about how to say goodbye

Part 1

Hey everyone I just received some terrible news from X’s mom. She asked me to share with y’all.

X is not doing well. We are going into Palliative/Hospice  Care. Tumors have spread and Liver is not functioning. It could be days or weeks before he passes.  Please share with everyone!  

Thank you [prayer hands and blue heart emojis]

Part 2

1515 Holcombe MDA main Building! Park in Garage 2 and come to the Pavilion area. Go to F Elevator to floor 22 room 2247

Evening in place on [LOCATION], Houston, TX 77027.

Part 3

Thank you for coming to visit! It meant the world to me and X! [heart emojis] Will keep you updated! Safe travels home!

about Thanksgiving and family

Turkey baked in a bag. Mashed potatoes and green beans. Pie and whipped cream! And the Cowboys. We cook it, we eat and watch the game together. This is how Thanksgiving has been for several years: just us two. And if the game is boring or the turkey is dry—who cares? I enjoy Thanksgiving, this family holiday, because it is not Christmas. Fewer people, no presents, no long buildup, less stress, less drama. What it is is the casual closeness, the informality I used to think defined our family in the best of times.

 

about legal drama "Judge Judy"

The judge stated the facts of the case. The couple had lived together and have one child. The woman also has children from a different relationship. The judge asked how many. In this courtroom built from concrete composite such a shame and brick, finished with mother's defiant girl and wood paneling she tilted her head down in answer, "Two. Two other children." Stain spread wings when life's changes happen in only a few words.

someone else's *good* poem

Bringing My Son to the Police Station to be Fingerprinted
—Shoshauna Shy

My lemon-colored
whisper-weight blouse
with keyhole closure
and sweetheart neckline is tucked
into a pastel silhouette skirt
with side-slit vents
and triplicate pleats
when I realize in the sunlight
through the windshield
that the cool yellow of this blouse clashes
with the buttermilk heather in my skirt
which makes me slightly queasy
however

the periwinkle in the pattern on the sash
is sufficiently echoed by the twill uppers
of my buckle-snug sandals
while the accents on my purse
pick up the pink
in the button stitches

and then as we pass
through Weapons Check
it's reassuring to note
how the yellows momentarily mesh
and make an overall pleasing
composite

something about Tom Perrotta’s "Mrs. Fletcher"

Tom Perrotta excels at combining middle-class drama and satire. His stories, including Mrs. Fletcher, sprout from small sagas in American suburbs. The titular character is Eve, a fifty-something divorcée and mother of an entitled, popular, teenaged son named Brendan. Brendan is starting college, and Eve is starting life in an empty nest. The coming year defies expectations because it is Eve rather than Brendan who begins to dabble and explore. Perrotta's easily digestible novel sets up tension between a mature woman starting a new chapter in her life and her immature son's struggle in a new environment in which he is no longer at center. This is an enjoyable story of contemporary sexual politics.


Notes:

• Mrs. Fletcher was published in 2017. The book was adapted recently into an HBO series.
• Here is a fair review in The Washington Post.

about dementia

I visit my parents and wake up in my childhood bedroom. I walk into the den. Dad, who has been awake for at least two hours, asks me, "Ok, what's next?" I get coffee. "Are you getting coffee?" This is soon followed with, "Are you about done drinking coffee? Are you reading the newspaper?" No more than 45 seconds pass before he asks for a status update. He wants to know what he should be doing ("What you're doing does not concern me, does it? You don't need me for that, do you?"). He follows me around.

He often wants me to stop doing what I am doing so that I will do something else. If he appears to be waiting for me to move, I will move; but when I move, he becomes suspicious of what I am doing and wants me to stop. "Don't worry with that. Get back to whatever you were doing. Ok, go!"

He is worse the next time I visit. He confuses his words and thoughts: "Did you make dinner sweet sixteen?" "Do you use your middle name today?" "In a few minutes, you'll have to take off your blouse. You're way behind."

He becomes disoriented and wants to undress in the middle of the day. Clothes are a fixation for him now. He fingers his shirt buttons and belt throughout the day. He sees you with a soda can; after each sip, he asks, "Are you done with that?" He wants to throw it away. He badgers me until I finish a bottle of water, and then, when mom opens a can of soda, he spits, "Goddammit! We don't have time for that!"

He checks the garage door. He pulls the window shades. He sits in every seat in the room, moving from here to there, sitting in three different seats within 15 minutes.

Dad seems to know his memory is gone. When mom tells him they will go to the store tomorrow, he responds, "My memory only lasts until the last syllable leaves your lips." He says, "Tell me this 2 minutes before we leave."