E.G. Manetti's Blog, page 42
October 23, 2015
Transgression Sneak Peek
Jim O'Connor Photography is hard at work on the cover for Transgressions. Razor Sharp Editing is lined up for mid-November proofreading and Commonmarket Films is working through the final story edits. We may make the 2015 release date afterall. In the meantime:
This is ill. I am the sum of my ancestors.
Milord, monsignors Sebastian and Elenora, Seigneur Trevelyan, and Seigneur Damocles are all seated at the judgment panel. Master Straus is at the podium and Archive Master Liger is seated at the techno console.
I am the the foundation of my family. Milord and Seigneur Trevelyan are angry, although it is well controlled. Monsignor Sebastian is as dyspeptic as ever and Seigneur Damocles, still bearing the marks of his failed challenge to Trevelyan, appears … hungry? Monsignor Elenora is annoyed.
Honor is my blade and shield. It is a formal Cartel judgment and Lilian is the accused. Tabitha? Lilian knew when she began her conspiracy to free Tabitha that it could be deemed ‘effrontery,’ a transgression against Grey Spear sovereignty. For such effrontery, Monsignor Sebastian could demand to see her belted or even caned. This day. Do not volunteer.
At a gesture from milord, Lilian addresses the author of her summons, “Associate Master, what is your wish of me?”
Straus’ stern expression is all the warning Lilian receives, “Monsignor Sebastian indicts you for interference in the bond of Mistress Tabitha.”
Adelaide defend me! Bond interference? This is completely unanticipated. Honor knows not fear. This is a far greater charge than effrontery. If Lilian is found guilty, the lightest penalty will be caning. The severest will be time added to Lilian’s bond to be served with Monsignor Sebastian.
“How do you respond to this indictment, Mistress Lilian?” Master Straus presses.
Honor endures. This day. Carefully feeling her way, uncertain of the protocol, Lilian relies on formality, “If you please, Associate Master, I most vehemently deny having behaved in such an egregious manner.”
Acknowledge it is a terrible crime and deny having committed it.
“Very well, you will answer to the evidence against you,” Straus accepts Lilian’s plea of innocence. His almost imperceptible nod of approval reduces Lilian’s fear and increases her confidence. She has done well.
Referring to his slate, the Associate Master cites. “It is charged that you willfully and knowingly assisted Mistress Tabitha in flouting her lord’s will and serving her own ambitions in defiance of Monsignor Sebastian’s requirements. In evidence, we have this record from the Archives monitors.”
With the summation of the charge, the reviewer presents a visual of Lilian explaining to Tabitha how to access and interpret a series of commerce analytics.
Five Warriors take it! There was naught in those interactions to trigger a monitor review. Someone went searching. Seigneur Damocles! The Security-Privilege Seigneur’s smug smile is all the confirmation Lilian needs.
“There are several other recordings of a similar nature,” concludes Straus.
Honor acts as duty commands. Seigneur Trevelyan assured her their actions were within stricture. Openly confused, Lilian confirms, “Yes Associate Master, I deny it not.”
At Lilian’s response Damocles and Sebastian radiate excitement.
Mitigation. Lilian was careful to make certain that were her actions discovered, there would be sufficient mitigation that milord could extract a minimal penalty. I will not fall. I will not fail. Without prompting, Lilian continues her confession, “Should Master Straus review any sevenday in the past year, there will be similar recordings. Apprentice requests are the lowest priority for Archive Master Liger and his associates. The apprentice staff often seeks my assistance when I am present and at liberty to respond.”
The Archive Master is nodding, “It is true. I witness it often. It is useful. The questions are basic and her assistance leaves my associates free to address more complex and higher priority requirements.”
Sebastian scowls, “You would have me believe that this doxy has sufficient knowledge of analytical archives to routinely act as an archivist?”
Ignoring the governor’s rising choler, Liger calmly responds, “Indeed monsignor, more than sufficient knowledge. Mistress Lilian has refined two of our standard analytical models and I am reviewing another.”
The Shades be praised. At Master Liger’s testimony, Lilian’s fear dissolves. She may yet be belted for effrontery, they cannot prove bond interference.
“Lilian, I knew naught of this,” milord’s harsh tones snap Lilian from her relief.
Milord is angered. By her Archives efforts? Minor revisions to what she considers routine algorithms barely registered in her workload. Lackwit. Milord has been surprised by his apprentice in front of Grey Spear. Lilian has erred, “I beg pardon, milord. I did not consider the effort worthy of milord’s notice.”
“Effrontery!” Monsignor Sebastian is almost purple with outrage as he glares at Lucius. “Your doxy has no business making such suggestions and Master Liger should be chastising her, not encouraging such behavior. I will see her caned for that alone.”
This is ill. I am the sum of my ancestors.
Milord, monsignors Sebastian and Elenora, Seigneur Trevelyan, and Seigneur Damocles are all seated at the judgment panel. Master Straus is at the podium and Archive Master Liger is seated at the techno console.
I am the the foundation of my family. Milord and Seigneur Trevelyan are angry, although it is well controlled. Monsignor Sebastian is as dyspeptic as ever and Seigneur Damocles, still bearing the marks of his failed challenge to Trevelyan, appears … hungry? Monsignor Elenora is annoyed.
Honor is my blade and shield. It is a formal Cartel judgment and Lilian is the accused. Tabitha? Lilian knew when she began her conspiracy to free Tabitha that it could be deemed ‘effrontery,’ a transgression against Grey Spear sovereignty. For such effrontery, Monsignor Sebastian could demand to see her belted or even caned. This day. Do not volunteer.
At a gesture from milord, Lilian addresses the author of her summons, “Associate Master, what is your wish of me?”
Straus’ stern expression is all the warning Lilian receives, “Monsignor Sebastian indicts you for interference in the bond of Mistress Tabitha.”
Adelaide defend me! Bond interference? This is completely unanticipated. Honor knows not fear. This is a far greater charge than effrontery. If Lilian is found guilty, the lightest penalty will be caning. The severest will be time added to Lilian’s bond to be served with Monsignor Sebastian.
“How do you respond to this indictment, Mistress Lilian?” Master Straus presses.
Honor endures. This day. Carefully feeling her way, uncertain of the protocol, Lilian relies on formality, “If you please, Associate Master, I most vehemently deny having behaved in such an egregious manner.”
Acknowledge it is a terrible crime and deny having committed it.
“Very well, you will answer to the evidence against you,” Straus accepts Lilian’s plea of innocence. His almost imperceptible nod of approval reduces Lilian’s fear and increases her confidence. She has done well.
Referring to his slate, the Associate Master cites. “It is charged that you willfully and knowingly assisted Mistress Tabitha in flouting her lord’s will and serving her own ambitions in defiance of Monsignor Sebastian’s requirements. In evidence, we have this record from the Archives monitors.”
With the summation of the charge, the reviewer presents a visual of Lilian explaining to Tabitha how to access and interpret a series of commerce analytics.
Five Warriors take it! There was naught in those interactions to trigger a monitor review. Someone went searching. Seigneur Damocles! The Security-Privilege Seigneur’s smug smile is all the confirmation Lilian needs.
“There are several other recordings of a similar nature,” concludes Straus.
Honor acts as duty commands. Seigneur Trevelyan assured her their actions were within stricture. Openly confused, Lilian confirms, “Yes Associate Master, I deny it not.”
At Lilian’s response Damocles and Sebastian radiate excitement.
Mitigation. Lilian was careful to make certain that were her actions discovered, there would be sufficient mitigation that milord could extract a minimal penalty. I will not fall. I will not fail. Without prompting, Lilian continues her confession, “Should Master Straus review any sevenday in the past year, there will be similar recordings. Apprentice requests are the lowest priority for Archive Master Liger and his associates. The apprentice staff often seeks my assistance when I am present and at liberty to respond.”
The Archive Master is nodding, “It is true. I witness it often. It is useful. The questions are basic and her assistance leaves my associates free to address more complex and higher priority requirements.”
Sebastian scowls, “You would have me believe that this doxy has sufficient knowledge of analytical archives to routinely act as an archivist?”
Ignoring the governor’s rising choler, Liger calmly responds, “Indeed monsignor, more than sufficient knowledge. Mistress Lilian has refined two of our standard analytical models and I am reviewing another.”
The Shades be praised. At Master Liger’s testimony, Lilian’s fear dissolves. She may yet be belted for effrontery, they cannot prove bond interference.
“Lilian, I knew naught of this,” milord’s harsh tones snap Lilian from her relief.
Milord is angered. By her Archives efforts? Minor revisions to what she considers routine algorithms barely registered in her workload. Lackwit. Milord has been surprised by his apprentice in front of Grey Spear. Lilian has erred, “I beg pardon, milord. I did not consider the effort worthy of milord’s notice.”
“Effrontery!” Monsignor Sebastian is almost purple with outrage as he glares at Lucius. “Your doxy has no business making such suggestions and Master Liger should be chastising her, not encouraging such behavior. I will see her caned for that alone.”
October 11, 2015
Cinnamon Donuts
It's a perfect Indian summer day in the Hudson Valley. A clear blue sky and mid sixties temperatures are laced with the rich scent of changing leaves and the cool bite of impending winter. The descending evening chills the air and carries the memory scent of cinnamon donuts and warm apple cider.
The scent memory triggers another. A long autumnal hike through the antique cemetery. Four hundred year old stones so weathered the markings are indecipherable dents. Later ones, a little more elaborate as the puritan colonials were followed by the federalists. The monuments increasing size and glory as the Victorians took root.
It is a serene place, filled with the sound of flowing water from an untamed streamed and the myriad of little creatures scurrying in the turf and trees. My father's deep base voice floats within the scent memory, giving it form and shape. I see him pointing out Washington Irving and then Dr. Lister (Listerine guy as we called him). As the afternoon faded, cold and hungry we fell on the cinnamon donuts and warm apple cider, Dad' rich laughter better than any spice.
It's Halloween month in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery (aka the Headless Horseman cemetery) and the tours are sold-out. The docents don't begin to rival Dad's autumn walking tours. The knoll where we would pant and catch our breath now holds a neo-gothic mausoleum filled with the latest in a long line of residents. The few fistfuls of ashes, the earthly remains of my father, are contained in a marble box that is reverently sealed in one of the niches.
I smell cinnamon donuts and warm apple cider.
The scent memory triggers another. A long autumnal hike through the antique cemetery. Four hundred year old stones so weathered the markings are indecipherable dents. Later ones, a little more elaborate as the puritan colonials were followed by the federalists. The monuments increasing size and glory as the Victorians took root.
It is a serene place, filled with the sound of flowing water from an untamed streamed and the myriad of little creatures scurrying in the turf and trees. My father's deep base voice floats within the scent memory, giving it form and shape. I see him pointing out Washington Irving and then Dr. Lister (Listerine guy as we called him). As the afternoon faded, cold and hungry we fell on the cinnamon donuts and warm apple cider, Dad' rich laughter better than any spice.
It's Halloween month in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery (aka the Headless Horseman cemetery) and the tours are sold-out. The docents don't begin to rival Dad's autumn walking tours. The knoll where we would pant and catch our breath now holds a neo-gothic mausoleum filled with the latest in a long line of residents. The few fistfuls of ashes, the earthly remains of my father, are contained in a marble box that is reverently sealed in one of the niches.
I smell cinnamon donuts and warm apple cider.
September 29, 2015
The rain weeps
I'm sad today.
I'm not clinically depressed, grief-stricken or anything else dramatic and noteworthy. I'm sad. It's my birthday and everyone who loves me has sent cards, gifts, social media posts and other affirmations that I exist and I am loved and appreciated.
And I'm sad today. The lovely extended summer is about to give way to heavy rain. The harbinger of winter to come. For the moment, light rain weeps as I cannot.
I've been sad for a what seems like a long time. It's only been about 16 months. Ever since…
Ever since I realized that Dad was in his final days and Mum was teetering on the brink of random. Random thought, random emotion, random behavior.
Dad's gone now. He didn't sing to me today. For the first time in, well, ever. Mum was good this morning. Wished me happy birthday, talked about my life. Talked about missing Dad. Me, too.
Then she wasn't good. Lost and wanting to go 'home.' Home to her safe childhood place. Home to 'that safe place' were Dad lives. Sad when she remembered that Dad doesn't live and that empty apartment is home.
Nothing is wrong. The earth rotates, we live. There is joy.
I'm sad today. The rain comes slowly and gently. It weeps as I cannot, and I welcome it. I've shed tears, but I know they are naught compared to the volcano of sorrow that is sealed within the cold control that will shatter when duty is done.
If pain is weakness leaving the body, and grief is pain leaving the heart, then the sorrow in my soul has no analogy. When the time comes, sorrow will howl with the windstorm and its evermate, rage, will shriek. I don't know when or how, only that it will come.
Until then, I'm sad. The rains weeps for me.
I'm not clinically depressed, grief-stricken or anything else dramatic and noteworthy. I'm sad. It's my birthday and everyone who loves me has sent cards, gifts, social media posts and other affirmations that I exist and I am loved and appreciated.
And I'm sad today. The lovely extended summer is about to give way to heavy rain. The harbinger of winter to come. For the moment, light rain weeps as I cannot.
I've been sad for a what seems like a long time. It's only been about 16 months. Ever since…
Ever since I realized that Dad was in his final days and Mum was teetering on the brink of random. Random thought, random emotion, random behavior.
Dad's gone now. He didn't sing to me today. For the first time in, well, ever. Mum was good this morning. Wished me happy birthday, talked about my life. Talked about missing Dad. Me, too.
Then she wasn't good. Lost and wanting to go 'home.' Home to her safe childhood place. Home to 'that safe place' were Dad lives. Sad when she remembered that Dad doesn't live and that empty apartment is home.
Nothing is wrong. The earth rotates, we live. There is joy.
I'm sad today. The rain comes slowly and gently. It weeps as I cannot, and I welcome it. I've shed tears, but I know they are naught compared to the volcano of sorrow that is sealed within the cold control that will shatter when duty is done.
If pain is weakness leaving the body, and grief is pain leaving the heart, then the sorrow in my soul has no analogy. When the time comes, sorrow will howl with the windstorm and its evermate, rage, will shriek. I don't know when or how, only that it will come.
Until then, I'm sad. The rains weeps for me.
August 9, 2015
Read & Reap - Bright Star Review Copies
If you have been waiting to score a lendable or free copy of Bright Star: The Apprentice Volume 2 now is your chance.
Bright Star is being featured in Shut Up & Read's read-to-review program, Read it & Reap. There are ten review copies available (epub, mobi or pdf). All you need to do is sign up!
https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
Thank you Shut Up & Read moderators, Leigh, Tana, Tanecia, Alyssia, and Sheri
July 21, 2015
Music of the Spheres
For centuries, humankind has wondered at the heavens. First imaging deities, and later, when the deities faded, we imagined other civilizations.
In between, medieval philosophers tried to integrate science with wonder, defining the 'music of the spheres' or (as summarized in Wikipedia): Musica universalis (lit. universal music, or music of the spheres) or Harmony of the Spheres is an ancient philosophical concept that regards proportions in the movements of celestial bodies—the Sun, Moon, and planets—as a form of musica (the Medieval Latin term for music). This "music" is not usually thought to be literally audible, but a harmonic and/or mathematical and/or religious concept. The idea continued to appeal to thinkers about music until the end of the Renaissance, influencing scholars of many kinds, including humanists.
They were wrong! The planets do make music and it is wonderful, scary, and compelling. From my friends at NASA.
http://damn.com/nasa-space-sound
In between, medieval philosophers tried to integrate science with wonder, defining the 'music of the spheres' or (as summarized in Wikipedia): Musica universalis (lit. universal music, or music of the spheres) or Harmony of the Spheres is an ancient philosophical concept that regards proportions in the movements of celestial bodies—the Sun, Moon, and planets—as a form of musica (the Medieval Latin term for music). This "music" is not usually thought to be literally audible, but a harmonic and/or mathematical and/or religious concept. The idea continued to appeal to thinkers about music until the end of the Renaissance, influencing scholars of many kinds, including humanists.
They were wrong! The planets do make music and it is wonderful, scary, and compelling. From my friends at NASA.
http://damn.com/nasa-space-sound
July 2, 2015
Fight Like A Girl - Transgressions Excerpt
A teaser from the soon to be released book 3 in the Twelve Systems Chronicles, Transgressions: The Apprentice Volume 3
I found this image on Facebook and it was perfect.
Ninth evening bell has chimed. The only light in the Serengeti Archives is the glow around the station where Lilian is busily comparing slate to reviewer. The monthly Vistrite operations review is pending and the drop in demand due to the economic downturn has complicated the analysis. Lilian has diligently committed the past five bells to accessing several centuries of data to support her forecasts. The chiming of the ninth bell barely registers. The soft sound of the Archive door recessing brings her instantly alert. How a door recessing can sound evil is beyond her, but it did.
Martin!
This is ill. Honor is my blade and shield.
For all his ceaseless torments, Martin has always been very careful of physical proximity. Regardless of the penalty to Lilian, any untoward physical contact will cost Martin his contract. Now he is walking directly toward her, his eyes alight with anticipation.
This is very ill.
Rising, groping for her slate bag, Lilian pulls it to her as the young warrior closes. He has five inches and four stone on her, all of it muscle. He broke two of her ribs in that travesty of a training match. Lilian does not underestimate his ability to hurt her.
This time she need not forebear to use her thorn. This is not a training chamber and as milord’s conservator she has the duty as well as the right to protect milord’s property and honor. Concealed by her jacket, there are few who know she has the weapon on her belt. Martin is not one of them.
“What do you here Master Martin?” Lilian’s voice is loud in the empty Archives chamber.
“My duty Lilian,” Martin responds, the insult of the familiar
intentional. “What do you here?”
“My duty as conservator of Desperation Mine and Refinery, forecasts are due.” Lilian is as absolute as possible that she is present as Lucius Mercio’s vessel and not as a mere apprentice.
“Your duty?” The tone is ugly and so is the heat that is entering Martin’s eyes. “A tainted doxy’s duty has little to do with Vistrite and much to do with her split tail. Since Lucius Mercio does not seem interested in teaching you your duty, it falls to me. This time there will be no last minute savior.”
Malcon. He refers to Master Malcon.
Martin’s intent could not be plainer. Lilian is not to survive this encounter.
I am the sum of my ancestors.
Time becomes disconnected. It moves at battle speed, infinitely slow and warrior quick. It moves so slowly that Lilian can almost see the shift of Martin’s hand through space like a stuttering visual. It moves so quickly that he has hold of her left arm and collar of her blouse before she can draw her thorn. Wrenching into a backspin, dropping the slate bag to unsheathe the thorn, Lilian feels but does not hear her blouse tear.
Coming around the predator’s back, fast and low, her left wrist is suddenly shackled in a hard grip. Rising quickly, Lilian strikes with the thorn. A line opens on Martin’s face from eye to mouth and reddens with blood. The hand holding her wrist releases it to form a fist.
That fist connects to her jaw as Lilian’s left hand grabs the strap of her slate bag. Tucking it to her, she goes into a roll. Away from the striking hand. Bouncing to her feet, slate bag to her chest, thorn in hand, Lilian strikes the fighter’s stance and waits. The door to the Archives is behind her, the predator in front. Slowly Lilian begins to back toward the exit and safety.
I found this image on Facebook and it was perfect.
Ninth evening bell has chimed. The only light in the Serengeti Archives is the glow around the station where Lilian is busily comparing slate to reviewer. The monthly Vistrite operations review is pending and the drop in demand due to the economic downturn has complicated the analysis. Lilian has diligently committed the past five bells to accessing several centuries of data to support her forecasts. The chiming of the ninth bell barely registers. The soft sound of the Archive door recessing brings her instantly alert. How a door recessing can sound evil is beyond her, but it did.
Martin!
This is ill. Honor is my blade and shield.
For all his ceaseless torments, Martin has always been very careful of physical proximity. Regardless of the penalty to Lilian, any untoward physical contact will cost Martin his contract. Now he is walking directly toward her, his eyes alight with anticipation.
This is very ill.
Rising, groping for her slate bag, Lilian pulls it to her as the young warrior closes. He has five inches and four stone on her, all of it muscle. He broke two of her ribs in that travesty of a training match. Lilian does not underestimate his ability to hurt her.
This time she need not forebear to use her thorn. This is not a training chamber and as milord’s conservator she has the duty as well as the right to protect milord’s property and honor. Concealed by her jacket, there are few who know she has the weapon on her belt. Martin is not one of them.
“What do you here Master Martin?” Lilian’s voice is loud in the empty Archives chamber.
“My duty Lilian,” Martin responds, the insult of the familiar
intentional. “What do you here?”
“My duty as conservator of Desperation Mine and Refinery, forecasts are due.” Lilian is as absolute as possible that she is present as Lucius Mercio’s vessel and not as a mere apprentice.
“Your duty?” The tone is ugly and so is the heat that is entering Martin’s eyes. “A tainted doxy’s duty has little to do with Vistrite and much to do with her split tail. Since Lucius Mercio does not seem interested in teaching you your duty, it falls to me. This time there will be no last minute savior.”
Malcon. He refers to Master Malcon.
Martin’s intent could not be plainer. Lilian is not to survive this encounter.
I am the sum of my ancestors.
Time becomes disconnected. It moves at battle speed, infinitely slow and warrior quick. It moves so slowly that Lilian can almost see the shift of Martin’s hand through space like a stuttering visual. It moves so quickly that he has hold of her left arm and collar of her blouse before she can draw her thorn. Wrenching into a backspin, dropping the slate bag to unsheathe the thorn, Lilian feels but does not hear her blouse tear.
Coming around the predator’s back, fast and low, her left wrist is suddenly shackled in a hard grip. Rising quickly, Lilian strikes with the thorn. A line opens on Martin’s face from eye to mouth and reddens with blood. The hand holding her wrist releases it to form a fist.
That fist connects to her jaw as Lilian’s left hand grabs the strap of her slate bag. Tucking it to her, she goes into a roll. Away from the striking hand. Bouncing to her feet, slate bag to her chest, thorn in hand, Lilian strikes the fighter’s stance and waits. The door to the Archives is behind her, the predator in front. Slowly Lilian begins to back toward the exit and safety.
June 22, 2015
He Rests
Hardest Father's Day ever.
Dad was four days in twilight. Eyes closed, breath rhythmic. Swimming in a sweet gentle chemical pool. Sometimes, sinking to bottom and reliving his best and brightest days. Sometimes, just below the surface, listening, knowing. Aware. We're here. We love you.
Two days given up for dead. But he lingered. He breathed. With every breath I rejoiced and wept. After three days in twilight, they warned me. Not long now.
M (Hospice aide) said she was there for the duration. I could nap. I woke at 2a after a 3 hr nap. I was greeted by Vivaldi's 4 Seasons lilting from the dinky player. M holding Dad's hand for me. It was beautiful. The normally noisy hallway was silent, soothed by Vivaldi's brilliance.
4a and M needed to leave. She had family obligations in 4 hrs. I didn't mind. I took Dad's hand. Vivaldi reached the crescendo and went quiet. We switched to Mozart. I kept hold of Dad.
Once again, they underestimated him. A day came and went. Father's day came. His children had gathered. We told the stories. We tried not to weep. Mum kissed him and told him to go in peace.
A few hours later, to the lilting tones of Vivaldi, Dad went in peace.
I miss him. I will always miss him.
He rests.
My heart weeps. My soul rejoices.
RA Manetti
1932-2015
He loved his family, God, his country, his work, music, and the New York Yankees.
A brilliant, compassionate, and generous man, he died as he lived; in fearless grace.
Dad was four days in twilight. Eyes closed, breath rhythmic. Swimming in a sweet gentle chemical pool. Sometimes, sinking to bottom and reliving his best and brightest days. Sometimes, just below the surface, listening, knowing. Aware. We're here. We love you.
Two days given up for dead. But he lingered. He breathed. With every breath I rejoiced and wept. After three days in twilight, they warned me. Not long now.
M (Hospice aide) said she was there for the duration. I could nap. I woke at 2a after a 3 hr nap. I was greeted by Vivaldi's 4 Seasons lilting from the dinky player. M holding Dad's hand for me. It was beautiful. The normally noisy hallway was silent, soothed by Vivaldi's brilliance.
4a and M needed to leave. She had family obligations in 4 hrs. I didn't mind. I took Dad's hand. Vivaldi reached the crescendo and went quiet. We switched to Mozart. I kept hold of Dad.
Once again, they underestimated him. A day came and went. Father's day came. His children had gathered. We told the stories. We tried not to weep. Mum kissed him and told him to go in peace.
A few hours later, to the lilting tones of Vivaldi, Dad went in peace.
I miss him. I will always miss him.
He rests.
My heart weeps. My soul rejoices.
RA Manetti
1932-2015
He loved his family, God, his country, his work, music, and the New York Yankees.
A brilliant, compassionate, and generous man, he died as he lived; in fearless grace.
June 17, 2015
End of Days
Please release him. I hold Dad's hand and pray.
The demon is winning. Dad's taking in enough pharmaceuticals to put a horse on it's back. Maybe an elephant. And the contractions continue. A few of minutes rest. The panting starts and turns to groans and Dad's nose rises to meet his knees.
Please release him.
I harass the nurses relentlessly.
What else? He needs more.
Nurse P1 drags in the doctor from her rounds. She agrees. Dad needs more to pacify the demon. They can make the demon sleep. It will make Dad sleep. Hard. He won't wake to hunger or thirst. He won't be able swallow or chew. Or want to.
Let him go.
Days to a week.
It's an easy choice. It can be painful or painless. It's coming fast.
Make him sleep. Give him peace.
The drugs work. Dad snores.
My mother comes in. She hold his hand and weeps. He looks so peaceful. The demon is caged.
I call my siblings. Dad snores. His legs twitch and then his head rises. Time for more meds. Dad jerks and his eyes flutter.
Nurse P2 advises 'say it now. He won't be this alert again.'
Go Yankees!
I find the game. If Dad floats to awareness, it will be there. Maybe he'll be there. 50 years ago. Young. Strong. Brilliant. Maybe not. But it comforts me.
Days to a week.
I can't stop it. I can't change it. I can make sure he is not alone and feels no pain.
The demon is winning. Dad's taking in enough pharmaceuticals to put a horse on it's back. Maybe an elephant. And the contractions continue. A few of minutes rest. The panting starts and turns to groans and Dad's nose rises to meet his knees.
Please release him.
I harass the nurses relentlessly.
What else? He needs more.
Nurse P1 drags in the doctor from her rounds. She agrees. Dad needs more to pacify the demon. They can make the demon sleep. It will make Dad sleep. Hard. He won't wake to hunger or thirst. He won't be able swallow or chew. Or want to.
Let him go.
Days to a week.
It's an easy choice. It can be painful or painless. It's coming fast.
Make him sleep. Give him peace.
The drugs work. Dad snores.
My mother comes in. She hold his hand and weeps. He looks so peaceful. The demon is caged.
I call my siblings. Dad snores. His legs twitch and then his head rises. Time for more meds. Dad jerks and his eyes flutter.
Nurse P2 advises 'say it now. He won't be this alert again.'
Go Yankees!
I find the game. If Dad floats to awareness, it will be there. Maybe he'll be there. 50 years ago. Young. Strong. Brilliant. Maybe not. But it comforts me.
Days to a week.
I can't stop it. I can't change it. I can make sure he is not alone and feels no pain.
June 13, 2015
He laughs
Hours. Days. Weeks. Finally, they all get it - Hospice, the doctors and the nurses. The demon disease likes mid-afternoon. It attacks viciously. It contorts Dad's limbs leaving him groaning and twisting.
More frequent and more powerful meds will subdue the demon. It works and it doesn't.
Once again we (Mumma, Zim - my sweet JRT, and me) arrive and Dad is asleep, breathing deeply. It's a profound relief. The new meds are working. Dad is comfortable.
A knee jerks. The other. Dad's torso flies up to meet his knees in an involuntary and clearly painful crunch. He groans and pants. The spasm subsides, he relaxes into the bed.
His eyes open.
He sees us.
He laughs with delight.
We smile back. "We're here. We love you."
Dad's eyes close and he drifts back onto the bed. So still. So quiet. So at peace.
So still. Is he breathing? His chest doesn't move, his nostrils don't quiver. There is no sound. Is this it? Is it done?
His throat moves and then his chest. He gives a deep sigh.
Dad's not done. My heart moves with joy and my soul weeps a little with disappointment. He's resting. It's okay.
He's knees jerk, the crunch begins and ebbs. Dad's eyes open and he laughs with delight to see us.
My heart moves with joy and my soul weeps.
More frequent and more powerful meds will subdue the demon. It works and it doesn't.
Once again we (Mumma, Zim - my sweet JRT, and me) arrive and Dad is asleep, breathing deeply. It's a profound relief. The new meds are working. Dad is comfortable.
A knee jerks. The other. Dad's torso flies up to meet his knees in an involuntary and clearly painful crunch. He groans and pants. The spasm subsides, he relaxes into the bed.
His eyes open.
He sees us.
He laughs with delight.
We smile back. "We're here. We love you."
Dad's eyes close and he drifts back onto the bed. So still. So quiet. So at peace.
So still. Is he breathing? His chest doesn't move, his nostrils don't quiver. There is no sound. Is this it? Is it done?
His throat moves and then his chest. He gives a deep sigh.
Dad's not done. My heart moves with joy and my soul weeps a little with disappointment. He's resting. It's okay.
He's knees jerk, the crunch begins and ebbs. Dad's eyes open and he laughs with delight to see us.
My heart moves with joy and my soul weeps.
May 16, 2015
The latest episode
It hurts. It doesn't take a medical professional to know that his knees jerking to his nose while he's sitting is bad. It hurts to look at. I can't imagine what it feels like.
The aides run for a nurse. Dad has regular meds to control the spasms and morphine for the pain.
For a month it has worked. The chemical cocktail has kept him comfortable without turning him into a zombie. He enjoys his meals, his NY Yankees, my visits, and his beer. Not necessarily in that order.
Today is bad. Dad's limbs are stone hard and his panting moans can be heard down the hall. Nurse P agrees. More meds. More morphine. My stoic father wants more. It's shift change. I give him a beer. It's a distraction not a solution. His hands are so tightly fisted, I can't hold his hand without hurting him.
Nurse P2 arrives (yes it's confusing). P2 agrees, it's another bad 'episode.' They don't know what's hurting Dad and destroying his brain. Only that it is. Today, it's more than the prescriptions can relieve. Nurse P2 calls the doctor.
'Dad, they're coming. They're giving you every thing they can without being arrested. They're calling the doctor. I won't leave until you're okay.'
Nurse P2 comes back. It's the worst episode in awhile. He'll give Dad meds and morphine every half hour until Dad 'settles.' It's a lot of narcotics. It's tightrope. There's a tipping point that will stop the evil brain demon that's tormenting Dad and let him sleep.
There is one dose too many that will stop his heart and he'll sleep forever. Dad can't speak easily, his resigned nod says it all. He's ready for either sleep. The brain demon goes down and not Dad's heart. Dad's hands relax and the latest episode ends in sleep.
The aides run for a nurse. Dad has regular meds to control the spasms and morphine for the pain.
For a month it has worked. The chemical cocktail has kept him comfortable without turning him into a zombie. He enjoys his meals, his NY Yankees, my visits, and his beer. Not necessarily in that order.
Today is bad. Dad's limbs are stone hard and his panting moans can be heard down the hall. Nurse P agrees. More meds. More morphine. My stoic father wants more. It's shift change. I give him a beer. It's a distraction not a solution. His hands are so tightly fisted, I can't hold his hand without hurting him.
Nurse P2 arrives (yes it's confusing). P2 agrees, it's another bad 'episode.' They don't know what's hurting Dad and destroying his brain. Only that it is. Today, it's more than the prescriptions can relieve. Nurse P2 calls the doctor.
'Dad, they're coming. They're giving you every thing they can without being arrested. They're calling the doctor. I won't leave until you're okay.'
Nurse P2 comes back. It's the worst episode in awhile. He'll give Dad meds and morphine every half hour until Dad 'settles.' It's a lot of narcotics. It's tightrope. There's a tipping point that will stop the evil brain demon that's tormenting Dad and let him sleep.
There is one dose too many that will stop his heart and he'll sleep forever. Dad can't speak easily, his resigned nod says it all. He's ready for either sleep. The brain demon goes down and not Dad's heart. Dad's hands relax and the latest episode ends in sleep.
