I ran across this by contemporary American poet Franz Wright on Slate last night. It sums things up tersely and tidily:
I basked in you;
I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love.
And death doesn't prevent me from loving you.
Besides,
in my opinion you aren't dead.
(I know dead people, and you are not dead.)
I can still hear his voice and speech patterns. The accent that is unique to northwest Tennessee. The way he often started a sentence with "Well. . ." where "well" is a two syllable word.
"Way-ull" is about how it came out.
And used with that pronunciation in that corner of the world, it indicates gravitas. A pause before and the bad news after.
I still end up crying about half the times I talk with my mother. She has the same accent, and her voice reminds me of him.
I didn't go home for too, too many years because Mama and me were at odds. It would have been a long trip that ended up with her not of approving of me and me resenting her. And then a long trip back home.
I couldn't do it. Whether or not a trip would have been a waste of money that ended in more bad feelings, I didn't go. I didn't have have money to waste, nor do I now.
When we sitting in the waiting room at the Methodist Hospital in Memphis, she turned to me and said that she realized some things just don't matter. It was her peace offering, and I took it.
What I think she meant was that she didn't care any more if I was gay or straight. I was her son, and that was the most important thing about me.
And she's right. I don't define myself as gay or straight or anything having to do with sexuality. I'm a human being first, and a pretty boring one at that. I don't have lifestyle, gay or straight, because I can't afford a lifestyle.
I have a life. Nothing more, nothing less.
Still, all those years of isolation trouble me. I wasn't there when I might have been able to help them, if only to provide a shoulder to lean on.
In retrospect, it seems like too much silliness. Much ado about nothing. Too much energy on both our parts that led to further isolation.
So I'm left with now and here.
Peace is hard to find some days. Sometimes, I think the best is living with a dull ache that doesn't send me into a debilitating depression. Others, I can defy depression and find a modicum of peace. Depends on the day.
But I know dead people, too. And Daddy isn't among them.
25 February 2009
23 February 2009
Hell's Laundry Room
Getting off the phone with Mama can sometimes take 30-45 minutes. Every time we’re winding things down, she says something or I say something that we want to talk about. We’re both still finding our ways without Daddy here in the flesh.
He will always be here, just not in a way we can reach out and touch or see with our eyes. We see with our hearts and souls, instead.
I talk to Mama mostly on the weekends, although she’s taken to calling during the week, sometimes. On the weekends, I work a call in around errands and chores. And I always seem to be doing laundry or getting ready to do laundry when I talk to her.
I don’t do wash during the week if I can help it. I save it up and take care of it on days off. It’s such an abysmal chore that I sometimes put it off until we have almost no clean clothes.
I hate it more than any other chore I do.
There are perverse people, I realize, who enjoy the “zen” of laundry. It’s a mindless task that they meditate through.
Their backs are better than mine.
All that lifting and toting and folding and hanging hurt. Take existential boredom and toss in some physical pain, you have my idea of hell.
When I was getting off the phone the other night with Mama, I told her that it was getting late and that I still had laundry to do. She told me that it seemed like I was always doing laundry.
“As little as I can”, I reassured her.
I told her that if I ever went to Hell (a prospect we both agreed wasn’t likely), they would put me in the laundry room.
Dante had his Inferno, but I’m more afraid of Hell’s laundry room.
I stayed on the phone longer than I had expected, but I usually do. We’re both still working through the whole ugly and painful grief process, and talking always seems to help. So I don’t mind. It helps me as much as it does her.
In the mean time, I have laundry to do, among other things.
If I could neglect it, I would, gladly. But I can’t.
And when I meet St. Peter at the gates, I’m going to ask for a houseboy to take care of that kind of stuff for me.
He will always be here, just not in a way we can reach out and touch or see with our eyes. We see with our hearts and souls, instead.
I talk to Mama mostly on the weekends, although she’s taken to calling during the week, sometimes. On the weekends, I work a call in around errands and chores. And I always seem to be doing laundry or getting ready to do laundry when I talk to her.
I don’t do wash during the week if I can help it. I save it up and take care of it on days off. It’s such an abysmal chore that I sometimes put it off until we have almost no clean clothes.
I hate it more than any other chore I do.
There are perverse people, I realize, who enjoy the “zen” of laundry. It’s a mindless task that they meditate through.
Their backs are better than mine.
All that lifting and toting and folding and hanging hurt. Take existential boredom and toss in some physical pain, you have my idea of hell.
When I was getting off the phone the other night with Mama, I told her that it was getting late and that I still had laundry to do. She told me that it seemed like I was always doing laundry.
“As little as I can”, I reassured her.
I told her that if I ever went to Hell (a prospect we both agreed wasn’t likely), they would put me in the laundry room.
Dante had his Inferno, but I’m more afraid of Hell’s laundry room.
I stayed on the phone longer than I had expected, but I usually do. We’re both still working through the whole ugly and painful grief process, and talking always seems to help. So I don’t mind. It helps me as much as it does her.
In the mean time, I have laundry to do, among other things.
If I could neglect it, I would, gladly. But I can’t.
And when I meet St. Peter at the gates, I’m going to ask for a houseboy to take care of that kind of stuff for me.
19 February 2009
The Quest
We got a letter last week that said SSI was no longer going to cover Shannon’s Medicare. They would be taking the premiums out of his future payments and taking the January, February and March premiums out of his next payment. The letter offered no reason as to why this action was being taken. It only had a couple of phone numbers to call for more information.
Nothing has changed about his circumstances, other than the rent going up, so I didn’t know what to make of it.
I was off work on Friday, so I decided to call for more information. I tried the local number first, but it was busy. So I tried again. Still busy. Tried again. Busy. Called. Busy. Called. Busy. And so on.
40 calls later, it was still busy.
I waited awhile and tried again. Busy.
So I called the toll-free number. I reached a woman who didn’t seem to understand the questions I was asking and who kept repeating the same things over and over in an increasingly loud voice. When I asked her to please lower her voice, she hung up on me.
I called back and reached a nice young man (I don’t if he was young, but he sounded young) who listened to me, put me on hold several times, then came back to tell me that I was dealing with state issue involving Medicare (which I already knew) and that his company only serviced Medicaid on a contract basis.
He gave me another number to call, so I called it. They told me that they only dealt with Medicaid, also, and gave me yet another number to call.
I called that number, and the person on the other end told me in effect that because Shannon had Medicaid he wasn’t eligible to have his Medicare paid for because Medicaid was outside help. I told her he doesn’t have Medicaid. They canceled that 2 years ago while he was in the hospital. And, besides, you can’t qualify for Medicaid unless you can’t afford the Medicare co-pays.
She kept telling me that she was relaying what her computer was telling her.
I gave up on the phone and went online to try and find what the qualifications are for Medicare be paid. I figured it would take less time than I had already wasted and give me some concrete information.
I’m pretty good at research. I’ve been doing it since college and grad school. Usually I can find what I need in a few minutes, max. More often it’s a few seconds. But I couldn’t find a thing.
I spent well over an hour, and the only thing I came up with was a document that said appealing within 10 days would forestall any action until the appeal was decided.
The appeal went out Friday afternoon, but I was so tired and frustrated that I called it a day on that issue.
I needed a break.
Saturday, I sent out letters to every legislator I thought might be able to help us: our state Representative and Senator, our former state Representative, our US Representative, our former US Representative and the President. Over-kill, I know, but I hoped that at least one of them could help us. All I asked was for a phone number that someone would answer where someone could answer my questions.
Monday was a holiday (Presidents’ Day), but Tuesday Shannon got a call from our state Senator’s office. They were going to look into it.
Wednesday, I got a call at work from a lovely lady from the Ombudsman’s office (it’s the highest level of complaint management in the state). She told me that she had read my letter and then started apologizing. She promised to pass it on to the appropriate persons.
Later that day, I got another call from Health and Human Services. The woman I spoke to apologized for all the mess and told me that all this was happening because Shannon didn’t file his re-application, but she could see that he probably never got one. I told her that we had gotten a letter stating as much and that Shannon requested the documents and that they had gone into the mail the week before.
For whatever reason, they seem to think that someone who actually qualifies for SSI will remember to remember that they haven't received renewal forms. Especially recipients who are mentally ill and taking butt loads of medication every day.
The assumption that everyone should be able to keep up with annual renewals when they can't even function well enough to work is patently absurd. It points to fundamental misunderstanding about the nature of illness, whether it's mental or physical.
The HHS lady checked and saw that the paperwork had been received. So she decided to request an immediate review and an answer within 48 hours.
She also told me that Shannon did not have Medicaid, but might qualify and that having Medicaid doesn’t disqualify one from Medicare paid for. It’s the other way around, actually.
We’ll see how it all shakes out, but I’m hoping for the best.
The moral to this story: never underestimate the value of being mouthy. It took a day on the phone and about $3 in postage to get what I needed: a simple answer to a simple question.
Nothing has changed about his circumstances, other than the rent going up, so I didn’t know what to make of it.
I was off work on Friday, so I decided to call for more information. I tried the local number first, but it was busy. So I tried again. Still busy. Tried again. Busy. Called. Busy. Called. Busy. And so on.
40 calls later, it was still busy.
I waited awhile and tried again. Busy.
So I called the toll-free number. I reached a woman who didn’t seem to understand the questions I was asking and who kept repeating the same things over and over in an increasingly loud voice. When I asked her to please lower her voice, she hung up on me.
I called back and reached a nice young man (I don’t if he was young, but he sounded young) who listened to me, put me on hold several times, then came back to tell me that I was dealing with state issue involving Medicare (which I already knew) and that his company only serviced Medicaid on a contract basis.
He gave me another number to call, so I called it. They told me that they only dealt with Medicaid, also, and gave me yet another number to call.
I called that number, and the person on the other end told me in effect that because Shannon had Medicaid he wasn’t eligible to have his Medicare paid for because Medicaid was outside help. I told her he doesn’t have Medicaid. They canceled that 2 years ago while he was in the hospital. And, besides, you can’t qualify for Medicaid unless you can’t afford the Medicare co-pays.
She kept telling me that she was relaying what her computer was telling her.
I gave up on the phone and went online to try and find what the qualifications are for Medicare be paid. I figured it would take less time than I had already wasted and give me some concrete information.
I’m pretty good at research. I’ve been doing it since college and grad school. Usually I can find what I need in a few minutes, max. More often it’s a few seconds. But I couldn’t find a thing.
I spent well over an hour, and the only thing I came up with was a document that said appealing within 10 days would forestall any action until the appeal was decided.
The appeal went out Friday afternoon, but I was so tired and frustrated that I called it a day on that issue.
I needed a break.
Saturday, I sent out letters to every legislator I thought might be able to help us: our state Representative and Senator, our former state Representative, our US Representative, our former US Representative and the President. Over-kill, I know, but I hoped that at least one of them could help us. All I asked was for a phone number that someone would answer where someone could answer my questions.
Monday was a holiday (Presidents’ Day), but Tuesday Shannon got a call from our state Senator’s office. They were going to look into it.
Wednesday, I got a call at work from a lovely lady from the Ombudsman’s office (it’s the highest level of complaint management in the state). She told me that she had read my letter and then started apologizing. She promised to pass it on to the appropriate persons.
Later that day, I got another call from Health and Human Services. The woman I spoke to apologized for all the mess and told me that all this was happening because Shannon didn’t file his re-application, but she could see that he probably never got one. I told her that we had gotten a letter stating as much and that Shannon requested the documents and that they had gone into the mail the week before.
For whatever reason, they seem to think that someone who actually qualifies for SSI will remember to remember that they haven't received renewal forms. Especially recipients who are mentally ill and taking butt loads of medication every day.
The assumption that everyone should be able to keep up with annual renewals when they can't even function well enough to work is patently absurd. It points to fundamental misunderstanding about the nature of illness, whether it's mental or physical.
The HHS lady checked and saw that the paperwork had been received. So she decided to request an immediate review and an answer within 48 hours.
She also told me that Shannon did not have Medicaid, but might qualify and that having Medicaid doesn’t disqualify one from Medicare paid for. It’s the other way around, actually.
We’ll see how it all shakes out, but I’m hoping for the best.
The moral to this story: never underestimate the value of being mouthy. It took a day on the phone and about $3 in postage to get what I needed: a simple answer to a simple question.
14 February 2009
The Hands of Time
I don’t really think about getting old or being old. Not until the weather changes and my hips start hurting. I notice that I’m walking with a limp about the same time I notice the pain.
Other times, I look down at my hands on the keyboard, illuminated by the computer screen. They're getting old. They wrinkle and crinkle like parchment or an old onion skin discarded in the trash. They’re getting older faster than the rest of me.
Or maybe they’re getting older at a normal pace and the rest of my body will catch up.
Scary stuff.
I don’t feel old unless my hips act up, and I then I curse the gods that made me allergic to every pain-reliever stronger than ibuprofen. Or unless I look in the mirror and see all the grey where brown used to be. I don’t look too often, because the brown that’s left is turning black, and I don’t even want to know what that’s about.
Most days, I still feel like that awkward teenage boy that I don’t seem to have ever outgrown.
Still, my eyesight is deteriorating. I’ve been hyper-myopic since I was 9, but now I ‘m also far-sighted these days. My night vision has deteriorated to the point that I can’t drive on anything but well-lighted streets in the neighborhood.
I suppose I am getting old, but the evidence of it always comes as a shock to me. And when I look at my hands and see that evidence in the creases and furrows, I’m shocked.
They betray me. I’m not nearly as old as they think I am. I’ll always be a teenage boy full of wonder and awe at life’s possibilities. An innocent hope that no one can kill; one that recognizes the dark side of the world but that also believes intuitively in better angels.
And I will be the same person, probably, until my ashes are in an urn somewhere.
The outside may be getting older, but the inside isn't.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
Other times, I look down at my hands on the keyboard, illuminated by the computer screen. They're getting old. They wrinkle and crinkle like parchment or an old onion skin discarded in the trash. They’re getting older faster than the rest of me.
Or maybe they’re getting older at a normal pace and the rest of my body will catch up.
Scary stuff.
I don’t feel old unless my hips act up, and I then I curse the gods that made me allergic to every pain-reliever stronger than ibuprofen. Or unless I look in the mirror and see all the grey where brown used to be. I don’t look too often, because the brown that’s left is turning black, and I don’t even want to know what that’s about.
Most days, I still feel like that awkward teenage boy that I don’t seem to have ever outgrown.
Still, my eyesight is deteriorating. I’ve been hyper-myopic since I was 9, but now I ‘m also far-sighted these days. My night vision has deteriorated to the point that I can’t drive on anything but well-lighted streets in the neighborhood.
I suppose I am getting old, but the evidence of it always comes as a shock to me. And when I look at my hands and see that evidence in the creases and furrows, I’m shocked.
They betray me. I’m not nearly as old as they think I am. I’ll always be a teenage boy full of wonder and awe at life’s possibilities. An innocent hope that no one can kill; one that recognizes the dark side of the world but that also believes intuitively in better angels.
And I will be the same person, probably, until my ashes are in an urn somewhere.
The outside may be getting older, but the inside isn't.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
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