Pat Bertram's Blog, page 90

Epic Enough

I just came back from a mile and a half walk, and I’m as wiped out — or worse — than when I was regularly hiking five miles with a twenty-pound pack. I’m thrilled to be able to walk even that much — knees take forever to heal, and I thought it might be several more months before I walk that far — but it’s not exactly an epic hike.

Actually, that once-upon-a-time dream of through-hiking one of the long epic trails died with my backpacking trip and the realization that I would never be able to carry all that I needed, especially the necessary water in the desert areas. Even if I could ever get back into hiking shape, the house precludes such a journey. Well, the garage does — I spent all my travel money on the garage. And to be honest, although I do still like the idea of being out in the middle of nowhere, I like even better the idea of being in the middle of somewhere — that somewhere being my house, of course.

Now, if I could teleport, that would be a different matter. I recently read a book about a fellow who could teleport, and he could go anywhere as long as it was a place he knew. At first I thought it would be a silly talent because why teleport to somewhere you’ve already been? But then it dawned on me — what a great way to do a long hike! Hike as long as you can, carrying a light day pack with a day’s worth of water and food, as well as extra socks and other emergency supplies, then when you’re finished for the day, you spend a few minutes memorizing the place you ended up, and then go home for the night. After a good meal and a peaceful night at home, you teleport to where you left off and continue hiking.

If you decide you want a night in the wilderness, all you’d have to do is hop home, pick up whatever you need for the night, and then hop back to where you were.

In many ways, this would negate one purpose of doing a through hike on a long trail since you wouldn’t get the life-changing experience of being on your own in the wilderness with no hope of getting out except on your own two feet, but it would answer the even greater purpose of seeing what’s around the next corner.

Not being able to hike, not being able to teleport, before I went for my walk, I poked around the corners of my yard and found this little beauty.

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That’s epic enough for me!

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[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator

The Current State of This Blog

[image error]Apparently, Facebook isn’t the only entity that thinks my blog is spam. A couple of days ago, a friend called make sure I’m okay because she hasn’t been getting my blog via email, and she worried that something had happened to me. I told her I was fine and that I was still blogging every day (even though I don’t always have something to say) and suggested she check her spam folder.

Sure enough, the last four blogs had been classified by her email provider as spam.

I think I know what the problem is — the brief bio at the bottom of every post. Even though it is just a small fraction of the post itself, apparently the spam-eating bots have been picking up on the duplication. (One message from FB mentioned that repetition was considered spam, which corroborates this surmise.)

I never used to put anything at the bottom of my posts because it seemed redundant — after all, all the information about me and my books are on sidebars and pages — but some sites illegally repost blogs without attribution, and I used to find various of my articles on those sites. (I’m sure such sites are still around, though I’ve stopped looking.) Since there’s often nothing that can be done about the theft, one suggestion I came across to counteract the attack was to make sure every blog had a bio and links so that if anyone came across the blog on other sites, it would refer back to me.

I’m glad I got in the habit — phone apps for the various blog platforms generally don’t allow for sidebars, so no one who reads my blog via their phone would see who I am and what other things I write without the bio. It’s not a problem for regular readers since they know who I am, but many new people find me via search engines (most often for questions about grief) and I want them to know about my grief book.

I could, of course, do a new bio every day if the bio really is the problem, but then I probably wouldn’t post something every day, either, because it would be too much extra work. I could also do several different bios and rotate so that the repetition comes once a week rather than every day, but my stubborn nature won’t let me be accommodating (though I did remove the link to my website, in case the links were the culprit).

And anyway, the bio itself might not be the problem. If it is, I’m grateful — it was the impetus to get me off Facebook, at least for now, and I must admit, I’m much happier living in my own little world without the contention and opinionation and strife that comes with the FB territory.

So, since I’m maintaining the current state of this blog, if you generally get my posts via email and you happen to notice that I have disappeared, please check your spam folder. I’m probably there.

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[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator

From the “Then” to the “Now”

[image error]Sometimes I worry that when talking about my house I come across as smug or supercilious or boastful rather than grateful and very lucky. So many people have a hard time keeping a roof over their head, especially now when eviction restrictions have been lifted. Even in the best of times, too many people are homeless and luckless, so it’s perhaps crass to write about my wonderful new life in my lovely little house. And yet, it is my life. My blog. My words. And especially — and always — it’s my gratitude to those who helped make it happen.

For so long, I lived on the edge — not homeless because I always had a room to rent or a place to stay, but not secure, either. One friend even made me promise that if I ever became homeless, I would go stay with her, which was truly a generous offer.

Somehow, though, I slipped through a crack, and instead of the worst happening, the best did. It seems odd, but to find a house, I had to move to a place that seemed on the edge of nowhere, and yet, now that I’m here, I’m right in the middle of . . . somewhere.

Even better, it’s exactly where I want to be.

I was talking to a new friend the other day (though after a year, I suppose I don’t need to add the “new” anymore). She mentioned that housing prices were going up around here, which means the crack in the universe that allowed me to find a home — a forever home, not just a room in someone’s house — really was just a crack. I could barely afford this house; anything more would have been prohibitive.

But here I am.

It’s ironic (and mystical) that Jeff’s death ten years ago blew my life apart, and my homeless brother’s death two years ago somehow glued it back together. If nothing else, my brother’s death put into motion all the gears that needed to move to open the crack that allowed me to slip through and into a home of my own. Then there is my father’s contribution. When he died, he left behind the small legacy that allowed me to follow through where the other two pushed me.

(I like the symmetry of the three, but in my case, there is a fourth person who was instrumental to getting me here — the brother who helped with all the logistics and practicalities.)

This scenario seems so mythic and mythological but then perhaps all lives can be seen in mythic and mythological terms if we tell ourselves the right stories.

And that is the story I am telling myself.

I tend to forget that there is another aspect to the story of how I got here — all the long years of pain and loneliness and angst that accompanied me on my journey from the “then” to the “now.” Without all the changes grief brought, I wouldn’t be this homefull person, not at all smug, but rather accepting of my good fortune and almost giddily grateful for the experience.

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[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator

Cheering Up a Griever

[image error]I belong to an online site where people ask questions of self-professed experts. I’m often asked questions about grief, most of which I have already answered, but every once in a while, I’m asked a new question that flabbergasts me.

Today someone mentioned a friend who had lost their mother, and asked, “What can I tell them to ‘cheer them up’ and express how proud I am for them and the way they’re handling it?”

What the heck kind of question is that? And how smug and ignorant and insensitive does someone have to be to ask it?

The truth is, grief belongs to the griever. It has nothing to do with anyone else, no matter how close that anyone might be to the griever. What an onlooker sees might not show the bereaved person’s real feelings, and anything anyone says in that regard might make the bereaved feel even more alone than they already do because it will show that the “friend” doesn’t understand.

People need their grief, need to feel what they are feeling way more than they need to be “cheered up.” Cripes, if the questioner can’t stand to see the friend’s grief, think how much worse the griever feels at the loss. Wanting to cheer up a griever might be understandable, because grief is one of those things the uninitiated shy away from, but it’s a totally selfish desire. No one wants to have to confront the fact of death — it’s the great unknowable and puts the lie to our cozy existence.

And what the heck did the questioner mean by being proud of the way the friend handle “their” grief? Because they’re not crying in public? Because they’re continuing on with their life? Does that mean that if they were crying or showing their grief in some other way, the questioner would be upset with the bereaved person? Again, how a person handles grief has nothing to do with anyone but the griever. Each griever handles things the best they know how, though most grievers quickly learn to hide their grief so that others aren’t judging them, and letting someone know you are proud of them for how they are handling their grief is definitely a judgement.

Instead of cheering up a griever or voicing a judgement, you can hug the person if you are close friends. You can invite the person to lunch or provide a meal at their house. If you knew the mother, you can tell stories about the mother and say how much you liked her or miss her or whatever. If you didn’t know her, ask about her. People who are grieving sometimes need to talk about the deceased, but most people don’t want to mention the deceased for fear of making the bereaved person sad. They don’t understand that nothing will make the griever sadder. Sadness comes with the loss. There’s nothing you can do to “cheer up” a griever, but you can suspend all judgement. And you can be there for them.

That’s what counts. Simply being there.

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[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator

Paeans and Peons

I went to the grocery store today. It’s not so much that I needed things, but I wanted to start my car. It’s been so hot, that even with the car being snug in its own little house, I thought it should be exercised. And oh! What a joy! No disconnecting all the buckles that hold on the car cover, no folding up the cover and stowing it before I could even get into the bug. All I had to do was unlock the garage, push a button to open the door and presto! Magic.

When I first found out the old garage would have to come down, I felt silly realizing a new garage would cost more that the car is worth, but then, there really is no price to be put on the freedom having a vehicle gives a person in our wheeled world. Now that the money is spent, I’m glad I had to do it — if the old garage had been fixed, I wouldn’t have my magic door. And I don’t begrudge spending my travel fund on the garage. As great as one last epic trip would have been, it doesn’t compare to the convenience of a garage, especially as I get older and feebler.

But I didn’t come here to write a paean to the garage gods. A sign on the door of the grocery store geared to us peons prompted this post.

[image error]According to the sign, by Colorado law, all peons (regular folks, not people engaged in a public safety role such as law enforcement, firefighters, or emergency medical personnel) over the age of ten must wear a mask when in public places. The only exception is if there is a medical reason why a person can’t wear a mask. But no one — not individuals, store workers or “the authorities” are allowed to question those without as mask as to their medical condition, so (again according to the sign) the assumption is that those without a mask have such a condition.

Huh? What sort of law is that? We peons have to wear a mask but if we don’t wear a mask, people are supposed to assume we don’t have to wear one? Which means that despite the law, no one has to wear a mask since no one can question why a person isn’t wearing one. Still, wearing a mask is the law, and even if it weren’t, in these Bob days, it’s the safe and courteous thing to do. Besides, it’s not something I want to fight about.

The other half of this law requiring people to wear masks also requires people to remove the mask if someone needs to verify who they are, because even a half-mask can mask a person. The person behind me in line wasn’t anyone I recognized, but when he said, “Hello, Ms. Pat,” I recognized his voice — he was the builder, a person I’ve seen almost every day for the past few weeks.

I found it interesting that as soon as I got out of the store, I removed the mask and when he left, so did he, though some people didn’t. Luckily, we’re not forced to wear masks outside unless that “outside” is a public place like a bus stop. And, even though people wear masks while driving alone, it’s not required. (Wearing a mask when one is alone seems silly to me because I don’t think you can give yourself The Bob, but what do I know.)

Even if it were required to wear masks out walking, it wouldn’t matter. With a single code enforcer in town, there’d be no one to enforce the law anyway.

Come to think of it, I should have stuck with the paean to my garage. It’s a lot less complicated than trying to make sense of this law, that’s for sure.

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[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator

 

The World Outside my Fence

I walked to a nearby store today to pick up a few items. What used to be a short walk (a half-mile round trip) turned out to be a far piece since my knee is still not in top shape, but I did walk. Yay!

I even saw a couple of friends who were also running errands, which is another yay, but they told me of a new law in Colorado — that everyone above the age of ten or those who were medically exempt had to wear masks in public, and I’d forgotten mine. Oops.

I have a surgical mask on a ribbon that I generally wear around my neck until it’s time to go into a store. Because of allergies, I can’t wear one for very long otherwise my sinuses protest and I start gasping for breath. Lately, though, I haven’t bothered, and apparently, there’s been a twenty-five percent increase in local cases of the Bob, from 4 to 5.

That’s one thing my friends and I marveled at — that the local economy was destroyed for a mere five cases of the Bob. That’s it. Five cases.

Well, if it makes the power-wielding folks happy, I’ll wear a mask when I’m around others, though there is no way I can have been infected by The Bob. And yeah, I know — people can be contagious without knowing it, but I’ve pretty much only seen one person the past couple of weeks (the garage-builder), and from what I can gather, he doesn’t see many people, either. The chances of one of us near-hermits coming in contact with the one person who recently became infected with The Bob seems minuscule. Still, being the quintessential “good girl,” I’ll do what I’m told. So, a mask it is.

The interesting thing to me is that if I hadn’t come across my friends this morning, I still wouldn’t know about the new law. There is a rather pathetic newspaper, but it comes out only once a week, so the only place I’d been able to keep current about local affairs was a town news group on Facebook. Which means, as long as my Facebook boycott lasts, I will have to continue relying on chance encounters to find out what’s going on. (Some people are trying to get a more focused newspaper going, and they asked me if I wanted to be a part of it, but I have a hard enough time writing just for me. And besides, the isolation due to The Bob has regressed me to my default mode and killed any desire to make the effort to be around people.)

To be honest, I don’t care — can’t care — what’s going on in the world outside my fence since I have no control over any of it. (Now that I think about it, I don’t even have any control of what’s going on inside my fence. The feral cats have staked out my bare earth spots as their latrines. Weeds take over when I’m not looking. Friendly plants grow or not according to their own whim.)

I sometimes wonder if we’d all be better off not knowing anything beyond our immediate environs. Does knowing make anyone happy? Does not knowing make anyone feel more isolated?

Maybe I’m just making excuses for my own predilections. Still, next time I want to know what’s happening beyond my property, I’ll go for a walk, and if I need to know what’s going on, I’m sure someone will tell me.

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[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator

Folly and Glory

Not a lot going on building-wise today. The builder/magician spent most of the morning redoing some of the electric work the professionals had done. When they put in the electric outlets in the garage, they didn’t allow for walls. Um, really? How is that possible? Originally, my contractor was going to do the electric work, but since he’s not licensed, the building inspector wouldn’t let him do the work. I had to pay a huge amount extra to licensed folk only to have my builders redo it. Oh, well. It’s done. I can be glad about that.

I’d saved the faux window I’d painted on the old garage, though I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to sully my brand new walls on my brand new garage with that bit of folly, but after all, it is a piece of art, silly as it is, and I do like the idea of sprinkling objects of interest around the yard. So today, he cut new frames for the window to match the rest of the trim on the garage, and put up the window. Seeing it made me smile, so apparently, it was the right thing to do.

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The white framing around the “window” had gotten dingy, and the window had pock marks from where it had been attached to the old garage, so this afternoon, in the excruciating heat of the July sun, I went out and freshened the window. Such folly! (And maybe glory? After all, I did do something instead of just loll around reading.)

But that wasn’t the only glory. This morning, I had to smile at finding a morning glory bursting out of the periwinkle. Such a lovely surprise! It’s amazing to me how many things I plant that never do anything, and yet things I have nothing to do with grace my yard with beauty.

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Ah, folly and glory! Not a bad way to celebrate a day.

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[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator

Open Sesame

Oh, frabjous day! So, I’m mixing my quotes — Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and Jabberwocky — but I don’t care. My garage opener has been installed!

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No more struggling with a car cover, no more sweating out storms to make sure my car doesn’t sustain any damage (as if even a bucket of my sweat would stay a single hailstone or slow so much as a gust of wind), no more announcing my away-from-home status by the absence of the vehicle. The bug is snug in its beautiful new home, and oh, how wonderful is modern day magic! I don’t have to say open sesame or crack a sound. All I do is press a button and . . . presto. The door opens by magic.

And the magic is all mine.

The wonderful magician who installed this magic apparatus understands me well — he double bolted the mechanism to two different trusses to make sure there is no way it will ever fall on my car. (Worrier that I am, that thought did cross my mind and even my lips.)

Sometimes I worry that I’m getting too caught up in the things of my current life, but how I can I not? It’s all so magical. Water comes to me with a twist of a knob. Wastes are washed away with the touch of a finger. Foods heat up without a flame. My non-nomadic abode requires no effort to put up or take down — it stays put. And the sturdy walls protect me from the elements and even provide my own microclimate.

Magic for sure!

When the installer left today, I took a short ride for no other reason than the thrill of opening and closing the door. The creepy, thieving, drug-dealing, loud-music-playing neighbor took that very moment to wander down the alley, which made me especially glad about the secure garage. It made me nervous at first, his seeing inside the garage, but maybe it’s for the best. This way he knows that he can’t easily get to anything in the building.

It would be nice if everyone in the neighborhood was as trustworthy as the rest of my neighbors, but I suppose any magic kingdom needs its trolls and trollocs, its devil toads and poison mushrooms, its evil minions. At least my nemesis is only human. But I’m straying from the point. Or not. After all, I’m talking about magic, and that includes the protective spells of locked gates and secure buildings that keep the crone safe.

Yep. Magic.

***

[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator

Touchdown

A touchdown is generally a good thing when it comes to spacecraft and airplanes, though in the case of airplanes, that initial touch can sure get the adrenaline going, especially when the plane bounces and then touches down yet again. A touchdown in football is a good thing for the one making the goal and a not-so-good thing for the opposite team. (At least, that’s my understanding of the game, though a touchdown could mean something else for all I know since my knowledge of football is limited to movies like The Replacements, Necessary Roughness, Rudy, and Radio.)

A touchdown when it comes to weather is something entirely different.

Last night, the tornado sirens sounded as they sometimes do. Normally I don’t worry because the familiar signs of an impending tornado are often absent, especially the eerie green skies. Last night, however, the ambient light was a sickly yellow-green. I waited to hear the screaming winds that often herald a touchdown, but all I could hear was the wind in the trees and the rain pounding against the windows. (Luckily no hail, though some areas around here did get bombarded.)

Since I didn’t want to go down into the basement — I’ve lost whatever talent for stairs I once had and so I was more afraid of falling than I was of the storm — I brushed my teeth. It sounds silly, doesn’t it? But the bathroom, which has no window, is the safest place next to the basement, and I wasn’t scared enough to huddle on the floor of the shower. So I brushed my teeth.

And the storm passed. Well, except for that one thing — a sheriff’s deputy got a video of a tornado touching down right outside of town.[image error]

Apparently, the cloud touched down for a few seconds, but there was no damage and no one was hurt.

This morning, I went outside and looked askance at Mother Nature. The crone gave me an innocent look as if to say, “What? Did I do something wrong?” All was still (except for those ubiquitous doves and their incessant call, “What-todo, what-todo.”). The sun shone with a golden light, the skies were bright blue, and the only indication of a storm was the standing water in the gutters where the drainage is especially poor.

Clouds are starting to roll in again, which is to be expected during monsoon season. (Normally, the winds in Colorado come from the west or northwest, but during the summer, they shift and come from the south and southwest and bring moisture and afternoon storms from the gulfs.) We can use the rain since this area is in extreme drought, but please, hold the tornadoes.

Things are bad enough — we don’t need any touchdowns around here.

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[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator

A Day for Dozing

I keep opening my laptop to write today’s blog, but then I play a game of solitaire, close the lid and go read a bit and end up taking a nap. I don’t know why I can’t stay awake. The heat perhaps, though it’s not all that hot in the house. It could be something to do with the falling barometric pressure and the storm that is on the way bringing rain and hail.

This area is notorious for hail, so much so that some insurance companies don’t include hail damage in house or car insurance policies, and the ones that do include some coverage, have a huge deductible. (The insurance companies say it’s the law in Colorado, but they aren’t fooling anyone — they want the law, policy holders don’t.) One good thing, my car is finally under cover, so I don’t have to worry about the poor things being pummeled by golf ball-size hail.

Although I don’t think it has anything to do with today’s sleepiness, today is Jeff’s birthday. That milestone doesn’t seem to have anything to do with me anymore — it just seems like another number and a reason to remember him as well as indulge in a bit of nostalgia.

Even though I feel good about my life now, I still miss him, still find myself confused at times about his being gone. I know it’s the way it is, and I have become used to it, but it still seems . . . off. As if maybe our being together was a dream. As if I dreamed him and none of that was real. Or maybe it’s this particular phase of my life that’s not particularly real. Either way, it doesn’t seem as if his life has anything to do with mine. Or mine with him.

It was a long time ago — our life together. His death.

I wrote a post seven years ago about how, in the movie Heaven Must Wait, Andrew McCarthy tells Louise Lombard that his mother died. She told him she was sorry. He said, “It was a long time ago.” At the time, the line struck me as particularly poignant, and I realized that someday, I too would say, “It was a long time ago.”

It is odd, and perhaps typical of such a loss as mine, that although time passes and other things in life supplant at least some of his influence, and although I don’t think of him all the time, I do always miss him. The void he left behind that I filled with tears is still there, but when I happen to brush against that void, I tend to shy away from it. I don’t need the tears as I once did, and there’s no real benefit to indulging in sadness anymore. It really was a long time ago.

And yet . . .

Maybe that’s reason enough for sadness — that he’s so far away the tears no longer come.

Considering body memory, I suppose it’s possible that the effects of this day are draining my energy enough to make me doze off. But whatever the reason, the truth — the still hurtful truth — is that I am here and he is not.

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[image error]Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator