Feeding a coyote

Sometimes fate arranges the perfect metaphor. If only I felt I could take advantage of it!

When I talked with Marie a week ago, she was solemn and worried and upset and frightened, all over the deportations that the Administration has recently started enforcing. Mind you, Marie is a natural-born citizen. Her parents were natural-born citizens. She looks White, though apparently if you go far enough back one ancestor was Chippewa. In other words, there is about as much chance that she'll be deported as there is for Melania Trump. But that doesn't stop her from worrying. I've mentioned before that Marie suffers from TDS somethin' terrible, so naturally she believes the very worst it is possible to believe.

What does Marie know about immigration? She is friends with two different families who both think they have to leave the United States proactively before they are deported. In one of these families, the husband in English and the wife is Canadian; their son is a natural-born American. In the other family, the husband is American and the wife is Mexican, though you wouldn't guess it unless she told you. In both families, all the paperwork is in order and has been for many years. Again, these people are not the targets of any deportation effort. But try telling them that.

So I spent our weekly call a week ago trying to talk Marie down from what seemed to be—figuratively or emotionally speaking—a very high cliff.

When we talked yesterday, she was in a much better mood. It seemed that she had forgotten her earlier worries. But buried in her chit-chat about what had gone on the previous week was the news that she had seen a hungry coyote.

Marie lives in the suburbs. This is not normally coyote country. There are wild areas within driving distance, to be sure. But for a coyote to wander all the way into Marie's neighborhood, it must be either desperately hungry or else really bad at directions.  

And Marie has been leaving out food! What's more, she has seen the food disappear. So while she can't be intellectually certain that it's the coyote who has eaten it all, nonetheless she is morally certain that she has saved the coyote from starvation!

I asked her how long she plans to keep leaving out food? She didn't give a date, but in general she wants to keep him alive until he learns to hunt for himself.

Really? How's that going to work?

Boxes of books

As usual—at least if you don't count when I spend the holiday with Marie and her family—I spent the Fourth of July with Mother, Brother, and SIL. (See also, e.g., here and here.)

The Fourth was on a Friday. I drove down in the late morning, and encountered pleasantly little traffic. 

Brother and SIL did all the cooking, and we started to eat in the very late afternoon, as the heat started to lift.

Brother and SIL have also been working their way through boxes of papers in Mother's garage, mostly papers left behind by Father when he died. They have been looking for things that might be worth saving, and trashing the rest. There has been a lot to trash. I don't know how carefully they are filtering them, but I do know that he left behind a lot of junk. That said, I did scan through a box of papers that they had marked "Trash" and found a draft copy of Mother's doctoral dissertation, along with a letter to her from her old faculty advisor. I hope this was an exception.

Meanwhile, Brother has asked me to go through the boxes of books in the garage. There are a lot of these. But I wonder if we are all agreed on what to toss?

When I began to tackle this task on the Fifth, I found—in boxes that had been sitting in the garage—books that I had given as gifts: at the very least there was one that I gave Mother after Father died, and one that I gave Father while he was still alive. Why were they in boxes in the garage, when they used to be on shelves in the house? Clearly someone had decided that they didn't deserve shelf-space. I don't credit Mother with that much energy or initiative these days, and I know it wasn't me. That leaves Brother and SIL. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I judged that both books belonged in the "Keep" pile. So now I wonder if I'll have a fight with Brother and SIL when they find out. (At the moment, I think they don't realize it yet.)

My first pass through the boxes generated three categories of books. 

Death by laughter

Chrysippus of Soli died from laughing.

Can you die from laughing? Today I learned that Chrysippus of Soli, the Stoic philosopher, was said to have died laughing at one of his own jokes.

I remember Father mentioned one time that he thought he was going to die of laughter. I was somewhere else for the event itself, possibly away at college. But it was one evening and he was sitting up late. I don't remember if Mother was sitting up with him, or if she had started getting ready for bed. Also, I don't remember what provoked his laughter—whether it was something he read (perhaps The Funniest Joke in the World), or just a funny idea that occurred to him. Probably it was something he read.

Anyway, he described that he started laughing and laughing, and then found that he couldn't stop. This "couldn't stop" experience wasn't frightening though—just very pleasant. Finally he laughed so much that he felt himself detach from his body. He said it felt like he could just float away and go somewhere else, and he thought about it for a while. Finally he decided, no, he would rather stay where he was. So he nestled back down into his body, stopped laughing, and let his life return to normal.

When he told me this story, Mother commented that she could hear him laughing (or, as I say, maybe she was still in the same room), and was worried if he would be OK because it went on so long. She did not say she was afraid he would die. And for his part, he didn't appear to regard the prospect of death with fear. The way he described it, it just sounded interesting. But no, he had responsibilities still in life, and people to attend to. So he decided not to move on just yet.

If I've remembered the approximate year correctly, that would have been before his grandsons were born ... possibly even before I married Wife. So he would have missed a lot.

When he finally did die, it wasn't from laughing. I hope it was as free of fear and as interesting to the inquiring mind as the time he almost laughed himself to death.

I guess there's no way to know.    

      

Blast from the past: Intentions

Hosea's log: Star date 1992-10-11 ... or it might have been 1992-11-10. It was well into the autumn of 1992, and right around the full moon—maybe plus or minus a day. No more than a day.

People who are comfortable with what might be called the woo-woo end of New Age spirituality sometimes talk about "releasing intentions into the Universe." It's not always clear how this differs either from prayer or from magic, but the language is vague enough to offer plausible deniability if one is challenged by a hard-core materialist. "Oh no, I wasn't doing anything supernatural. I was just focusing my attention on a certain goal for the sake of psychological clarity."

The thing is, sometimes it works. Debbie once told me that a few months before she and I met up again after twenty years, she found herself getting tired of living alone after her divorce, and released an intention into the Universe that she meet someone romantically. Then she met me.

Normally I'm not really organized enough to do the same thing, but I remember one time that I definitely did. It was a long-term intention; and while I didn't follow up scrupulously to check every bit of it against a schedule, in the long run it did more or less come true as well.

The time was 1992. I was working a contract job nearly 120 miles from home—by which I mean the apartment I shared with Wife, while she was in graduate school. I drove down on Monday morning and back on Friday evening. During the week I stayed with my parents, which was just a little over 40 miles away from my work. The traffic was terrible, and I wasn't making a lot: enough to pay our rent, but not enough to keep up with Wife's already-riotous spending. But it was what I could get, and all that driving didn't leave me a lot of time to look for a better job.

For some years I had still nursed fantasies of going back to graduate school myself. I had left abruptly (as I describe briefly here) and my faculty advisor was kind enough to hold open my space in my fellowship program for one year. Well, by this time it had been closer to six years, and I wasn't still in touch with him. But I still clung to the fantasy that maybe someday I could go back.

Then in the fall of 1992 I learned that my former faculty advisor had died. Of course there was no realistic way that I would ever have gone back, but this shattered my fantasy. I wept for him—by which of course I mean "for myself and my lost dreams"—harder than I have ever wept for a dead relative. And then, not long after, I found myself walking out to the parking lot after another long day, after sunset, with the stars twinkling, and the most enormous full moon hanging just over the horizon.

Parallel lives

As I listened to Schmidt talk about the Hired Hand this spring (as I discussed in my last post), I began to think about the unexpected parallels between Schmidt's life and mine.

Plutarch of Chaeronea, author of a more
famous set of "Parallel Lives."

___

Schmidt and I met in college. He was quiet and introverted; I was loud and seemingly more sociable, but my loudness and sociability were protective masks no different from Schmidt's quiet and introversion. "Talks loud, laughs louder, thinks silently." When we talked about things that we both knew, we found that we nearly always had the same take. We both had fathers who were loud and boisterous, and who not infrequently offended people; also mothers who were quieter and could get along with anyone.

___

College is when a lot of people start dating and fucking. But I didn't lose my virginity until my Senior year. Schmidt flunked out after the end of his Junior year, so he didn't have a Senior year. And I'm pretty sure he didn't fuck anyone while at school. Years later, Wife told me she had talked to Schmidt privately, and he had admitted that for a while he was interested in Flora. She had the right body-type to attract him: slim, trim, and athletic. But she was already fucking a couple of our other friends (R– and Mac), and Schmidt determined that "Everyone who fucks Flora goes crazy." He didn't want to go crazy, so he decided not to join the party. Also I suspect he didn't want a connection with Flora to drag him into any more intimate connection with R– or Mac.

___

After college, I went home. I didn't date anyone. It was only through a weird coincidence that I met Wife, and we started fucking a week later.

After college, Schmidt went home. He lived way out in the boonies, so the likelihood of a weird coincidence throwing him together with someone attractive was correspondingly a lot lower than it was for me.

___

Part of what attracted me about Wife was the powerful energy that accompanied the highs of her bipolar cycle, when the air around her crackled with her enthusiasm and nothing seemed impossible.

It seems like part of what attracted Schmidt to Hand was something similar. He said that he thought Hand was undiagnosed bipolar, and he agreed that the highs of bipolar people can be attractive. Also, remember that Hand lived his whole life in the shadow of colon cancer, and responded to it with a determination to enjoy his short term to the hilt. For someone as broodingly introspective as Schmidt, I think Hand's willingness to live thoughtlessly—taking no thought for the morrow, as Scripture would have it—must have felt profoundly liberating. Even if he couldn't do the same things himself (because he, personally, couldn't stop thinking about his actions), he must have found Hand thrilling to be around. (Why yes, I am interpreting him based on my own personal experience. Why do you ask?)

Schmidt and the Hired Hand

I have one more story left over from my time this spring at the Schmidts. I've got the notes right here, and I keep planning to just sit down and type them, but ... well ... you know.

The story is about a former friend of Schmidt's, now dead. Because he worked for the Schmidts for a while, I'll call him the Hired Hand (or Hand, for short). I think Schmidt showed me a photo of him, but I don't remember what he looked like. Big and gregarious. Beyond that, I forget.

I don't know if Schmidt remembers this, but I remember once, many years ago, getting a letter from Schmidt where he talked about Hand. He said that in Hand he had finally found someone he could settle down with for the rest of his life—except for the awkward fact that Hand was romantically interested only in girls, not guys. To be clear, Schmidt said nothing directly about his own preferences in "plumbing." Wife claimed that Schmidt told her he was gay, and once upon a time I believed her. (See, e.g., the brief reference here.) Now I'm not so sure.*

What did Schmidt find so enticing about Hand? When we talked during my most recent visit, Schmidt said that he thinks Hand was probably bipolar (though never diagnosed). When I remarked that Wife was probably bipolar, and that her highs could often be delightfully charming, Schmidt agreed with the principle.

Anyway, Schmidt says that Hand was probably an undiagnosed bipolar, who self-medicated with "alcohol, methamphetamine, and bimbos in heat." But then he went on to explain that Hand was diagnosed with pre-cancerous polyps in his colon when he was in his early twenties. All the treatment options were terrible, so Hand just decided to live with them as long as he could—and then die. Since he had no idea how long he had to live, Hand never worried about the long term. He lived for today: fucking and drinking and toking like there was no tomorrow, ... because there might not be. (He took this to the extent of driving drunk, and was incarcerated for it several times.) Schmidt says that he wouldn't have made the same decisions Hand made, but he can understand why Hand made them. In a quick formula, Hand was reckless but not crazy.

The other thing Schmidt said about Hand is that he should have been born as a Labrador retriever. Hand was very friendly, winning, charming, and cheerful—also a good builder and contractor. Except for the building and contracting, these are all virtues that make Labradors so adorable. Plus, Schmidt added with a half-smile, if Hand had been born as a Labrador, he would have been neutered at an early age. He went on to say that this would undoubtedly have made Hand's life more manageable. 

In a nutshell, then, Hand was friendly, winning, charming, and cheerful. He was totally incapable of managing his own life, or his addictions, or his libido. And I think Schmidt still misses him. 

Do breakups cause breakage?

So here I am, minding my own business, reading John Michael Greer's "Magic Monday" column, and someone writes in anonymously to say, "at the end of my marriage, everything started breaking, one thing after the other." Someone else replies, "The day [my partner] died my phone went haywire too."

And suddenly I remember. The first time I had Debbie as a guest in my new apartment, after I left Wife, I went to make us a pot of tea and the handle broke off the tea pot. (Interestingly, the tea pot had been a wedding present to Wife and me; I no longer remember who from, but since I ended up with it, it might have been from one of my friends.) Debbie suggested that this was a sign, and I should get rid of the teapot. But I kept it. Only now if I want to use it, I use hot pads so I can pick it up by the body to pour it.

And I remember the first time Marie came to visit me, a few years later. She broke a crystal butter dish that I had salvaged when Wife and I divided everything up. There was no way to keep using that, so yes, I discarded it into the trash.

So now I wonder: is this a repeatable phenomenon? Do breakups cause breakage?

Inquiring minds want to know ....  

     

Is Wife sundowning?

I learned a new word today. Sundowning. Apparently that's when someone who is suffering from dementia (or borderline dementia, I guess) gets progressively more confused as the evening wears on. Sometimes it can lead to agitation or violence.

Son 1 visited me for a couple of hours today, and he explained it like this. "You remember Joe Biden in the Presidential debate? Everyone said he was fine at lunchtime. But by the debate he was lost, because it started at 9:00 pm."

Son 1 thinks that Wife is experiencing the same thing. Maybe I should back up and tell the story.

Son 1 texted me this morning, asking if I would be here later. Sure, no problem. Turns out he was flying in from a week where he was somewhere else for work. My apartment is en route between the airport and the town where he lives with Wife, so he was thinking of stopping by. Sure, that sounds great.

The nominal reason for his visit appears to have been so that he could wish me a Happy Father's Day, which he did. We never made a big deal out of those holidays when the boys were growing up, but sure that's fine. And it's always nce to see him.

We talked about his work for a while. He told me funny stories about the trip he was just on, and I told him (or reminded him) of comparable stories from when I was working. It's ironic that while his job title is nominally very different from mine, he has nonetheless ended up doing work that is topologically very similar. I asked whether he has any prospects for future advancement, and he discussed one possibility that might be on the horizon. (But nothing is certain yet.)

Then he shifted the conversation pretty abruptly to talk about Wife. At first he was talking generically about her inability to read people, and her consequent tendency to get into fights with everyone. He says he cringes every time she calls one of her doctor's offices, because she always gets into a fight with them over nothing. He described times that he has to handle difficult tasks for her, when he deliberately leaves her at home because it's easier that way. I agreed, and tried to describe some of the techniques that I used to manage her behavior when we still lived together.

Only towards the very end of the visit did he say that he thinks she is starting to experience dementia. He was careful to say that he didn't just mean occasional forgetfulness. But apparently there have been numerous times when he has come home from work, talked with her for half an hour or so, and then gone back to his room to rest before making dinner. If he comes out in ten minutes, all is fine. If he comes out in an hour, Wife says, "Oh, Son 1! When did you get home?" She has no memory of having talked to him before.

And she will get into spirals as the night progresses, where she can't stop obsessing about something long enough to go to bed.

Just as he was getting ready to leave, he asked obliquely if I've had to deal with the same things with Mother yet. (Answer: not exactly, or at least not that I'm willing to think about.) He also said he has no idea what steps need to be put in place to care for her when the time comes: power of attorney, for example? What about her accounts? He hopes maybe I can give him some guidance on these things. Maybe he can come back for another visit next weekend.

Wow. I don't know much about any of this stuff. Maybe I need to learn.

First Ma Schmidt, and now Wife. I'm starting to see a pattern. If these things go in threes, then I guess Mother is the logical third.

I suppose it's a good thing I didn't follow up that job opportunity last year. Maybe. We'll see.     

         

Talking about vacation

Memo to the reader: I thought about titling this piece "On vacation," in the same way that one might title a treatise, "On the Gods," or "On human nature." But I realized that most people would assume it just meant, "I'm going to be away from my computer and not writing for a while." In this case that's not what I mean. Hence the slightly clunkier title.

It's late at night. I've drunk too much. And I need to do things in the morning. Why am I not in bed asleep?

Well, I almost was—at the end of another highly unproductive and useless day. (I keep hoping my days will be productive. But that would require that I actually had the will to accomplish something, and that will is often missing.) But then I thought of an interesting pattern. I wanted to record it before I forgot it, and so here we are.

It's just this. You've heard me complain about being stuck, dead in the water, accomplishing nothing. I've blamed it on booze and on Twitter, both of which are indeed serious contributors to my time-wasting. But both of them are enablers, not root causes. The reality is, This is something I do.

So for example:

The unlived life of the parents

While I'm posting random quotes from Twitter (that's a reference to this post over on the Patio), here's one I found yesterday that is way too accurate.

"The unlived life of the parents," or in other words, we get stuck on the same things that our parents got stuck on. 

Is it true as a general rule? I haven't the slightest idea. But does it explain why I'm so stuck right now? O boy, howdy.

I don't even mean that it explains things at a causal level (though of course it might). But at a descriptive level, it is unerring. Father worked for years running a family business in a field that didn't espcially interest him, but in which he became (by necessity) something of an expert. Then events conspired to allow him to retire early, so that he could do whatever he wanted. He made a few half-hearted attempts to find other work—he got certified as a hypnotherapist, for example, and also as a college-loan planner, and for each job he set up an office for a little while. But what he really wanted to do was to act. And in fact he found work in a few small things here and there—commercials, and bit parts in unsuccessful movies. But he never made it big in acting, and he pissed away a lot of time on the Internet.

Sound like anyone else you know?

The worrying part is that if "the unlived life of the parents" really does affect the children, then I risk passing this very same stasis on to Son 1 and Son 2 in their turn. 

And as if that weren't enough motivation, you remember that Kimberly Steele told me that getting a book published is a major task of mine for this lifetime. So if she is right (and if I have more lives beyond this one), I'd better get my ass in gear or I'll be dumped into exactly the same situation next time (but with less favorable circumstances).

I don't know whether I believe in future lives (except in this sense), but I certainly believe in my children. So maybe I'd better get my ass in gear.

Maybe tomorrow.   

 

Solitude

This weekend I visited my mother. I drove down on Saturday. When I got there, she was at her storage unit with Brother and SIL; but it wasn't long before they came back, along with a friend of Brother's. We sat around and talked a while before they all went home. Then Mother and I stayed up until 2:00 in the morning, drinking brandy and talking some more. Sunday, Mother and I drove into the Big City to go to a concert. We met Brother and SIL there, and we chatted after the concert before going home. Today (Monday), Brother and SIL came out, and we all contributed to a nice meal outside in the early evening. So it sounds like I spent the weekend socializing with family.

You'd think.

But in reality, not so much. Saturday, sure, we sat around chatting for a bit, but in a superficial way. I got to talk to Mother more after everyone else left. But then we drank enough and stayed up late enough that Sunday was pretty miserable. I mostly tried to stay out of those conversations because I was still wiped out. And today? Mother was in the kitchen cooking; Brother and SIL were in the kitchen cooking. I tried my damnedest to stay away, somewhere else, for hours.

Why? I worried about saying something thoughtless that might offend someone. I guess I was thinking particularly that I might say something to offend SIL (see especially this post and this one, for example), but at the same time I was prepared for the possibility of equal-opportunity offensiveness. Not of purpose, of course! Just because I don't trust myself a lot in social situations any more. (If I ever did.)

Maybe I worry too much. Besides, if you are weak at a particular skill, you get better by exercising it more, not by avoiding it. 

Right, whatever. Anyway, after we had our meal (where I was careful to praise every dish!) I announced that I needed to get back home. I cleared the table of dishes (see, I helped out a little bit!) and then took off. Now I'm back at home, and I feel much more at ease. So far as I can tell, I didn't offend anyone this time. And thank heavens for that! 

      

Childless cat ladies

Sometime while I was staying with the Schmidts last month, I started thinking about the trope of the "childless cat lady." Of course the phrase got a lot of attention during the last election, because the news media pointed out that some years earlier (before he was a candidate for anything, let alone an officeholder), JD Vance had used it in an interview with Fox News. So in a sense cat ladies had their moment in the sun last year, just as "bad hombres" did eight years earlier.

But what, I began to wonder, really is the distinguishing characteristic of a childless cat lady, and why do they get so much grief? 

Why do people look down on childless cat ladies?

I tried googling this question, and all I found were articles saying that childless cat ladies aren't nearly as bad as everyone thinks. Here's a collection of them:

• The Guardian, "Claws out! Why pop culture clings to the crazy cat lady," April 16, 2018
• NBC News, "JD Vance doubles down on 'childless cat ladies' dig: 'I've got nothing against cats'," July 26, 2024
• City Journal, "About Those 'Childless Cat Ladies'," September 3, 2024
• Ipsos, "Why America's childless cat ladies are more than just Taylor Swift," September 11, 2024
• The Cutprice Guignol, "On Childless Cat Ladies," September 16, 2024
• The Conversation, "‘Childless cat ladies’ have long contributed to the welfare of American children − and the nation," October 21, 2024
• The Guardian, "Fur and loathing: do America’s ‘childless cat ladies’ hold the key to the US election?" November 3, 2024

And that's great to know—don't get me wrong. I guess it's reassuring to hear that the stereotype is incorrect. But I wanted historical information on where the stereotype came from in the first place—and, more particularly, on what the image means in the popular psyche. A couple of articles waved vaguely towards the idea that the condemnation of childless cat ladies was a holdover from the ancient fear of witches. But that doesn't sound likely to me. 

Old friend

This morning I had a Zoom call with an old friend, old enough that I'm pretty sure I've never mentioned him here yet. Before last weekend, our last communication was in … I think  … 1984, so over forty years ago. The last time we saw each other in person was … now I'm not sure I can remember. I know for sure we got together for a week or so back in 1978 (or not quite fifty years ago). There might have been once more since then, a couple years later, but I can't be certain.

But wait! If I last saw him almost fifty years ago, when the hell did we meet in the first place? Oh, that's easy. We met in the fall of 1970, in fifth grade. I even remember a story about the day.

I'd better give this fellow a name. I'll call him Chris, although I reserve the right to change his name to something else if he becomes important to the story and I think of a better one later. (In real life, his name is not Chris.) At the moment, I have no idea what actor should play him, so this installment of the movie meme will have to wait.

History

Chris joined our class a few weeks after the beginning of school. I don't really know why. So the teacher assigned a student at random—I think it was Gavin—to be his "official friend" and show him around. But during recess, Chris and I started talking, and we took to each other immediately. He started explaining some kind of popular science he had recently been reading: I'm almost certain it was about capybaras. I thought it was fascinating, and doubtless started talking about whatever my enthusiasms were back then. (Fortunately I don't remember.) At one point Gavin actually objected, "Hey, I'm the one who's supposed to be showing him around!" Chris replied, "I'll talk to whoever I want to talk to." And pretty much from that first day, he and I were best friends.

Three years later, at the end of seventh grade, my family moved away. Far away. So Chris and I started writing letters. All through eighth grade and high school, we kept up a heavy correspondence. Also we arranged a couple of visits. He came to visit me twice (the second visit was the one in 1978 that I referenced above), and I went to visit him once. We even kept writing each other during university, though less often. For each of us, real life was claiming more and more of our time.

I remember getting a card from him when Wife and I got married, so I must have sent him an announcement. I remember the card from him, but I don't remember writing a letter. After that time, I lost touch with almost everyone I knew. Partly this was because Wife and I were in graduate school and time was scarce. Partly it was because I didn't understand my marriage, and didn't know how to communicate it to anyone I had known before. I had brief, sporadic communications with Schmidt, with Marie, and with Dale—and pretty much none of my other former friends (such as Fillette or Inga). This also meant that during the long years when I wished I had someone to talk to—a problem I finally addressed by starting this blog!—I had no idea how to contact anyone. From time to time I searched for Chris on the Internet, but his real-life name (like mine) is pretty common. So there was no way of finding the right needle in so large a haystack. (Try to find one specific "John Jones" and you'll get the idea.) 

Years too late … an article about infidelity

A few days ago, I stumbled across an online article from Psychology Today (March 11, 2025) that would have been really useful if I had discovered it twenty or forty years ago. (Oops, bad news, it hadn't been written yet.) The title is "3 Traits That Can Make a Partner More Likely to Cheat," and yes, I have added it to my list of articles posted at the bottom of this page on the left. The short version is that it might have helped me decode Wife's infidelities a lot earlier, though some of what it says finally (belatedly) occurred to me too.

The three traits are these:

1. Narcissistic tendencies
2. Low self-esteem
3. Fear of vulnerability and emotional intimacy

I'll summarize how each of these is supposed to work.

Narcissistic tendencies

No surprise here. The article argues that narcissists use sex to bolster their own self-image, because they need constant validation and praise. So if the spouse falls down on the job—or gets tired, or mad, or bored, or boring—the narcissist seeks sexual validation elsewhere.

When I first married Wife, I didn't even know the word narcissism! The first time I heard about it as a psychiatric disorder was during this conversation with D. Even after that it took me a couple of years before I really understood it.

Does this explanation fit Wife? I think so. Whenever she started a new affair it always made her bubbly with New Relationship Energy, and confident enough to take on the world. I certainly saw that in her relationship with the Church Tenor, for instance. (See, for example, here or here.) Given how low she always crashed later, those highs must have been intoxicating.

Low self-esteem

Of course this explanation is the flip side of the earlier one. Desperately low self-esteem prods the sufferer to do anything to get external validation. I talked about this connection early on, in this post.

The article goes on to say that when one partner commits infidelity, that damages the relationship, which in turn gives the adulterer more to feel bad about (and even lower self-esteem). Interestingly, I caught that feature as well, in this post here. 

Fear of vulnerability and emotional intimacy

The third trait follows a slightly different tack:

For some, cheating is a way to avoid emotional closeness. They fear being vulnerable and may sabotage their own relationships by seeking external connections that require little emotional intimacy....

When they cheat, they often form external connections that demand little to no emotional investment. These brief encounters provide a temporary sense of control or detachment, allowing them to maintain a surface-level connection while avoiding the deeper emotional work required for a healthy, intimate partnership.

It took me a while to understand Wife's fear of vulnerability. I think the most extensive post I've written on it may be this one, which came some five years after the others that I've quoted. But there were certainly signs there earlier. Her willingness to be involved in the torrid BDSM fantasies of Boyfriend 5 was probably one of those signs. Or in any event I remember reading later the assertion that BDSM appeals precisely to people who are afraid of emotional intimacy, because it provides such a rigid framework for behavior that they never have to worry about not knowing where the boundaries are. And Wife regularly panicked over not knowing where the boundaries were.

I said that this article came along years too late. In some senses, I no longer need it because I ended up discovering all these same conclusions myself. But if I had had it available years ago, think how much time it might have saved me!        

           

People are funny

As I left my UU Sangha this evening, I waved to one of the women there and said, "See you next week."

She replied "Inshallah." (One look at her will tell you without doubt that her ancestors must have been English and Scandinavian.)

Then she caught up with me and explained. She has an Iranian neighbor, you see, and so she and her neighbor got in the habit of saying "Inshallah" to each other years ago. Today it's something they find totally natural.

Only she realizes that nowadays, with all the political turmoil in the Middle East, some people get very sensitive about using any conventional phrases from Arabic. So now she feels like she has to watch herself, to avoid saying something that will bother people.

I suggested that she could always just translate it to English as "God willing."

But no, she balked at that. I think it's because she's a Unitarian, and so feels squeamish talking about God.

Even though she clearly has no problem saying "Inshallah," … which is an abbreviation of "in shāʾ Allāh" … which literally means "if God wills" or "God willing."

So why is she willing to talk to God in Arabic, but not in English? (Note that she doesn't speak Arabic or Farsi, or not more than her neighbor taught her.) I think it is for the same reason that profanity never sounds as bad in a foreign language. I have known Germans who are perfectly willing to exclaim "Shit!" but who are far too inhibited to yell "Scheiße!" just as loud. And I've known Americans who feel the same way but in reverse. It's probably the same thing going on here.

People are funny.  

Thoughts on prayer

One evening while I was sitting with Ma Schmidt—I had almost a week to go before coming home, and it was maybe eight or nine days before she died—I suddenly had an idea. She had been moaning "Help me" over and over, even as she was totally unable to answer the question, "Help you do what?"

And suddenly I wondered, Is that how God (or the gods) experience human prayer? Everybody knows that the great majority of prayers seem to go unanswered. Could it be that the problem is on our end, not God's? To flesh this out a bit: Maybe it's the case that there is a limited range of things that God can do for us, but "Make It All Better" isn't one of them. Or, well, it might be one of them if we could specify exactly what we mean. But maybe (for whatever reason) we can't ask God to figure it out for us. Maybe He's willing to help if only we can spell out what we want, but remaking the Universe from scratch so that I personally am never unhappy, … well that just isn't on the menu. (And after all, what I want out of the Universe is probably different from what you want.) So the end result, so far as we can perceive, is that our prayers go unanswered. And we blame it on God. Ma Schmidt probably blamed it on us that her pleas for help fell (to all appearances) on deaf ears.

Another song for the road

A few days ago I brought the story of Ma Schmidt up to the point where she died. I don't remember quite when I wrote that part. It must have been less than a week, because I posted this one six days ago, and that was before I wrote the last few about her.

I keep thinking I "should" write some of the other posts I've been thinking about from that time, and maybe I will. I'll start with this one because it's easy.

You remember back in March I wrote about why I find country music good to listen to for long road trips. So I scanned for Country stations on the road up to see the Schmidts again, and on the road home. Most of the songs I heard were songs I had heard before—good enough to keep me awake, but nothing I felt I had to remember for later. Or they were songs that I hadn't heard before, and that I forgot again right away.

But there was one that caught my attention. I'm not sure if it hooked any of my special topics, or if it's just that the tune is compelling and the beat is relentless. But it's all of that, for sure. Apparently it's also famous, so maybe you've already heard of it. The song is "Austin," by Dasha.

P.S.: I just realized that Dasha defines her style as #cuntry, and yes it is spelled like that. I don't know what to make of that, but here's an article about it.   

In case you are tracking my posts, there are new ones about Ma Schmidt

This is just a placeholder here in May—today's actual date—that I'll be adding more posts back in April to continue the story of Ma Schmidt. So if you are following that story, you'll want to back up a bit to find the latest updates. 

Hymn to Hekate

There is no Homeric Hymn to Hekate, or none extant. There is an Orphic Hymn to her, and Hesiod praises her extensively in the Theogony. But when I was sitting for days on end with Ma Schmidt as she drifted towards death, I found myself musing. Hekate, like Hermes, is a psychopomp—a guide of souls of the newly-dead. who steers them from their bodies (recently abandoned in the world of the living) towards their new home in the Land of the Dead. And wouldn't it be nice if She could arrange that Ma Schmidt die without pain or fear? Of course I mean "die at the right time"—I had no desire to murder her! But if she could avoid the pain and fear, wouldn't that be nice?

In the end it didn't work out that way, or not obviously. But even after returning home I found myself wondering if I could write a hymn to Hekate like the ones I have written to some of the other gods. I've mulled it in fits and starts since then, and tonight—nine days after driving home—I think I have four verses of rhyming dactylic tetrameter. So maybe this will work.

Shining Hekate, beloved of Persephone,
Lady of crossroads and Mistress of night,
Your silver hand draws down the moon from the stars for
Thessalian witches intent on their rites.

Torch-bearing Maiden, a spark in the darkness, 
The mistress of magic, Protector of dogs,
You pass through the skies and the earth and the ocean,
And then disappear in the night and the fog.

Friend of the husbandman, laboring farmer,
You dole out success to whomever you choose.
Honor and profit and victory in warfare—
You pick who's rewarded and who is to lose.

Nurse of the newborns just op'ning their eyelids,
And guide of the dying, who close them again,
Help me prevail in my contests while living,
And shelter my soul when I come to you then.

     

Ma Schmidt, requiescat in pace

Then early Tuesday morning, Schmidt followed up with this email, addressed to Marie, to me, and to his mom's old friend, Georgie. The header read, "It's Over." 

Writing in the small hours of April 22...

If I were to go into the guts of my email program I might be able to figure out how to format it to put a black border around my text in accordance with Victorian fashion but I don't feel like taking the time for that.  Mom died about 8:45 in the evening.  It wasn't as peaceful as one would have liked.  I was out much of the afternoon.  She wasn't going anywhere at that point and I had a major problem to deal with: the enormous dead digger pine along the driveway fell (during the previous night I suppose) -- right across the driveway, completely blocking it.  Thank good fortune I was able to get hold of neighbor Kurt, who has a really big chainsaw -- and the mass to be able to handle it!  He helped me clear the driveway, which I knew I'd be needing imminently.  Anyway, while I was in and out, I wasn't monitoring Mom closely. Then there were the usual chores and then dinner time came along.  As I started cooking, I checked on her and found she'd suddenly been sick -- yellow bile all down her front and on the bed.  Ugh!  [Good for putting me off dinner!] I got on the phone to hospice [I must note here that the local hospice entity is clearly a very small organization.  I've met nurses S— (who was on call tonight) and T—, and social worker J— and that may well be the entire field team] and got some advice and instruction on (we hoped) relieving her nausea.  Going over to the bed to follow nurse S—'s advice I discovered Mom had stopped breathing.  So I had to call her back and tell her that our plans had changed... She's been and gone (and it's a good hour's drive from her home to here), cleaned and dressed Mom, dealt with her meds, and called the funeral home.  It's now 1 AM and they have been and gone as well, taking Mom with them.  All pretty quiet and efficient, really. 

And now comes, I guess, the next, differently hard part: all the paperwork! 

Wonder if I'll get any sleep tonight? 

_____

I have a couple of other things to post—topics I thought about during the long hours—and I'll tag them on the end here pretty soon.

First update

The first update came just a day later, in response to an email from Marie asking what Schmidt needed in the way of comfort.

Not much to record except for continuing deterioration... The last two or three days, as Hosea may have told you, she pretty much stopped taking any sustenance -- not even Ensure.  Water intake has been decreasing lately as well.  Today, for the most part she has even refused water as she is tending to inhale it rather than swallow.  She has been getting crushed pain pills in (a tiny amount of) sugar water; likewise Lorazepam for agitation.  The agitation is diminishing of late -- not, I think because she's less distressed/ confused but because she hasn't the energy for it.  I started giving morphine this afternoon.  It's liquid and a quarter milliliter is little enough not to choke her.  Right now she's zonked out.  As the nurse told us the other day, without any food they can last around a week; without water, three days. 

I called my cousin today to give him a heads-up.  They have family doings this weekend (Easter dinner and the like) but he'll come up here in a couple days...

I had a job arrive yesterday; one I'd nearly forgotten about.  A water-damaged up-light that needs re-finishing and re-wiring.  I made out a repair estimate for the owner's insurance last fall and sent him a pre-packed box a few weeks ago to return it in... Then stuff happened.  Well, the box got back here yesterday afternoon so I guess I better open and inspect it soon and let the guy know what I think! 

Day 15: I drive home

When I woke up, Schmidt was sleeping on the sofa in the living room, next to Ma's bed. Apparently at 1:00 in the morning Ma had gotten out of bed and collapsed. He tried to put her on the commode, but she didn't need to pee. So he put her back in bed, but figured that the only place he could be to keep her safe was immediately nearby.

I dressed and packed—well, I had done most of my packing last night, including taking a shower so I'd be clean for the day. But I rolled up my pajamas and stuffed them in my bag, and then hauled my stuff out to my car. Drank two cups of coffee while chatting with Schmidt about what he figured was coming next. He offered to make me some breakfast, but it's a long drive and I just wanted to get on the road.

So we hugged and I drove away. I then spent the rest of the day (more or less) driving. Stopped for gas once, and for food twice. 

I was scheduled to have a call with Debbie in the evening, and we agreed to text to work out a time. In the event our phones both behaved sub-optimally in reporting text messages to us, but we finally got on a call after I'd been home about an hour. I was exhausted, but it feels like I spent the whole call ranting. In fact I was just going over some of the same things I've discussed in these posts here (though not this one!), but all at once and without a lot of buffer. Anyway, it was good to talk to her. Then I drank for a while to wind down, and went to bed.

The remaining updates come from Schmidt's emails.  

Day 14: Another Thursday

Ma Schmidt stared intently off to one side of me—not at me!—and asked, "What did you say?" (I hadn't said anything, and there was no one else in the room just then. Or rather, I couldn't see anyone else in the room! If she was talking to someone disembodied, I couldn't say who.) Then, a few minutes later, "Did you say something?"

But when she talks to me she looks at me. Admittedly she isn't doing much talking any more, besides "Help me." And she sleeps more than that.

_____

After a drink of water, she looked at me very intently and said, "I need a nice, tall .........." (The noun was lost to mumbling.)

_____

"I love you."

"I can't hear. Make a loud noise." (So I shout near her ear.) "OK."

"I can't see."

"I want a glass of milk." 

    

Day 13: A caregiving dilemma

I had been planning to leave today. But a couple of days ago I offered to Schmidt to stay on for a bit longer, because he really is going to have more work to do once I've left—and less freedom to do anything else.

Ma Schmidt woke up to pee at 4:00 and again at 6:00 in the morning. (I slept through both occasions.) This time she used the commode. Schmidt called it "easier—well, less difficult." Her voice has been clearer today, and less whispered, but her words are more garbled and harder to understand.

She slept most of the day, though she was physically active trying to change position in the hospital bed.

Around 4:00 in the afternoon, I think I heard her say "I'm dying," and I said, "That's OK." Then she said clearly, "Can you get me⸻?" and never finished the sentence. She said she needed to pee about 4:30, but nothing came out.

This is a stock photo, and not Ma Schmidt. Ma Schmidt was almost
90 years old. Also, there are very few photos on the Internet of
hospice patients in flagrante delicto. 

In the evening, she kicked off her covers, so she was lying in just a turtleneck sweater and a diaper. For a few minutes she grimaced while clutching her thighs together and flexing the muscles in them rhythmically. Her hand was resting on her crotch (but outside her diaper). Several times she said "Help me."

Help with what? Was she trying to masturbate? And if she were—umm, what is the relevant medical protocol? I assume that in principle sexual behavior would be classified as "just one more bodily function," albeit a pleasant one. And the whole point of hospice is to keep terminal patients comfortable. So what exactly is the official hospice line on masturbating patients who are too infirm to do the job successfully themselves?

Just to be 100% completely clear on this point, I did not—repeat, NOT—"help" Ma Schmidt with this job. Among my reasons (though this is not a complete list!) were the following: 

• I couldn't be sure that's what she wanted, because she couldn't talk coherently.
• Her son was in the same room at the time, and that's just squicky.
• Knowing the way the world is these days, I figure anyone who helps a helpless patient by masturbating them will probably go to jail or have to register for life as a sex offender. And neither of those options appeals to me.

At the same time, I can't help wondering: If she had wanted it, wouldn't it have been kinder to help her out? If you have any insight into this question, I would welcome comments or feedback.

       

Day 12: Crumpling

Ma Schmidt woke up to go to the bathroom at maybe 6:45 in the morning, or so. On her way back to bed, her legs crumpled beneath her. Schmidt says she can't do that any more: next time he's going to put her on the portable commode that the hospice services left.

A little while later, along with her interminable pleas of "Help me," Ma said "I need a church." (She had never belonged to any church throughout her adult life.)

Ma slept most of the day. Schmidt met with the representatives of a funeral home, and signed a contract for cremation services.

      

Day 11: "We're going to have to break up"

MA SCHMIDT: I'm going to die soon.

HOSEA: That's normal. It happens to everybody.

_____

Ma slept most of the day. She started to need attention in the evening, as Schmidt finished making dinner: grimacing as if it pain, reciting "Help me" every few seconds, and so on. Schmidt brought her a spoonful of syrup with a painkiller and 2 anxiety pills. But still she wanted me to stay with her. I told her my dinner was ready, and she replied, "Stay with me. Don't leave me."

Then after a few minutes she whispered to me, "We're going to have to break up. Because when they send us away, I know they won't send us together."

Finally she closed her eyes, and I went to eat dinner.

_____

P.S.: Schmidt finished his big job yesterday (Sunday), and FedEx came today to pick it up. It is now officially, at long last, on its way to the long-suffering customer.

      

"Why am I trying so hard?"

Later in the evening, Schmidt went to his house (that's the other house on the property) to tend to his cats. Ma Schmidt had a sedative an hour before, maybe an hour and a half. She looked at me very earnestly and said, "I love you so much. Why am I trying so hard to stay alive?"

I held her hands and said, "I love you too, but it's OK to let go. You don't have to struggle. It's OK to let go."

She drank some more milk and then settled down.

Then she smiled and whispered, "Thank you." And fell asleep. 

      

"I can't breathe" part 2

Later in the afternoon Ma Schmidt woke from a nap. It had been about four hours since her last medicine, so Schmidt gave her two more anxiety pills—prophylactically—ground up in syrup.

Shortly after those pills, she got very agitated again, repeating "I can't breathe! I'm going to die!" over and over again. She decided she had to get away, so she started climbing out of her bed. I was on one side and Schmidt was on the other. So I helped her stand, and then asked "Where now?" We stood there for a few minutes, and then she sat down perched on the bed again. I held her and rubbed her back, telling her that if she calmed down she could breathe better.

After a few more minutes she asked Schmidt to help her back into bed. Then he gave her an anti-nausea medicine to help with any pain in her stomach. He reasoned that this might be part of her distress.

      

"I can't breathe" part 1

Well into midday—I have it recorded as 3½ hours after this morning's medicine—Ma Schmidt started to get agitated again. After another fifteen minutes I texted Schmidt, who was up in their shop working on his late job. He crushed more anxiety medicine into a spoonful of simple syrup for her. I suggested three pills at once, and he agreed—especially since she might not drink it all.

Well, she drank it all but it didn't calm her down. After the medicine, she continued to get more agitated.

"I can't breathe!" she shouted. (She appeared to be breathing fine.)

"If I can't breathe, I'll die!"

"Why are you trying to kill me?"

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Help me!"

Meanwhile I told her, "You're safe and all you have to do is relax."

She clutched at her sweater and at her diaper, as if those were restricting her breathing.

"Get me into the car!"

This went on for a while. Finally she began to settle down, and her voice became calmer and quieter. She started remarking about things outside the sliding glass door, that they were beautiful. She pointed to some things I couldn't see. Finally, about an hour after taking her anxiety medicine, she fell lightly asleep. 

      

Day 10: Scenes from Sunday

Ma Schmidt slept all Saturday night, just as she had slept all Friday night. But there was a noise all through the night like someone moaning. I heard it, then rolled over and went back to sleep; but it seems that it kept waking Schmidt. In the end it appears to have been a tree branch creaking in the wind against the side of the house. But it reminded me forcibly of the weeping chains in Orual's well. Readers of Till We Have Faces will remember what I mean.

_____

Ma's agitation this morning was quieter but still real. Schmidt got two pills into her by crushing them into water with sugar. She still asks for glasses of water, but often drinks only once instead of multiple times. But she won't always relinquish the cup after.

_____

This morning she spends more time staring out the sliding glass door and seemingly pointing at things. But when I ask her what she sees, her answer is inarticulate.

_____

"What are we doing here?"

"What am I doing here?"

"I've got to go to the hospital."

_____

Even when she is asleep, it seems she is aware of holding my hand. If I let go to get a snack or to refill my coffee—or to write down one of these notes!—I have between one and two minutes to get back to her. After that she starts to wake up and get antsy.

     

"Going home"

Every day, Ma Schmidt makes remarks about "going home."

"Mom is coming to get me and take me home."

"Is it time to go home already?"

"Can we just go home?"

And every time, we remind her that she already is home.

But yesterday afternoon (I mean Friday) I had a phone call with Debbie. She spent twenty years as an oncology nurse (or close to that), and she told me about one of her oncology patients who kept insisting that he needed to get out of there. He referenced every form of transportation known to man. There was a car coming for him. He had to catch a train. He had to catch a plane. He had to catch a boat. She didn't mention a horse and buggy, but that was probably on the list too. It got to the point that the nurses kind of joked about him: "Old Mr. So-and-so just told us he's got to leave again." To be clear, the nursing staff confirmed with the family that all of these appointments were purely imaginary.

But Debbie said, they may have been imaginary but that didn't make them untrue. It's just that they were metaphorical. Three weeks later, he was dead. So he really did have to "leave" soon. He just had the conveyance wrong.

I've been thinking about that story as I listen to Ma. 

      

Clever girl

Ma Schmidt is getting wily about avoiding the anxiety medication. This afternoon I crushed one into a spoon of ice cream, and another into a spoon of jam. She rejected both of them. In fact, that's what triggered her fighting us so violently. 

Later in the early evening, Schmidt got her to take one pill by telling her it was heart medicine. Then he crushed two more into a little water and put it in a syringe that he squirted into her mouth. This is the protocol he uses to give medicine to his cats.

I think it works better on cats. He got the syringe squirted into her mouth, but then she just kept stock still. We tried to make her swallow some water, but she spilled the water and kept the liquid with the medicine under her tongue. A few minutes later, she spit out that too. Schmidt thinks that some of it may have been absorbed through the skin inside her mouth while it was sitting under her tongue, because she fell asleep not long after. But she is getting wily.

The thing is, at some level (perhaps not fully consciously) she can probably tell that we are being dishonest with her.

She says "Help me!" and we tell her she's safe. But she means "Don't let me die," and we mean "Of course you're going to die."

She is worried about what's coming, and we tell her not to worry. But she's trying to tell us that she's worried she might die, and what we mean is, "Don't worry, you can go ahead and die safely."

We give her anti-anxiety medication to calm her down, but we never tell her why. Or at any rate we never tell her the full truth about why—namely, that as she is slowly dying she is also becoming more irrational and less tethered to reality, and we want her to feel at peace partly for her own sake but especially for ours.

No wonder she thinks we are trying to kill her!

She asks for her husband, Pa Schmidt—or her mother—and we don't tell her where they are. Admittedly, Schmidt did tell his mother once that Pa had died seventeen years ago, and she got very upset. But that's why neither of us will tell her again. Yes, partly we don't want to inflict more emotional pain on her; but also we are managing our own emotional comfort, and it is simply more comfortable to lie to her or to deflect her questions. So that's what we do.

And she doesn't know WHY we are doing it, but I bet that at an emotional level she can absolutely tell that we are doing it! So why should she trust us?