On this country’s most important holiday, I celebrate by sleeping. No independence here, as we are all imprisoned by my mother’s dementia.
Be sure to celebrate by going here and reading or listening to Keith Olbermann’s latest documentation of how our nation’s independent soul has been mangled by those who are supposed to lead us and protect us.
Next, think about this poem, from Jim Culleny’s daily poetry email:

And, finally, enjoy this reprint of Monday’s guest-poster MYRLN’s latest email to the White House.

Sent To: president@whitehouse.gov
Subject: July 4
Date Sent: 03 Jul 2007 08:24 PM

Dear George,

With Independence Day here tomorrow, I would like to report to you two people whom I believe are the most serious threat to our democracy in decades. I would report them to local authorities, but they couldn’t do anything about these 2, so I figured I would go straight to the top in the hopes you will act against them. Please do something to rid us of them both. The two of whom I speak are you and your vice-president.

There are lots of fireworks going on all over the country tonight. I’m hoping there will be some even more explosive fireworks soon that will blow those grifters out of the White House.

The following post is by non-blogger MYRLN, who guest-posts here every Monday.

The Power of One

And so we come to Independence Day — that anniversary of a nation’s freeing itself from the tyranny of an absolute monarchy. America threw off the English shackles. And that was that. No more subservience. Freedom reigned supreme. Forever. Period.

So we celebrate that day every year. We have parades, picnics, fireworks. Some even mention the Declaration of Independence. Some even read it, a few do so aloud. And that’s that. Then the next day, everyone goes back to work in service to the great god Economy and its co-deity, Government. Feeling good. We’ve just celebrated Independence Day. We’re Free.

Hm-m-m. Fought for once, Independence is ours forever. Hm-m-m. In the greater world, such has remained pretty much true for America. But what about WITHIN America? Are we, each and every one of us, free? Or have we forgotten that freedom must be protected individually, asserted regularly, or it will be lost…or taken away? We have those two greedy deities all too willing to strip us of our individual freedoms — those freedoms far more important than an entire nation’s freedom from tyranny. The freedom of ONE. The Individual.

And that freedom — the Individual’s — is the one which the dual deities of Economics and Government have sought to strip away. (Think cost of living, think taxes, think health care, think privacy, think outsourcing, think union-busting…oh, you get it.) Spying, detainment, surveillance, seizure, threat, fear — all sanctioned these days by the Dual Deities. And too much accepted without question. Resistance, after all, could be dangerous, lead to prison. Well…over a hundred years ago, the great individualist, Henry David Thoreau, was thrown in jail for refusing to pay taxes, refusing to recognize the right of Government to levy a tariff on his existence. Afterwards, he wrote (in his “Civil Disobedience”) how the punishment was totally ineffective because the only thing Government jailed was his body. His spirit, his sense of INDEPENDENCE remained free. It could not be jailed. Government, he wrote, “can have no pure right over my person and property but what I concede to it.” And he continued, “There will never be a free and enlightened State, until the State comes to recognize the individual as a higher and independent power.”

But only the Individual can ultimately cause that recognition, insure its presence.

So this year, as you superficially celebrate Independence Day, take stock. Read the Declaration of Independence. Read the Constitution. (Don’t have copies? Why not?) Then take a good hard look at your individual independence, remembering that the stripping away of each individual’s freedom means that eventually the entire nation’s independence will be gone. Taken away by the hands of those like Dumbya Bush and Darth Cheney and Wall Street moguls who think only in terms of their moneyed interests. All individual freedom gradually lost with our meek and subservient individual compliance.
But you have the power to make this a real Independence Day again. If you use it. As the forefathers did 231 years ago.

Make it happen.

I was pleased to see that, after spraying my plants in the back yard with the garlic/peppermint spray that I buy at the local Agway, the groundhog has left them alone. Of course, I have to re-spray every time it rains.
I went outside in the front yard today to see that the little beast had chewed up the flowers and leaves on my begonia, impatiens, and geraniums. I neglected to spray those after the last rain. If I’m here next summer, I will choose plants that rodents of all sizes don’t like to eat.
Unlike the groundhog’s, my mother’s appetite comes and goes. I know that she doesn’t drink enough liquids, but I can’t force them down her throat. Last night she woke up very hot, even though her room was cool. We were up for hours putting cold wet towels all over her body until her skin cooled down. She was dead-weight out-of-it through the whole ordeal. I know that the hypothalmus in the brain regulates body temperature. I’m wondering if the episode was just another indication that her brain is in the process of malfunctioning and has begun to take her body with it.
She seems OK (that’s a relative term when it comes to her) today. So far. Now, while she’s sleeping, I’ll go out and spray those munched plants. Sort of like closing the barn door after the horse has escaped, but I just hate to let the critter have what’s left.

First of all, the Alzheimer’s med Namenda seems to be stabilizing my mom’s mood swings, making her less confrontational, more cooperative, and less paranoid. And she only takes half the usual dosage, which is 20 mg. I’ve got my fingers crossed that it continues to work.
She’s been having irritable bowel symptoms, and I was pretty sure that coffee was one of the biggest irritants. She loves coffee — would have five or six cups a day if it were up to her. Decaf was not the answer, since it’s not only the caffeine that’s the problem in coffee; it’s the acids as well. The last link is part of a site that sells a coffee substitute, which might have worked for her but it needs to be made like regular coffee. It doesn’t come in an instant version, and, being a tea drinker, I don’t even own a coffee maker.
Well, at my mom’s age (91) taste buds aren’t as sharp as they used to be. I tried to find the old time Postum in my local supermakets, but they don’t carry it. After a bit of Googling, I found something called Inka, a coffee substitute apparently drunk by Polish people, but I couldn’t get their site to accept my order. So I opted for Dandy Blend, Instant Dandelion Beverage, which has pretty much the same ingredients and also includes dandelion root. Not only is dandelion an herbal remedy for various problems that she has, Dandy Blend also is make of up various grains that provide soluble fiber.
I ordered a small can several weeks ago, and she loves it. I went and ordered two more big ones. While she still gets some irritation in her intestines, it’s nowhere near the pain she would get before Dandy Blend. Die hard coffee drinkers wouldn’t go anywhere Dandy Blend; it doesn’t have the strong aroma or taste. But it works for her.
OK. That’s two problems of caregiving for his particular elderly woman that I was able to solve.
Now, the clothes thing. Last night I unearthed a snap-front knit robe that we forgot she had, made by Shadowline Lingerie. I linked to their site and found this snap-front knit bed jacket that she can wear as a blouse now, and a bed jacket later if she needs one. It’s on sale, so I ordered one for her in blue.
So, Maria, at Small Change, who left a comment on my previous post, might want to take a look at that item.
Now, if I can only figure out a way to stop that groundhog from eating up my echinacea leaves, I would feel cared for. Someone suggested fox urine. Right now I’m spraying my flowers with a natural garlic/peppermint spray that’s supposed to repel squirrels. I think it repels my cat too, because she doesn’t like going out after I sprayed. Maybe it will work on the groundHOG!

My mom has shrunk out of most of her clothes (most of which she’s owned for the past forty or so years). On top of that, the fabrics tend not to be wash-and-wear, a quality that we both need her clothes to have for different reasons.
Many really elderly people, including my mom, have thick waistlines. Some also have osteoporosis, which means their upper backs are rounded and so clothes with no “give” are uncomfortable. Some also have arthritis, so it becomes difficult to put clothes on over their heads. And they often have sensitive skin that irritates easily. My mom, for example, has all of those issues.
But just try to find
1. pull-on knit pants with elastic waists that DO NOT constrict and pockets (for all that Kleenex)
2. knit “blouses” with longer sleeves and snaps instead of buttons.
3. any “adaptive” clothes that are NOT in garish prints, primary colors, iron-necessary cotton, decorated with appliqued bunnies, and totally frumpy.
i wind up doctoring up whatever clothing I can find that might fit her and her current lifestyle. For example, I found cotton knit pique button front polo shirts, but they had short sleeves. So I cut the lower part of the sleeves from some of her old blouses and sewed them on to make the short sleeves longer. Of course, I have to help her button the buttons, but at least she doesn’t have go through the painful motions of raising her arms to put on an overhead knit shirt.
I have to undo the waistband of every pair of knit pants I get her so that I can add pieces of elastic and make the waist comfortable for her. She has a problem with underpants being too tight on the waist as well. I wind up snipping the elastic, and eventually the whole garment unravels.
With so many of us somewhat vain women quickly ascending into that “very old” category, I think it’s time for an entrepreneurial designer of women’s clothing to start designing attractive, easy-care, soft knit separates (and also nightgowns) that women in their 80s and 90s can actually manage to put on and take off without going through painful contortions.
How about
— jersey knit blouses with snaps in the front and sleeves that are loose and at least 3/4
— pull-on knit pants that don’t bag at the knees and with elastic waists that are adjustable
— soft, knit nightgowns and robes that snap down the front
I’ve finally gotten my mother to wear pants instead of dresses. which she — still attached to the styles of the 50s — prefers. So now, she doesn’t have to worry about pantyhose or shoes that look good with dresses (and she does worry about that).
Of, right. Shoes. Don’t get me going of finding comfortable soft leather shoes with flexible soles that also provide support!

So, now we’ve added another varmint to the cast of characters who come for the fallen birdseed and move on to munch to the quick my various plantings.

It looks like a big hamster; I suppose it’s a young woodchuck. I watch as it calmly meanders around the overgrown back “yard” (such as it is), nibbling clover and pawing at what’s growing in some of my pots. I think it comes at night and scoops out the stones that I use to anchor the post on which the bird feeders hang. I used to think it was the raccoons, but I’ll bet it’s the brazen ground hog digging for seeds. Every morning, the post is tipped at a precarious angle. I know, the solution is to use cement to hold the post in place. It’s on the list of things to do. Heh!
We thought that my mother might enjoy sitting in the screened breezeway watching the parade of chipmunks and squirrels and birds of all feathers. But the present doesn’t interest her, no matter how cute and colorful. She is locked in a past full of losses, and she is terrified of what the future promises.
“I’m afraid. I’m afraid,” she chants. But when I ask her what she’s afraid of, she can’t seem to say. And so I stroke her hair and put my arms around her and tell her she’s safe and she doesn’t have to be afraid. That usually doesn’t help. I suppose she’s afraid of dying. Yet, this afternoon I heard her muttering, “Jesus, take me. Jesus, take me.”
She’s begun napping several times during the day. I suppose it’s the meds. She’s now taking Namenda, a relatively new Alzheimer’s medication. I should have had her start on it years ago. But she’s always given me a hard time about taking her pills. These days she’s even worse. I often have to wait until she lapses into a state where she’s lost in her own inner world so that I can slip the pill into her mouth and coax her to drink the water.
When my kids were young, we had a cat named Saffron, because he was a “mellow yellow” color. And I liked that Donovan song. His name is really irrelevant. What’s relevant is that, at age 13, he developed painful tumors just under his skin. He spent most of his time in the darkness under the bed. Petting and cuddling him was out of the question. I took him to the vets and sat there and cried while he was put to sleep. I couldn’t bear to see him live in pain and isolation. He had a good life. He was loved. There was no point in allowing his suffering to continue. He would never get better or younger.
We can’t deal with human beings with the same compassion. It’s against the law. Look what happened to Dr. Kevorkian. As I do my best to ease my mother’s mental and physical suffering, I wonder what my last years will be like. I’m not afraid of dying at the end of my life; I’m afraid of continuing to exist deprived of the capacity to “live.”
I’m sure that groundhogs don’t think ahead to their day of dying. They’re too busy just being groundhogs.

Thou Shalt? Or Not?

Last week, the Vatican issued its Ten Commandments for Drivers, a move which surprised and amused many. Especially since the Pope, so far as we know, doesn’t do much driving. (And while the Driving Commandments weren’t directly attributed to the Pope, make no mistake: Vatican offices are not free agencies.) Makes one wonder what might be next: Commandments for pedestrians? eating? sleeping? skateboarding? making donations to the Church?

Anyway, inspired by the Papal Driving Edicts, below are some helpful, well-meant suggestions for the Pope in return — a kind of Ten Commandments for Papal Behavior.

1. Thou shalt not live in a palace nor be surrounded by gold and marble embellishments nor be ministered to by servants.

2. Thou shalt not take money from the poor worldwide to support a rich Vatican lifestyle

3. Thou shalt not remain silent in the face of a holocaust.

4. Thou shalt not terrorize people with tales of fire and brimstone in order to gain control of the nature and practice of their lives.

5. Thou shalt not pontificate about any matter unless thou first livest in a manner exemplary of the behavior sought by such pontification.

6. Thou shalt wear garments befitting a vow of poverty and of unity with most of the world.

7. Thou shalt eschew the use of luxurious vehicles in favor of riding upon an ass on all occasions.

8. Thou shalt decry the naming of former Popes as saints lest doing so become based on the prideful hope that the same might be done for you some day.

9. Thou shalt take harsh steps against any and all ministers in your church who abuse children in any way or abet such abuse through silence, making open and public display of any and all offenders, and not hiding the same inside the Vatican.

10. Thou shalt devote at least half of each year ministering in the field to the poor and sick in different parts of the world on a personal basis.

Active pursuit of the above would surely constitute leadership by example rather than by pontification. Oh, and by the way, the “Vatican hiding” in Commandment 9 refers to Cardinal Bernard Law, formerly head of Boston archdiocese who conspired to hide the hundreds of abuses occurring on his watch in the Boston church. Turns out he’s living quite comfortably in an apartment inside the Vatican.

Also, the Driving Commandments are puerile.

[MYRLN is a non-blogger who guest-posts on this blog on Mondays when the spirit moves him.]

He’s not a kid anymore, but he’ll always be MY kid.
The b!X-organized second annual benefit screening of the movie “Serenity” brought the PDX Browncoats (and others) out in force this weekend in Portland, Oregon. The proceeds of the benefit will go to Equality Now and the Women’s Film Initiative.
The global benefit screening effort (which b!X was instrumental in organizing last year as a birthday present to writer/director Joss Whedon, whose favorite charity is Equality Now) has raised more than $41,000 thus far this year. The funds from the global screenings go to Equality Now.
Read the story of this year’s “Can’t Stop the Serenity” global benefit project here.

There are two ways to fight a battle like ours. One is to whisper in the ear of the masses, try subtlely and gradually to change the gender expectations and mythic structures of our culture. That’s me. The other is to step up and confront the thousands of atrocities that are taking place around the world on an immediate, one-by-one basis. That’s a great deal harder, and that’s Equality Now. It’s not about politics; it’s about basic human decency.
– Joss Whedon

Happy Birthday to Joss Whedon, and Congratulations to my son the feminist on another rollicking successful Can’t Stop the Serentiy benefit bash.

The other day, I got one of those emails that friends pass around — this one made some disturbing statements that included the following:

Wait a minute, wait a minute, I think as I read this. What about the American fanatics! What about Darth Cheney, the embodiment of all the political evils that honest Americans are supposed to despise? What about our piss-for-brains president, that fanatic who, along with his equally manipulative minions, created the lies that fueled the fanaticism of these wars in the Middle East? Why aren’t peace-loving, fanatic-hating Americans speaking up against these dangerous fanatics and their followers who “threaten our way of life???”
I was about to respond to the dozens and dozens of individuals who received the original myopic jabber with the above knee-jerk rant of my own, when I thought: wait a minute, wait a minute. Take a deep breath. What’s the reall issue here?
But before I had any rational thoughts, a response arrived from someone else on that email list, and I rejoiced in having a kindred spirit among the lot, someone who could make the point more thoughtfully and intelligently than I. He said:

So, my thanks to the guy who did take the time to send his reasonable response to all of those email readers as a reminder of what the debate should be about.
Of course, in my estimation, the way we deal with the issue is to throw those bums (and their minions) out and elect someone to lead the Executive Branch who actually knows how to think critically and knows how to pronounce “nuclear” and whose leadership is motivated by more human, humane, moral values; who adheres to and protects the purposes of a constitutional democracy. I’m tending towards Edwards, myself.

And so I walk while the sun sets. I walk up and down the driveway because it’s too dark to walk on this country road.
262 steps. Up and down. Down and up. I lose count of the cycles.
The woods are quiet and cool. Even the flying insects are still — except for the flireflies that sparkle the darkness.
I walk after sunset because it’s the only time I can get out. She is finally calm enough for my brother to sit in front of the television with her.
I have a headache from shouting because she can’t hear. She cries so much, and I don’t know if it’s from pain or despair. “Where’s my mother,” she sobs. I wonder who I will call for when I am 91 and demented. Not my mother, certainly.
She wants water. I hand her a glass of water and she pushes it away. She does not look at me. She is somewhere else.
“Warm water,” she says.
“You want to drink warm water?” I ask.
“Hands,” she says, rubbing her hands together. Her hands are cold.
I fill a bowl with warm water and she puts her hands in them. I wonder if she’s thinking of a winter time long ago when her mother gave her a bowl of warm water for her chilled hands.
She’s so weak that she can barely stand, but she won’t sit down, won’t lie down. She wants to walk. Wants her shoes on. Wants her feet on the floor. Wants her brother. Her mother. Her sisters.
We’re trying new meds.
And I’m trying. I’m trying.
And I walk in the dark.
I sit for a moment on a boulder by the side of the driveway. Mother Earth’s old bones, I think. What about my mother’s old aching bones, the surges of pain, the despair and longing and inability to rest, finally.
And so I walk at nightfall. And go nowhere.