimless strolls to nowhere. She glides toward Oscar, pushing her walker and muttering to herself with complete disregard for her surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar watches her carefully and, as she walks by, lets out a gentle hiss, a rattlesnake-like warning that says "leave me alone." She passes him without a glance and continues down the hallway. Oscar is relieved. It is not yet Mrs. P.'s time, and he wants nothing to do with her.

Oscar jumps down off the desk, relieved to be once more alone and in control of his domain. He takes a few moments to drink from his water bowl and grab a quick bite. Satisfied, he enjoys another stretch and sets out on his rounds. Oscar decides to head down the west wing first, along the way sidestepping Mr. S., who is slumped over on a couch in the hallway. With lips slightly pursed, he snores peacefully -- perhaps blissfully unaware of where he is now living. Oscar continues down the hallway until he reaches its end and Room 310. The door is closed, so Oscar sits and waits. He has important business here.

Of Rishis and Robins

And now, for the rest of the story...

You may have seen this picture before.  I love this picture.  As a photograph I just do.  I almost didn't share it with you, though.  I was ashamed to. You see there is a story behind it. It's taken me a year, another baby robin and a shrinking friend for me to understand it all.

This little guy flew into my patio window on "Flight School" day.  We have ten bird feeders in our yard so fledgling virgin flight time is always quite an event around here.  Nervous squawking, clumsy take offs, a cacophony of cardinals, blue jays, sparrows, grackles, starlings, mourning doves and robins.  And, of course, the occasional thunk into a window.

This guy was pretty dazed so I went out onto the deck to pick him up to see if he was okay (and to keep him from being feral cat food in case they had clued into the opportunities the day would bring) He was dazed but conscious.  We hung out for a bit and since I happened to have my camera handy that day I thought I'd get his portrait. 

After a few minutes he (she?) rallied and sprang from my hand onto the deck, missing the deck rail and landing among the leaves of the wild grape vine encircling us.  I picked it up again and stood there next to the deck rail with this antsy little guy in my hands. When he decided he was done with the holding and wanting to get on his own again I let it onto the deck rail.  Ready for another try at flight, he took off.

And immediately plummeted, hitting the ground like a rock. 

I raced down the stairs and retrieved him.  Within minutes he had a seizure and died.

I agonized over that. Why did I let him out on the deck? Why didn't I carry him down to the lawn? Why didn't I prevent him from flying when he obviously wasn't ready? 

So I posted the picture and no one was the wiser.

One year later, I'd get the lesson again.  Only harder this time.

The Graveyard Shift

"Grab me some water, would ya? How are you doing?"

Michael and I had arrived at the graveyard and were moments from exiting his van to visit his chosen burial site.

"How do you think I'm doing?" I asked, holding the water bottle to his lips. I find keeping my hands busy and his mouth occupied with food and drink is an excellent way for me to ease myself into challenging conversations. You have to learn things like this when simple questions like, "Can I ask you a question?" are met with a sincere "Can you handle the answer?" My lame attempts at avoidance don't fool Michael for a second, but the gestures give me comfort nonetheless, and he indulges my little game.

Helping me out, he took am extra long drink, never taking his eyes from me.

"I don't know. Tell me."

You Can't Save Everyone: Sad Truth of a Suicide

You can't save everyone.

This is a hard one.

Painfully hard to accept, but true nonetheless.

You don't know the whole story of any other human being. Not of your kids, your parents, your spouse, your siblings, your co-workers. No one. You don't and you never will. Even if you were to walk side by side through each and every moment of your lives together, you still can't know how a person is distilling their life experience in their own heart and mind.