BJ's Blog

I was reading about weight gain during menopause and happened upon this phrase, “the menopause.” The article stopped me. Not “menopause” but “the menopause.” Not “war” but “the war.” Not “life change” but “the life change.” Not “cancer” but “the cancer.” It reminds of the work usually assigned to a specific noun. The difference between generic and named: professor versus the Professor; woman versus the Woman; mother versus the Mother. But “menopause” was not capitalized. Still it was “the menopause.”

Perhaps “the menopause” is bigger than “my menopause.” More universal. As if “the” can encompass all of the experiences of menopausal women everywhere. We all pass through “the menopause.” A unifying experience. A hand-holding, gathering in a circle, singing songs ritual where we rejoice in the rite of passage known as “the menopause.”

Praise be to our flames of power–firing surges of hormonal heat!

Hallelujah for our hearty middles, jiggling thighs, fluffy flesh!

Amen to the almighty god, the Menopause!

5/24/16 journal entry

Three weeks since we took Bubba to the Animal ER and paid $$$ to have him euthanized. I have his picture everywhere: on my phone’s lock-screen, as my iPad’s wallpaper, in my office, on my Facebook page. And I imagine I can smell his sweet doggy paws and fondle his soft floppy ears. Although he hadn’t done it in the last couple of weeks of his life, I hear his basset howl when I open the garage door. His greeting. Drool dried on the walls, mopboards, bathroom scale, kitchen appliances, crown molding around doors to the outside. To freedom. To roam the neighborhood, marking the trees, the bushes, the signposts, the rocks, the hydrants, the circle of walking that narrowed from a circumnavigation of the golf course to a leash walk around the tennis courts to a neighborhood stroll to a shuffle to the corner, across the street and back to his front yard. A closing circle, a tightening spiral, a looping inward to his last few steps in the grass. Breaths of grass. Then carried inside and laid on his bed.

https://visitantlit.com/2018/05/15/bubba/ – but his picture should be first

Henry now has 7:

1. Tramadol – 150 mg 3 times/day (narcotic for pain)
2. Gabapentin – 300 mg 3 times/day (anti-convulsant for nerve pain)
3. Novox – 50 mg 2 times/day (NSAID for pain)
4. Metronidazole – 250 mg 2 times/day (antibiotic for diarrhea)
5. Omeprazole – 20 mg 1 time/day (proton-pump inhibitor for reflux)
6. Diphenhydramine – 50 mg 1 time/day (antihistamine for allergic reactions)
7. Entederm – applied 3 times/day (anti-inflammatory, anti-itch, antibiotic, anti-fungal ointment for bedsore acquired while being kenneled)

How much more can he take? How much more can we administer? Marking time now.

Henry had a mast cell tumor removed from his ear on December 13, 2013. We found out later that it was malignant. Our vet explained that we had a couple of options: remove the ear, in order to prevent recurrence, or leave it and see what happens. He also referred us to an oncologist in SLC. We took Henry there on January 2, 2014. They gave us a 50/50 chance for the mast cell tumor to return if we did nothing. Two and half years later, I believe it’s returned and spread to other parts of his body: Mastocytosis.

It begins in my lower back, draws up my spine, blasts out through the pores in my neck. I sweat and steam pours. While I’m flashing I cannot concentrate. How do the women playing Vivaldi play their violins? Can they saw through these temperature extremes?

Idiopathic or “Old Dog” Vestibular Disease

9 days out, Henry still wobbles, still tilts his head, and still doesn’t eat much

I dreamed of Henry the other night…

Almost a year since we lost Bubba, and I’m not ready to lose this one–my baby, my pokey little puppy. Last night he whined and whined because Maggie and I were downstairs. I remembered as a puppy how he would whine in his pen upstairs. Unable to bear his crying I’d lift him out, hold him on my chest, and sleep with him here…upstairs, on the couch, again. He is the same; I am the same. In the summer of 2004, I felt a hole emerging in my life. Maggie was 4, Jake was 6, Carlos was 9. Carlos would live another 2–almost 3–years. Parenthood, marriage, teaching, scholarship, and service were taking their toll. When I saw Henry in a bin full of puppies at the Farmer’s Market downtown I couldn’t resist. A farmer and his son from Hooper said he was 8 weeks old. He was probably closer to 6. Still needing his momma.

People said, “What will your husband say? Have you talked about getting another dog?” No, we hadn’t. If anything, we’d discussed staying “animal free” when Carlos died. But I needed this puppy. I needed him to be the one creature in my life that I wouldn’t have to say “no” to. I needed him to love me in ways that my husband and children and colleagues and students couldn’t. Unconditionally. Someone said, “Your husband is so forgiving. Getting a new dog could be grounds for divorce.” They were trying to be funny. But I knew my husband wouldn’t and couldn’t deny me this. The seeds had been sown long ago…before we moved to Ogden, before we had children, before we married. Perhaps the puppy was another gesture toward marital dissatisfaction. He was mine. All mine.

And so we named him “Henry.” Jake came up with the name–well we sort of happened upon it together. Maggie wanted “Pajama Sam.” He’s always been Henry. Not Hank, as my neighbor refers to him. Henry. My Henry. Sweet Henry.

Normal, norm, normalize

Adjective: conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected.

Noun: the usual, average, or typical state or condition.

Verb: bring or return to a normal condition or state.

In these post-presidential days I wonder how quickly we can become normalized to the new regime. How soon does Trump become normal? And then I ponder what it means to be normal. Jake once told Maggie that he wished she would just act normal. In high school students tend to be normal or not normal. Jake wanted to be normal. Maggie does not.

In graduate school we held norming sessions before reading writing placement essays. I always found the concept rather disturbing. We read a few essays then discussed what rating we would give them. The discussion was meant to normalize our ratings. Apparently “norming” is a stage in group development: when the group starts to bond, becomes harmonious, and develops a kind of synergy.

In some ways, norms are good: moral standards, ethical boundaries, etc. But it’s a tricky balance, finding that edge between what society expects (the normal) and maintaining your own sense of self, your own standards. Normal is a safe place. And when the normal shifts, we scramble to find the new normal–fearful, anxious, and volatile until something settles. It’s an uncomfortable place–the non-normal, post-normal, abnormal. Few people like to stay in that place very long. Four years of a presidency can seem like a long time. Three years of high school can seem like a long time. Five hours of essay reading can seem like a long time. Not to mention seventeen years of employment, twenty years of marriage, thirty-nine years of habitation.

I’ve forgotten how to do this–how to wake up in the morning and write instead of rushing off to work, instead of falling back to sleep on the couch, instead of reading endless posts on social media about the demise of our world since the election of Trump. But the rain washed all the snow away and the sadness of that has caused me to pause and ponder why the rain came, why the snow left, and why I’m stuck in this rut of lethargy.

Three weeks ago we had record snow. Every morning I awoke to several new inches that needed shoveling. We removed just enough snow for one car to move in and out of our driveway. And I was tired at the end of every day. People slid off the road into drifts, unable to extract themselves. Every day that I drove to work I increased my risk. We’d become bumper cars at Lagoon. So by Thursday of that snowy week I watched the inevitable happen in slow motion on the corner of Tyler and 30th. The tears of the OHS senior who slid into my two-month old Prius reminded me to act like an adult: “It’s only the bumper, no one was hurt, please don’t worry.”

Now only remnants of the three feet of whiteness. Green grass, dog poop, bits of garbage revealed. It happens every year–the February melt–but it never fails to unnerve me. I’m not ready to emerge. I still lack energy.

In January, So to Speak published Three Shorts. I was glad to have the “Waste” piece out at last. But what other writing have I done? The piece on Jake moving out, in August. Long time ago now. My baby girl turned 17. My son will be 19 next week. I work, I sleep, I read/watch stuff. Henry ages faster than time slips. Am I prepared for his demise? I will take him walking today.

And I still miss Bubba….

Not necessarily well-lit, but certainly tidy and empty of my son. We moved Jake to the Chapel Glen dorms on August 18th, move-in day at the U of U. He sorted his clothes–giving some away and laundering the rest–dusted and vacuumed the space he’d dumped his stuff in. Candy from two Christmases ago attracting bugs; a calendar that Bubba peed on during last summer’s fireworks; an un-cashed check written on 12/10/14 to Ogden High Debate; detritus of a teenage boy’s progress from 11 to 18.

The summer after he turned 11 he picked out red for the walls and ceiling, lime green for the trim and doors. We gave away the little kid furniture and bought black Malm from iKEA. By 13, he needed darker curtains so he could sleep; by 15 he was bored with the colors; by 17 he’d stopped cleaning his room. Two days ago, he carefully dusted the knick-knacks on his shelves and moved the photos of his grandparents to his dresser. I washed his blanket, “nana,” with Grandma G’s patch of cherries, a repair to the fleece burned by standing too close to the gas fireplace. Nana stayed home yesterday.

I haven’t cleaned the bathroom…the one I cleaned four years ago when his dad moved out. I won’t fill in the empty spaces. Perhaps Maggie will do that this time. Like Henry did when Bubba left? We move in pairs. Inhabiting spaces in even numbers. The unevenness rankles. After my ex, we equilibrated with Charlie. We’ve been uneven since Bubba died in May. Jake’s departure restores the balance in our home. Maybe. I’m rationalizing to placate myself. A clean smaller nest.