The someone I referred to in that post was my husband  watching his beloved father fade away.
MH’s father died at home in central Florida, after living with Parkinson’s disease for many years and having, in the past several weeks, been stricken with what physician Atul Gawande refers to  as ODTAA syndrome.  After bouncing between hospital and rehab facility, enduring procedures and attempts to “fix” one problem which in turn caused a cascade of other problems, MH’s father’s most recent ODTAA prompted a second opinion physician to recommend hospice care.
The day before we were to drive up to Tacoma to take our daughter Belle to her sophomore year in college, MH’s father took that proverbial turn for the worse and received the hospice recommendation. I moved Belle into her campus housing and returned to Hillsboro while MH flew to Florida to help his mother arrange for hospice care in their home. MH intended to stay at his father’s side for the duration, and would have, save for a sudden, dramatic wobble in our family planet’s Circle of Life rotation.
The revolution, of course, has been televised. And sanitized and commercialized and commod-i-fied and turned into fodder for many an HBO series. But the afore-mentioned “wobble” will not be blog-i-fied right now, by moiself, save to say that it was a family medical crisis that caused MH to have to bid goodbye to his father  and get on the first available plane back to the west coast.
I need a baby-sloth-in-pajamas picture. Maybe you do, too.
* * *
May you and yours realize that life is good even when it seems to suck, and hold on to the fact that the hijinks will, eventually, ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 My husband, as loyal readers know, is oh-so-cleverly referred to in these “pages” as MH.
 In his amazing, compassionate book that everyone alive must read, Being Mortal.
Returning From a Week in DisneyWorld Domination Central Florida Edition.
Content Warning: Central Florida.
Visiting my in-laws, that’s why. MH’s parents used to come out to see us at least once a year, and we’d do the trek to see them every other year or so. But my FIL’s struggles with Parkinson’s Disease, and now lymphoma on top of that (good times!). These and other realities of age have made it difficult for the former intrepid travelers to comfortably and safely do the cross-country trek.
My in-laws are nice people and gracious hosts. We visited the Audubon Center for Birds of Prey and kayaked on the Wekiva river, and we had a great lunch on Sunday with an old friend of MH’s (old as in, from when MH was a teenager) and her family. Still, I loathe Central Florida, or at least the parts of it that are not rivers fit for kayaking and canoeing. But even those (ala Wekiwa Springs) are infested with an odious blend of Hey-Where’s-the-Party Locals & Tourists ®.
My goals for this trip included:
* being able to get a good night’s sleep in the bedroom that used to be MH’s sister’s bedroom, with MH was in the same room, in the same bed;  * avoiding trips to any and all amusement parks. 
The Mechanically Unfriendly, Cardiac Incident-Inducing Skies Aka: Notes to Moiself on the Flight(s) Home
Okay, so our flight from PDX to Phoenix was delayed, first to check “mechanical difficulties” and then, when we were getting ready to go, a passenger seated in first class had a “cardiac incident,” which ended with him being deplaned, as they say. We thought we’d missed our connection, but when we arrived in Phoenix we ran to the gate just as our flight to Orlando was beginning to board, and another “mechanical difficulty” was announced.
On the first leg of our flight back home, there was another call over the plane’s PA system for a medical professional, wich resulted in an elderly women a few rows ahead of us being given oxygen for the rest of the flight and her vitals monitored by a doctor…and now this, our fourth and final flight during this trip, the flight to return us to our beloved PDX, is behing delayed due to mechanical difficulties…and I wouldn’t mind pacing back and forth/sitting for yet another hour-plus delay if the Phoenix airport didn’t have such gawd-awful carpet, ahem.
it was like this, only uglier and dirtier.
Department of It Wasn’t All Bad
When we finally boarded flight #2 (Phoenix to Orlando), as I was schlepping my carryon back to row 2,478 or whatever, I greeted the flight attendants as I always do. As I passed by, one of them one asked me how my day was going. My shrugged reply of Meh –I’m flying to Central Florida apparently amused her enough that she comped me two white wines during beverage service.
Reader’s Digest-y condensed explanation: It has to do with the human body’s internal clock, which has an inborn tendency to run slightly longer than 24 hours. Every day, when you think your body is preoccupied with maintenance tasks like digestion and respiration, shedding skin cells, emitting waste products for which you plan on blaming the dog and so on and so forth, without your conscious knowledge your sneaky body is also “contracting” your internal clock to synchronize with the sun’s 24-hour cycle. Thus, when you travel east and lose time, your body has to cut its natural cycle even further (and when you travel west, your body gets the extra time it instinctively craves).
Anyway, all of this means that we were there long enough for me to feel sleep-deprived and dopey the entire time, and now I get to return to feeling just…my normal sleep-deprived and dopey self.
Still, it’s good to be back. Even if I’m not up for doing much of a post.
* * *
Department of Maybe It’s a Good Thing They Turned Right And We Turned Left
Another creepy thing about Central Florida, for us Happy Heathens and Amiable Apostates, ® is the preponderances of churchiness. You can’t spit (and I have tried) without hitting a church or a church school or signs in people’s yards advertising religious schools or religious bumper stickers and license plates holders…
Also, you can’t get halibut in this FSM-forsaken place, a realization which, as we were driving to yet another grocery store, pissed me off even more than the
WE ARE A CHRISTIAN NATION
window sticker I saw on the car ahead of us — the car I hoped was also grocery store-bound, so I could leave a
CRACK THE CONSTITUTION – WE ARE NOT A THEOCRACY,
WE ARE A SECULAR DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC, YOU SANCTIMONIOUS DUMBFUCK
note on their windshield.
…that you didn’t do that, right?
* * *
Okay, I’m too tired to do a decent post so pretend that right here we have many delightful pictures of Florida alligators, and people who need to be bitten by alligators….
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 Which is one of those inappropriately named “full size” beds. Nothing full about it. We have a king bed at home. I was grumpy about the lodging arrangements…and rescued at the last moment, when MH’s parents rented another bed, yee haw!
 You can’t spit in Central Florida without hitting an amusement park of some kind. From LegoLand to Universal Studios to Gatorland to SeaWorld to Disney’s Epcot, Disney World, Disney’s Hollywood Studios, Disney’s Animal Kingdom, Disney’s Typhoon Lagoon, Disney’s Blizzard Beach….
 And not really downtime at that, what with scampering around to fulfill multiple obligations as per moving back home and attaining summer employment .
It started early this summer. Subtle hints dropped, direct and dire predictions  flung (“Those were the best times of your life, when your kids were at home; oh, you’ll look back on those days and wish….”), and everything in between….
I’d tried not to give it an inordinate amount of brain wattage, but people kept bringing it up.
Yep, son K is back to college for his senior year, and daughter Belle begins her first. On the drive back home to Hillsboro, after we’d taken Belle to her UPS freshman orientation, I said to MH, “It’s not like we just dropped her off for summer camp, is it?”
Anyone know what this is?
The She Meant Well award re this situation goes to my maternal unit, as per our Tuesday phone conversation. We talked about MH and I taking Belle up to college for freshman orientation last week, and how K would be returning to Tacoma this week. My mother asked me if I was going to miss my offspring. I said something like oh yeah, big time, already,even though K is still at home (he caught the train to Tacoma on Wednesday).
“I find it interesting  that you think you’ll miss them” she said.
MH has a sabbatical coming up, and we will be doing some traveling. Good timing, I think (hope). What with Belle & K both in college, the Dueling Banjoes of our elderly parents’ health crises , and my professional mid-life crisis, I find myself…unable to even pin down what I’m feeling. Floating, for lack of a better word.
Wise compassionate counsel from wise, compassionate friend SCM:
One of my Oregon Attorney Assistance Program newsletters talked about transitions—good or bad, they will always leave you feeling uneasy, and to give yourself time to get used to them, and to be forgiving of yourself if you feel badly (even for good changes). You’re transitioning with writing (or making some decisions about where to go next) and transitioning with parenting children to parenting adults. Those are both big life changes.
* * *
These are the breakfast plates I purchased for K and Belle, a long long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. One section for scrambled eggs and/or my special recipe whole wheat vanilla soymilk tofu (!)  pancakes, the other for fruit (bananas, seasonal berries, kiwi… they both loved kiwi).
Don’t worry about me, I’m doing fine. Just staring at empty plates. 
* * *
Something else on the plate.
C’mon out tomorrow to the Downtown Hillsboro Saturday Farmer’s Market. Hillsboro’s seasonal open-air market is celebrating its 32nd year of operation, and features over 100 vendors and their fresh local produce food and garden products, flowers, baked goods, arts and crafts, live music, and more.
As for the more: wipe the fresh blackberry (mmm, yummers) stains off your fingers and stop by Jacobsen’s books for their summer author signing series, which is held during market hours. This Saturday yours truly will be at Jacobsen’s, with The Mighty Quinn. I’ll be there from 9a – 1p, except for when I’m slipping out to one of the produce booths to sample some of the gorgeous fresh fruit, or drooling over the Pie Guy‘s wares.
The market is held on Main Street between 1st and 3rd. Jacobsen’s Books is at 211 E. Main, on the north side of the street.
Be there, or …
* * *
When I learn something new – and it happens every day – I feel a little more at home in this universe, a little more comfortable in the nest. Bill Moyers
May you feel a little more comfortable in your nest – or fledge quickly and crap all over the nest next door, whatever floats your boat – and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 Mostly from my mother, with the implication that it’s all downhill after this.
 The dictionary definition of interesting – “engaging or exciting and holding the attention or curiosity” – is not how my mother typically employs that word. When she uses it, it is more along the lines of the apocryphal Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.”
 my SoCal mom has a myriad of physical and mental health problems; MH’s Floridian father is battling the progressive physical and cognitive deterioration of Parkinson’s Disease .
 One of those stealth-health things…and they loved them.
 It’s time for a lighter footnote. Pretend you’ve just read an outrageously funny fart joke.
Join us for a celebration of the written word! Local authors of every flavor will gather for Bards & Brews to share their works in a series of talks and readings, while you enjoy a meal or a beverage from the world’s largest collection of Oregon wines and beers.
“By every flavor” refers to fiction and nonfiction, literary and genre, young and old. “Share their works in a series of talks and readings” means, at least as pertains to moiself, that I’ll do read a brief excerpt from my selected book and be available to talk afterward.  Here’s the slate (author and book title) for this month’s event:
* Robyn Parnell (The Mighty Quinn)
* Caitlin Claire Diehl (First Daughter)
* Tammy Owen (House of Goats)
* Paula Stokes (The Art of Lainy)
* Paul Gerald (60 Hikes Within 60 Miles of Portland)
As I’ve mentioned before, I’d rather be home trimming my nostril hairs with a weed whacker than do author appearances, but since the nose hair situation is under control and my name is on the list – how did that happen? – I’ve no excuse but to show up.
If I can do this, so can you. I hope to see your friendly faces (perhaps made even friendlier by the beverages?) next Friday.
Bards & Brews, Friday July 25, 7 – 9p
Primrose & Tumbleweeds
248 E Main St.
in old town Hillsboro, one block north of the Hillsboro Transit Center
* * *
And Now Without Further Interruption We Return to the Ass-Kicking Portion of Our Show
A Silent lacunar infarction (SLI) is one type of silent stroke which usually shows no identifiable outward symptoms, thus the term “silent”. Individuals who suffer a SLI are often completely unaware they have suffered a stroke…. While dubbed “silent” due to the immediate lack of classic stroke symptoms, SLIs can cause damage to the surrounding brain tissue (lesions) and can affect various aspects of a person’s mood, personality, and cognitive functioning. A SLI or any type of silent stroke places an individual at greater risk for future major stroke….
While Belle and I were on our Paris trip my mother took a much less enjoyable trip of her own: another  fall requiring hospitalization/observation. My sister NLM passed along the results of our mother’s head CT, which indicated that Mom has had several of the above-described “mini-strokes.”
One more loss; one more thing my mother is dealing with. One more thing her grown children – we of the so-called Sandwich Generation – have to deal with.
In the past hundred years or so we, as in We, The American Culture Personified – have had this thing for coining generation labels. There was the post-WWI Lost Generation, the (so-called) Greatest Generation, the Boomer Generation, Generation X, and the Millennials (aka Gen Y). Those currently being born, whom sociologists and demographers have yet to stereotype categorize, are broadly referred to as Generation Z.
As per both my date of birth and life circumstances, I suppose I’m a member of the Boomer Sandwich generation. On whole wheat, hold the mayo, extra mustard, please.
Once again, I digress.
Silent lacunar infarction. One part of my brain reads that as silent lunar infraction – you know, what you’d call some Ruskie secretly landing on the moon and making off with Alan Shepard’s golf balls.
And there is that other part of my brain (FSM forbid it should ever be subject to a CT) that really, really wants to make Silent But Deadly jokes. That might be a tacky thing for me to do, what with recently finding out that I’ve a SLF-inflicted mother. But y’all? Feel free to share your favorite SBD jokes  with moiself.
What with MH’s father’s health concerns  and those of my mother and of my peers’ aging parents, I keep imagining this barely audible but increasingly creepy, “Circle of Life” chorus that is threatening to become the musak of my generation. And it makes me want to KICK ELTON JOHN’S ASS from here to the nearest assisted living center.
Okay. As a writer I should know better than to (entirely) blame Elton John. EJ is the composer and Tim Rice the lyricist for that song. Nevertheless, having seen EJ in concert I can safely guestimate that his ass would be the bigger target.
* * *
Can We Agree to Stop This, Now?
I refer to the ongoing obsession with playing with photographing yourself. Yeah, I know there’s another word for it.
In the past few weeks I’ve noticed a growing number of self-described selfies posted on various social media and regular media sites, but instead of the usual mug shot variation, the pictures feature the smiling visages of more than one person. There are two, three, four or more – even a crowd shot, and it is not always discernible as to who’s long arm is holding the cell phone or camera.
So, can we do away with that most narcissistic of neologisms? Selfie, schmelfie. It’s called taking a picture, folks.
* * *
* When I paint a person, his enemies always find the portrait a good likeness. (Edvard Munch)
* Sending your selfies to NASA doesn’t make you a star.
* A photographic portrait is a picture of someone who knows he is being photographed, and what he does with this knowledge is as much a part of the photograph as what he’s wearing or how he looks. Richard Avedon)
* I bet Medusa used to take selfies and send ’em to people she disliked like: “Surprise, you little b*tch!” (Anonymous)
Do these snakes make my head look fat?
* * *
May your infractions be silent, your self-portraits slimming, and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 Each author is limited to 10-15 minutes, during which they may read selections from their book and/or talk about their “writing process.” I can’t speak for the other authors, but I promise to engage in none of the latter unless requested.
 There have been at least five the past dozen or so years. At least no broken hips or vertebrae, this time.
Active, reliable, sarcastic, affectionate, bipedal, cynical optimist, writer, freethinker, parent, spouse and friend, I am generous with my handy supply of ADA-approved spearmint gum and sometimes refrain from humming in public.