Early Christmas

Sister Kittie and brother-in-law David came down this weekend to help me not celebrate Christmas.

Christmas tree with
Mickey ornaments

As you know, I decided not to do the holidays this year, but I soon realized I just didn't want to do all of it. I had found a collapsible Mylar tree at Walgreen's.

They arrived late Friday evening, unloading themselves into the house. We talked and caught up on family and what we each were up to this December.

Mickey ornaments on the tree

On Saturday, we wrapped the presents Kittie had brought with her. I really enjoyed wrapping packages, especially when I didn't have to go out into the mercantile fray in order to obtain them. And, while digging out the wrapping paper, I came across the set of 12 Mickey ornaments Steve and I had bought several years back at Disneyland. I got them out and put them on the Mylar Christmas tree, and they looked pretty good.

For dinner, I had Kittie show me how to bake chicken breasts (I had six in the freezer and didn't want them to go bad). So we had chicken and rice for dinner and I cut up the remaining chicken to store in the freezer. That way, I've got cooked chicken I can thaw out in a day: Makes cooking for one much easier.

While Kittie and I were working, David was overdosing on cable television. (They do not have cable because David says he would spend every day like this if they had it.) It was football and car races and other guy stuff, and it lent a wonderful background sound to our putterings. After dinner, Kittie got my Joy of Cooking down from the shelf and we searched for a sugar cookie recipe.

A fancy and festive fritata for brunch.

I could not believe that Kittie had never made rolled cookies (although I've attempted them only a couple times). So Kittie mixed the dough and put it in the refrigerator to set. We hit the hay around midnight.

The next morning, I got up to David making coffee and Kittie still laying in bed. (The sofa downstairs accommodates two rather nicely, if you know how to position yourselves.) We emptied the dishwasher, which had filled quickly with dinner and chicken cooking and cookie making, loaded the awaiting overflow of dishes, and I made an asparagus-ham fritata with cheddar and mozzarella.

Christmas cookies await their icing

Clean the kitchen again (it's a pretty small space), then I took down the Christmas cookie cutters that I had gotten years ago and never used, and we picked out the shapes we wanted. (I won't elaborate on them, as you can see them in the accompanying cookie photos.)

David was wanting to fix the carpeting at the top of the stairs down to the garage. When they installed the slate in the entryway, they didn't finish off the carpet edge where the carpet meets the slate at the top stair. I had nailed it up, but David was right; it was a tripping hazard. So, in the only sojourn beyond my grocery shopping last week, we headed to OSH, where we got a metal transition plate to affix the carpet against the top of the stair.

Upon returning, Kittie had rolled out the remainder of the dough and was just finishing up baking the last batch. Even unfrosted, the cookies look festive.

Our final cookie creations on the holiday plate

Later, I made up some buttercream frosting and hauled out my decorative piping tools. The nibs and the points were in fine shape, but the piping bag had fallen apart, so we improvised with some plastic Zip-Loc bags, cutting a small hole in the bottom corner to house the nibs. It worked fairly well, though the bags did start deforming slightly as we squeezed them. I was adding some icing to the remaining cookies that evening, and the bag burst right through; wrapping a little plastic wrap around it kept the breach of icing in check, but actual, honest-to-God piping bags is what I really need.

The cookies looked nicer than ever once we got them iced: I put a red design down on the cookie, leaving room for Kittie to come in behind me and add green to the design I had started. The system worked out really well, as you can see from the photo of the finished cookies.

We got done with the icing while David was packing the car. They took a bunch of the cookies with them, as I did not want two dozens sugar cookies staring at me from the Christmas cookie platter (something I also discovered while we were digging for the wrapping paper in the closet). About 4 o'clock, they left to return home. I was alone again for the evening, trolling and schedule guide on the cable for Christmas fare worth recording. Believe me, there isn't much out there, except syrupy, poorly acted, quickly produced tear-jerk stories on the Hallmark channel.

So, here it is, Christmas Eve day. The tradition in my family, once all the kids were old enough to know Santa didn't really bring the presents, was to open gifts on Christmas Eve while enjoying a casual buffet meal (sandwiches and clam chowder, usually). The whole point is no one was obligated to leap out of bed at 5:30 when the first child awoke and saw the presents under the tree.

Steve and I continued that tradition, leaving the stockings as the Christmas morning surprise. I think I'm going to continue on my own. So this evening at 7:30 I'll open the present Kittie and David left for me. As for tomorrow, the stockings are packed away, so I'll just have to wing it, which is what you do when you're not celebrating Christmas.

In closing, here's another one of my favorite Christmas cartoons as a child. It's about a crazy old man who used to hang out with Betty Boop, but now goes from orphanage to orphanage, frightening the children into happiness and joy. Don't laugh: that's how Christmas goes down in a lot of families.

 

Visual Treats

You are aware that I'm not doing the holidays this year, but this is one of my very favorite Christmas things on YouTube:

Flashy tree, mercantile goodness

Life is strange. I mean really strange.

Last week I was recuperating from the directory deadline and jumping back into Lisa' web design, all the time worrying about where the money was coming from. Yesterday (Sunday) was an actual day off. Joy sent over the materials for her newsletter, but I didn't even look at them until today. When I did, everything fell together and I whipped through most of the website work in less than two hours.

After working on Joy's newsletter this morning, I took a break and finally dove into the upstairs closets, clearing out the last of Steve's clothes in preparation for the Rescue Mission pick-up on Wednesday (8 a.m. to 5 p.m., so I'm prisoner until they show up). Reviewing my handiwork, I've never seen so many empty hangers in my life, plastic bird skeletons swinging under empty weight. Afterwards, I found out where to go get my documents notarized (that's for tomorrow).

Full of L-Tryptophane goodness!

As I said, I'm not doing the holidays, but the "tree" pictured above was staring at me through Walgreen's window, and it was only $20, so I picked it up. I set it up in the hall. Having had the call of the muse to write something here, I went downstairs to take this picture of it. Its proportions are compelling to me, but I do have to confess that it feels like Macy's has taken over the entryway: You know, shiny glitter, a hint at the actual shape and sensibility of a real tree, but minimalized, stripped of all but the most fundamental of essences. One thing I can tell you, there's no Baby Jesus in that tree. I also think the fact that the silver discs are just the size of quarters doesn't help make it less commercial.

Dave's coffee mug collection
adorns wall and ceiling of the kitchen

When I came upstairs to download the photo, I realized there were others, photos I had taken at Thanksgiving, that were still sitting, unprocessed, on the iPhone. So I downloaded the group and came up with these images.

The first one is the turkey. The second one is David about to carve at the table. Kittie did all of the cooking, and there was a lot of stuff, but the turkey is always the centerpiece, and she did a good job. You'll notice the little pop-up thing didn't pop up. She asked how she could tell if it was cooked, and I told her about sampling the temperature in the thigh, the breast and the stuffing: 180 degrees Fahrenheit. It was perfectly done.

This way to the butterflies.

I stayed at Motel 6, since their place is really too small to accommodate guests (although there is just enough space on the living room floor to fit a sleeping bag). I prefer to have my own room, my own bath and the civility of complimentary WiFi.

I drove up Thursday, starting around 10:30 a.m. and arriving (surprisingly) before 3 p.m. There was almost no traffic (not quite as true on the ride back, though). When I arrived, everything was pretty much cooked, and we ate shortly after my arrival.

On Friday, we took a walk down at the beach, walking along the boardwalk from he entrance to the beach (the only one in California which allows vehicles) about a mile to the Butterfly Grove, so named because it's a stopover for migrating Monarch butterflies. Here's a picture of Kittie and David on the bridge to the grove. I tried to get some shots of the Monarchs, but they were high up in the tree and the late afternoon lighting was bad.

No one drives on this part of the beach or the dunes:
it's a wildlife sanctuary. See why I love it there?

We left at the hour we did so that we could watch the sunset while strolling the boardwalk back to the car. Looking at this photo doesn't do the beauty justice. Is it any wonder that I call this place home? And is it any wonder that I am seriously considering a move back to my roots there?

Saturday morning we drove into San Luis Obispo and had breakfast at Louisa's downtown. I had the eggs benedict, since I believe you can tell the quality of the breakfast service anywhere by how they do eggs benedict. They are very good at Louisa's; always have been.

When I was clearing out the closets and packing up the rest of Steve's clothes, I listened to a special Christmas mix that I made several years ago; something to play during opening presents and such.

But, as I said, I'm not doing the holidays this year.



Oh yeah; one thing I forgot to tell you: I got an e-mail this morning from a woman who had seen Lisa's website redesign and wanted to talk to me about redoing her site, as well. And then a guy left his phone number on the machine this afternoon, also requesting a redesign. If they both pan out, this means that I have no less than three projects that are ready to roll at the first of the year.

Depends on Where You're Standing

Only moments ago, I launched my poet's website. I am really jazzed by the 3-D effect of the slide show on the first page. I'm really happy with the work. We had done a lot of preliminary design samples and wireframes, but the actual construction of the site happened between Wednesday and today (Saturday).

After the workfest of getting the chamber directory to the printers, I had Tuesday to take a breather, then I jumped in on the website. I haven't been burning on it with quite the intensity of the directory work, and it is a lot more fun to work on a creative project (photos and poetry) where the client really appreciates the creative process.

Now another client is doing a newsletter (and hers are long) that she's sending over tomorrow. She wants it out on the 21st, and that will be no problem at all. Her work is a little more involved, since I have to move the copy from the last newsletter into her articles page (which keeps getting longer), then mount the newsletter on the website, then build a truncated version of it as an HTML e-mail to send out via Mail Chimp.

And then, I have nothing due until the end of the year. This is a good thing, since I can now spend some time focusing on finishing up the transfer of Steve Stuff to me. There are things to get notarized, official certificates to order, transfer forms to return, etc., etc. I still experience a significant amount of emotional drainage when I have to put my mind to death paperwork.

I've foregone the holidays this year, other than visiting Kittie and David on Thanksgiving. To me, these last two weeks of the year are a time to try and regroup and greet the new year with some semblance of cohesion. After all, I told Ray that we'd get together after the first of the year to discuss expanding his website, so there might be more work for me there.

So I feel like I've passed two large objects out of my being and can take a breather. I can even sleep in and not wake up worrying about all the stuff I have to get done today. It's been cold the last few days (for readers in the Midwest and East, this means it doesn't get out of the 50s during the day, and at night we actually get into the 30s), but there's a warming trend starting tomorrow.

Taking care of the house is also something I've neglected for the past few weeks. So is cleaning out Steve's stuff, and the Rescue Mission is sending a truck on Wednesday to pick it up. This means the garage should be cleared out in time for Kittie and David to park there during their visit a week from today. (In Pasadena, it's illegal to park on the street between 2 and 6 a.m. without buying a special $7-a-day permit.)

I'm sure there are duties and obligations I'm shirking that will raise their ugly heads every few days, as I'm still not into a solitary routine yet. When you spend years coordinating your life with another person, it's alien not to have to share everything life and savor that.

Down to the Wire

(A Note: This was written on Monday, December 2nd, but I didn't publish it until today because of the deadlines I've been dealing with.)

My life since I returned home on Saturday, having spent Thanksgiving at my sister Kittie's, has been focused almost entirely on the chamber directory. With less than a week to go, I think we're going to make it with a little time to spare (wouldn't that be wonderful?).

I went over some of my postmortem paperwork with Kittie, just to make sure I was reading it right. Steve is the one I've always taken stuff like that to, but he's not available.

Mourning is such a weird process, and I find I begin to identify stages I've been going through over the past weeks. Like a roller coaster through thin gelatin, I am beginning to sense upward motion in my life, as well as downward. Every now and then, I don't feel weighed down hardly at all by things; I realize how much I enjoy my work, a cool autumn day with a real breeze, a good single-malt scotch. Eventually, things are going to be okay.

But my intense focus is on the directory. I think it's going to look terrific when it hits paper. Now that I've turned the job of shagging stray ads and copy over to the salesman, I can concentrate on the little tweaks that I'll have to make in the 52 pages of directory listings in the back of the book. The first 36 pages of editorial and advertising are pretty well ready to hit the press, except for about a dozen small, missing elements and final placement of photos.

Our press deadline is Monday, Dec. 9. After that, it's out of my hair, for a year, at least, or perhaps for forever. I'm only now beginning to sense what I want to do with the rest of my life: I want to spend it with friends doing things I love to do.

One thing I really hate is running my own business. It was tolerable when Steve was here to take care of the books (meager as they are), and I could concentrate on landing clients and doing the design work. I thought that's how it was going to go until I retired, keeping a couple special clients even in my leisure years. This, my second year in business, was when I would make a clear mark in the Pasadena business community. Instead, death took the year, from March halfway through October, and my focus and energy, as well.

My clients have been incredible, concerned and patient (but still letting me know they wanted to get things going as soon as possible). Less than six days from now, I will breathe a sigh of relief, then jump into setting up Poet Lisa's website, hoping to get her online by the 14th. Then Joy has a newsletter for the holidays that she wants to send out by the 22nd. Ray wants to expand his website, as well, but we agreed to wait until the holidays are over.

So here I am in one of those upward-gelatin moments, feeling good that the business will be coming in for the next few months, at least. Then I hope I hit a dry spell, because I'd like to take some time off and do a little traveling, see some people I haven't seen in a long time. By the time that happens, I think I'll be able to take advantage of the unfamiliar locales to balance my view of this new phase in my life.

I have a few ideas brewing already. More on that later.

Plodding Through the Mire

My life these days is chiseled into four facets:

1. MY DESIGN WORK: which has been exacerbated by my business e-mail going haywire. None of the ad proofs sent out in the last few weeks ever got through. While technical support is unraveling this, I'm using a temporary Gmail account. Luckily, although no e-mails go out of my website address, I do receive anything sent in, so I won't miss delivered items.

2. DEALING WITH "THE SWITCHOVER": which ultimately will eradicate Steve's existence and place his worldly obligations squarely on my shoulders: House. Utilities. Insurance. Social Security. Medical Bills. IRAs. Lots of forms and death certificates and submissions and reviews and people who never knew Steve being sorry for my loss. And the weeks between things happening.

3. KEEPING MYSELF RELATIVELY SANE: Taking Care of Mark. Making Mark Happy. Keeping Mark Engaged and Content. Unfortunately, not much can occur on this front without the labyrinth of postmortem minutiae of Item No. 2 above having been surmounted. Item No. 1 is a split-stimulus source: I really enjoy the design work but I really hate dealing with the technical crap and stressing on the deadline. I do think about taking time off and traveling to visit people I haven't seen in years. I need time and room to successfully wrap my head around what has occurred in this last year. But it won't happen just yet.

I spent six years in my Hollywood apartment, deliberately single and celibate, learning to live by myself and feel complete and content. (For the moment, we won't discuss my agoraphobic period during that time.) In 2005, I started dating again because I didn't need someone in, but wanted someone in my life. When we met, Steve had been through a similar period, and I think that's one of the reasons we melded so well. I can truly say he was the love of my life.

3a. DECIDING WHAT COMES NEXT: This is not really a separate thing yet. I seriously can't think about it in detail until Item No. 2 is fully resolved. But some imagination time has to be handed over to this subfunction, feeding some hopeful, forward-looking thoughts into the major function of this third facet.

4. EXTRICATING THE MATERIAL REMNANTS OF STEVE: It has taken me a month to clear the bedroom closet and the dresser. Clothes are the most intimate of possessions, and folding them with care and inventorying them took a lot of energy out of me. And I still have to contend with three more closets and the garage. At this rate, the physical removal of Steve's effects will coincide with the completion of Item No. 2.

Item No. 1 does have a deadline of Dec. 9. It will come together nicely, I'm sure, but getting there might be a little on the insane side. I know it was last year. Luckily, all my other clients are fine with holding off on their projects during the holiday season. I know it's upon us (it starts Oct. 31 now; let's just face it), and I'm not even sure I want to acknowledge it this year. My Christmas present will be getting the chamber directory completed and to the printer.

A bit of sad news: I lost Steve's wedding ring. I was wearing it as a pinkie ring and it slipped off (somewhere in the house, I believe) and I didn't even notice it. It wasn't in the garbage disposal, or on the patio, so it must be tucked just under something. After I clear out Steve's stuff, I'm going to have the cleaning ladies come in and go over the place; I'm hoping the ring will show up then.

So these days, I'm not just doing No. 1 or No. 2, but also No. 3 and No. 4. I focus on one until I'm frustrated or worn out, then I turn to another and work on it for a while. After a couple of hours, I just have to stop and relax. Sometimes my eyes glaze over and I have to lie down for a 45-minute nap. Then I pop awake, ready to dive into the next-most-obvious list of chores.

Without Steve here, I find watching TV a very weak distraction. I realized that when my sister came down to visit this last weekend (she was alone because her husband had to work Saturday). With someone else to watch with, TV is enjoyable, except that most of the shows tend to put me to sleep. We did get to watch the DVD of the second half of "Angels in America" (Peristroika). When she and Dave were down two weeks ago, we watched the first half (Millennium Approaches).

Even though it is the most unpleasant time of my life, I am glad to be a legally recognized widower who stayed by his husband's side until death came. And now, in mourning, the world is treating me like a person who has lost a spouse. I find a secret pleasure in being treated like everyone else because, beyond acknowledging my loss, they are also acknowledging my equality.

That's something I have worked for and waited for my entire life. Steve died knowing we are citizens.

I'm Ready For My Breakdown,Mr. DeMille

Shitty days. You know; really shitty days. You wake up just enough to realize you're waking up, and all you want to do is not wake up. You dread what reality has in store for you, and there's more that you can't even imagine about to explode like a burning bag of mysterious contents sitting on your front porch. If you wake up, you're gonna hafta stamp out that fire.

"Who's there? Is that burning poo I smell?"

This is not depression in the classical sense, because there are big piles of shit I have to deal with; not so smelly, but very unhappy things. But (perhaps luckily; I don' t know), each of these bureaucratic things takes days or weeks to take place, so the process feels viscous and remedial. I keep thinking that these people that I'm talking to deal with this stuff every day. But they don't need to possess the death like the survivors do, it is merely there to be processed from papers into computers.

We're coming into the last weeks of work on the chamber directory, and nothing has gelled, although it looks as though it will come together nicely. At this point, I usually start to wish that some process had happened in a different order, but this year, the fact that it happened at all is fortuitous. I really hate working on getting all the advertisers to send in their ads, but I've finally got a layout that will be cohesive in about a week. Just getting all the elements into a 96-page book is time-consuming. The one thing I have to say, it gives me something to look forward to, as does work on the poet's website. That job is on hold, as she is dealing with family crisis at the moment, as well.

But I'm not about to crumble. It's a wimpy alternative, but the world has become too cruel to rely on the kindness of corporate entities to understand your plight: if you don't do the paperwork, you perish. Happily, just enough of it is doable online, that it almost makes it like a video game.

In the real world, I am getting things done slowly, but that is how they like it. On Monday, I got together with a probate attorney to file a petition to waive probate, since there was no will, yet there are no relatives alive to contest my inheritance as his spouse. It's a simple procedure, so it should only take four to eight weeks and $2,000.

Also, I called Social Security and got the voice maze machine; you know, the one that has you speak all your replies and then says, "I'm sorry, would you repeat that?" On the first try, after answering all the questions quite clearly, speaking in clipped, crisp tones, he told me the waiting queue was full, and I should call back later.

This is a technique I use, which works about half the time: I called back immediately and the call slipped through. Even better, once you've escaped the maze, you can give them your phone number, and they will call you back when you get to the front of the line. It took about an hour, but finally Connie called. We set up an appointment at my local office for three weeks from now (the earliest available) to deal with the Social Security and Medicare issues.

The medical bills. The tiny ones are $200-$500. The big ones are $2,000-$4,000. They're from labs and ambulance services and emergency room doctors and anesthesiologists, and the two hospitals. And it doesn't help that we're in the choose-your-Medicare-provider season, as many of those ads masquerade in official-looking envelopes with things like "your immediate attention" and "urgent notice" stamped on them: you know it's a come-on, but you've got to check to make sure it's junk, just in case: everything has the potential these days of being not what it seems.

So I'm putting the medical bills on hold, unless I know they've already charged Medicare and my obligation is a copay.

After a short break from going through Steve's stuff, I have the goal of getting the bedroom cleared out. The closet and the dresser are both done, but there are still a couple boxes I haven't gone through, and a lot of books I want to dump (his mom must have been a fan of those Reader's Digest condensed classics with cheap leather binding and foil-stamped details, because they're everywhere.)

Since I've sold my car to friend Doug, I'm slowly moving everything down into the now-roomy garage (well, not moving slowly, but doing it bits at a time) and will stage the final dispensation of Steve's material artifacts from there. In the end, I shall have a bit more space inside.

I've been going out to dinner with Jessie on Thursday evenings, and that helps a lot. Conversation and getting out of the house. Now's the time to find a job, so I have somewhere to go and people to deal with on a daily basis. Working at home can give you cabin fever, as I am well aware.

Kittie and David will be coming down a week from today to spend another weekend, and I will be going up to Grover Beach for the Thanksgiving weekend. I still haven't decided how I'm going to deal with Christmas this year. Last year we left in in the boxes because we spent the week in Eureka. God, that seems like a decade ago.

Einstein was right: time and space are relative.

If You Pick It, It Will Fall Apart

Little Boxes on the Platform

Steve's home again, or at least his leftovers are. In a box inside a box, a very nice box: deep brown wood (mahogany?) with a light bird's eye maple veneer inset on the top. It's all artificial, of course; a simulation of wood, with special care instructions. I put it with the other boxes on the platform in the living room. It lends an illusion of organization and order to the house.

I'm in a kind of haze. I do my design work, which consists mostly of file maintenance right now; try to get both projects moving forward at an adequate pace. Then there are the Death Papers. Everyone who had business with Steve when he died has to be notified, documentation processed, and procedure followed to the letter. So I hop between deadlines and death, and try to make progress on things around the house in between. I shut down easily, though, and most days I take a short nap in the afternoon to change gears between these three very different chores.

The day after the last blog entry, I went down to the bank to make sure his credit card was flagged and the mortgage and equity account payments were made on time. When I got home, the Neptune Society (over Toluca Lake way in the San Fernando Valley) called to say the death certificates had arrived, Steve's cremains to go were ready, and I could drop by and pick them up, if I wanted.

So the next afternoon, I picked him up. I knew just where he was going to go; I'd known it for months: sitting at the center of the platform, a photo of him and me from an Oscar party last year at Steve and Roberto's home. He had wanted me to don a rainbow afro wig for the picture, but I felt a white feather boa was quite enough fabulousness for me, thank you very much.

A lot of my time is taken up with folding, bagging and making an inventory of his things, since I plan to donate most stuff to the Rescue Mission and Out of the Closet. So a fond memory is touched with each shirt I fold, each pair of shoes I match up and carefully tie together: walking through the old-growth redwoods in Eureka, strolling through the Louvre in Paris.

The strangest thing so far, though, has been pulling out boxes that I have never seen open since I moved to Pasadena nearly nine years ago. Most of the stuff is from his tour of duty in Viet Nam (like a monstrous scrapbook with every letter he wrote his mother while on deployment. His Purple Heart and its certificate. High school yearbooks, letters, notes and cards. What to keep, what to donate, what to toss?

And, lastly, an odd side effect of this process is that I'm going through my things and seeing what's there that I can cull out and release. I'm not being reckless about it, but all the closets in the house are filled with things that I haven't looked at or used, some for more than a decade. And don't even get me thinking about tackling the CD collection: hundreds to go through.

Kittie and David came down again this weekend. Kittie cooked, went through the paperwork we have left to pull all the documents the attorney will need for the probate petition, and helped me clear out and pack Steve's things in the dresser. David untangled an ivy plant from its holder on the patio and helped me build a moss cage in the holder, transplanting the ivy from its small pot into the moss-lined holder.

And it was time with family. It was time with company. It was people filling up the solitude. I know, at some point, the house will fit me and feel like home with just me here, but for now I still suppose I hear Steve upstairs, when it's the cats knocking something over. They're on edge, too, because they know something's going on, and they know they haven't seen Steve for nearly two months.

I keep pointing out the very nice box on the platform in the living room, but I don't think the cats get that what's left of Steve is sitting up with Shakespeare and the Oxford Dictionary.

Emotional Dilatation & Curettage

It's been over a week since Steve died. It hasn't really sunk in yet. The only times we've been apart for more than a day were when I visited my brother Steve and his family in Wisconsin while my Steve stayed at home and held down the fort.

I took my sister Kittie's advice and tried not to be alone. On Sunday, the 13th, I had dinner with Jessie at Panda Inn. She brought a falafal and salad stuff with her, so I had snacks beyond the stuff already in the fridge. She helped me pull out all the expired food and haul it out to the dumpster before we left for dinner.

Monday I was scheduled to spend at Robin and Evan's place, but somehow I just felt like being alone in the house, watching a movie, and so I did. Tuesday Jeff and Chuck descended and scooped me off for dinner at Green Street (one of our favorite restaurants). And Wednesday morning, Kittie arrived.

My greatest dread, beyond the paperwork needed to inherit the house and transfer the bank accounts, mortgage, etc., was going through his two file drawers crammed with papers. Also, the medical bills, the household expenses, HOA fees, insurance; the list goes on.

So Wednesday, Thursday and Friday (when her husband David joined us via Amtrak and the Gold Line) were pretty much given up to digging through the files, shredding pages with signatures or personal information (like the Social Security number), and tossing the rest. It goes back to 1991.

We also organized the medical bills, and Kittie put together a pile of calls to make and things to do in logical, sequenced priority.

Saturday the shredding started in earnest, moving everything downstairs so we could watch TV while we destroyed documents from two decades ago. In the evening, we went over to Robin and Evan's, and were joined by Jessie for a lovely dinner and evening.

Sunday was low-keyed. We continued the shredding (it's still not finished) and Kittie and David slowly packed up and left around 5 o'clock.

Monday I concentrated on building the InDesign file for the Directory from the master template. I didn't really look at my to-do list, and I know I didn't want to call anyone.

In the afternoon, a package arrived from my sister-in-law Carla. I had suggested she send chocolates to Steve, since they're easy to eat. When she got my e-mail about Steve's death, she e-mailed back, "Is there anything I can do?" I sent a reply: "Send the chocolates." And she had, along with a jar of my brother Jim's strawberry jam. Joyous!'

Today I sat down and wrote out a painful sum of checks corresponding to the medical bills received so far. The money's all there, but after having gone through this month of pain and death with Steve, to have to pay these amounts seems outrageous. Still, when Medicare and the VA coverage turn a $122,000 hospital bill into a $1,200 co-pay, I don't mind paying.

I also called the Neptune Society to make sure things were going smoothly. My contact there was on another line, so I left her a message (no voice mail?) why I was calling and my phone number. I'm assuming she got the stuff when I sent it last Thursday (something else Kittie helped with).

And that was it. That was all I could do. I have to call the bank tomorrow about the equity line of credit and the mortgage, since I want to pay both of those on time. There's still about a dozen calls to make, but I just can't make them today.

I figure one or two morbid tasks a day and one or two studio tasks a day, and things will be on their way by the end of the month. I sure wish they'd ship back Steve In The Box, 'cause I really miss  him.

It is a Puzzlement

It's coming up on the 22nd hour of day zero. It literally has been the longest day of my life. I caught a half-hour nap here and a 45-minute snooze there during the day, but no real REM sleep. Two Xanax this evening to relax me and keep me asleep.

For relief and distraction, friend Jessie came over and took me out to dinner at Panda Inn (not to be confused with the fast-food atrocity known as Panda Express, although they are owned by the same corporation; go figure). We had Crab Wonton appetizers (Steve's favorite), a mango-duck salad that was quite tasty (but not enough mango or duck), and shrimp upside-down crispy noodles.

It was wonderful to get out of the house with her and talk about the crazy times working together at the "DeeJ" (Los Angeles Daily Journal) at the turn of the millennium, traveling in general, and reminiscing about taking Steve to London and Paris; the next trip was to be to Vienna and Salzburg, near his ancestral turf.

When you think about it, any kind of planning is really just an active bucket list, like our plans to retire to Eureka and live on the cool, unpopulated coastline. It was a great idea for us, but not for me alone. Someone said, "Don't make any major decisions for at least a year," and that sounds like good advice.

My sister Kittie (pictured below) told me I shouldn't be alone for a whole day, so Monday I'm going over to Robin and Evans, Tuesday Chuck and Jeff are taking me to dinner, and Wednesday Kittie herself will arrive, with her husband David showing up a day or two after (that part's still sketchy). Anyway, my week's worth of caretakers has been arranged.

The screensaver on my Mac is a "Ken Burns" slideshow (pics slowly moving across, up or down through the frame). As I walked into the studio, two or three of Steve's pictures played in a row on the monitor.

I realized that I really didn't have a group of photos of Steve or of us together. While picking some out, I started to play and uploaded them to JigZone.com.

If you're at all into jigsaw puzzles, this is a fun little website that will waste a lot of your time. I'm linking 48-piece puzzles, so as to waste only four minutes of your time, give or take.

Click on each to solve, then use your back button to return to these pics. If you want to sign up, or if you're already a member, buddy up to see all my puzzles.

I find it's a fun way to assemble all the pictures in my head of Steve, examine his visage from a new perspective, now that there's no real Steve to look at, just pictures to remind us of the clarity and playfulness and soulfulness of his eyes; how that meticulously trimmed goatee wrapped just so around his chin; a far-off gaze of sober contemplation, or just how shiny his head could get!

Thanks for all the kind words everyone has been sending and the prayers that go along with them. Steve was not a churchgoing kinda guy, and neither am I, but we shared a sense of spirituality and a deep belief in the overflowing goodness of most human beings. Church services and worship and fellowship weren't our thing, we just tried to carry that spirit in our hearts and share it with everyone, no matter how stupid, shallow, self-involved, numb-skulled and/or thick-headed they might be.

Again, Emily Dickinson will suffice:

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister –
And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –
I, just wear my Wings –
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –
I’m going, all along.

(Remember: to get out of any puzzle page, click your back button.)

The wedding photo

Steve on the patio in Pasadena

LAX to Eureka

Inside a burned-out living redwood

Steve with Mark, Mark's sister Kittie (left) and mother Paula (right)

At California Adventure with Steve and Roberto (not pictured)

Hasta la Vista, Baby

My best friend died this morning at 1:20: also my husband, my lover, my date and the warmth in my life.

At 1:15, I got a call from The Home, saying Mr. Burtner was "in distress." The doctor and the ambulance had been called. Five minutes later, he simply stopped breathing. As he was under do not resuscitate orders, they simply called me ten minutes later and let me know what had happened.

"Stopped breathing," was the way she put it on the phone. "You mean he's dead?" I asked, sitting on the toilet, getting ready to dress and leave. "Yes." She almost sounded hesitant.

This latest bout of illness began only a few days after the last blog entry: Steve started to have trouble hearing people on the phone, but soon it was people in the room, talking loudly. On Monday, Oct. 7, he had gotten to the point of hallucinating. I had had it in my mind to have him transferred down to the Long Beach VA Medical Center that day, since all his doctors are down there, but the severity of his condition required quick diagnosis of what was going on. So he was taken to Huntington Memorial Emergency Room, two blocks from The Home.

They took a chest X-rays in the room, and I could tell by the image on the portable cart's screen that the bone cancer had really spread to all parts of his rib cage, and the main tumor was half again as large as the last chest CT scan I had seen in Long Beach. It made sense, since it had been almost two months since his last round of chemo.

A CT scan of the head revealed no cancer, so the incoherence wasn't due to that illness. All the blood cultures and tests came back negative; only a urine sample, taken as a last resort, showed a urinary tract infection by a rather virulent strain of bacteria. He was put on IV antibiotics and sent back to The Home; transferring him to Long Beach was something that wouldn't happened until he stabilized.

The next five days, Steve was not really available. Visiting, I could get him to look at me, focus and recognize who I was, but there were other, fantastical things happening in his cranium, and they obviously took his attention. It all seemed rather pleasant for him, until Friday, when he didn't speak at all during my half-hour visit.

On Saturday, exhausted, I decided to take a day off. Our friends Steve and Roberto visited him in the afternoon, and as long as he saw friendly faces, he'd know, if he could, that he was not forgotten. So, when visiting time (usually around 6:00 or 6:30) rolled around, I stayed at home and watched "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," which was a favorite of his. I puttered some on the computer, researching fonts for my latest web project, and turned in about 12:30. Forty-five minutes later, the first call came.

In a fit of premonition, I had remembered yesterday to look for the box that contained Steve's box from the Neptune Society. Directly after he had been diagnosed, he had called them and made pre-arrangements for his cremation. For some reason, we have to supply the box for the cremains, and it can't be any old cardboard box anymore. As I recall, they take care of the paperwork and the death certificate and ship back the cremains. I have the information packet somewhere around here.

The box had arrived about a week after the check cleared, just another UPS package. We had never opened it. I put it away in a closet upstairs and didn't recall exactly where, so I found it and put it on a chair in the studio. Now, just before deployment, I cut the plastic tape and opened package. The box inside is quite stunning, and I have a feeling Steve will be sticking around for sometime to come. Box in box under arm, I headed over to The Home.

All the things that happened to him during this dearth of illnesses seemed to happen on a weekend, and this was no exception: the regular folks are off and not much can happen quickly. When I got there, I went to Steve's room. He was flat in the bed, head leaning to his right. There was a woman in the room, straightening the sheets, preparing him for viewing, but I had made my entrance too soon.

She gave us some privacy but hovered outside the door like a nervous bird. I touched Steve's forehead and he was still warm, but his hand was already cool to the touch. His eyes were open slightly, so I closed them. And there it was: that waxen mask of the face in lax repose, not even death, but the empty physical aftermath. To borrow from Gertrude Stein, there is no there there. Steve's gone, and he slipped out without a trace.

I talked to him quietly, just in case he was still in the room, and went to check that the nurse had called the Neptune Society, and to give them the information needed for "the transfer." While the nurse took care of that, the nurse's aide helped me pack his things, checking against their inventory list. I chucked the bags into the trunk of the car, where they still remain, and drove home.

I got here at 2:45, sent out a group e-mail at 3:10 and tried to get to sleep. After two hours of tossing and turning, I got up, made some coffee and watched the morning news. Slightly dazed, I wrote a short e-mail to all my active clients, letting them know I would not be attending to studio business until Thursday. I need some grief time and me time and time to re-orient myself.

Right now, I'm still numb. Oh, so numb. It's been a long, rough row from back in early March until now. It's 9:30, so I've been up 24 hours with only a 45-minute nap yesterday afternoon. At some point soon, I'm going to collapse. But no need to sleep with the phone next to my bed now. The machine can take any calls that come in.

Alone in Semiprivate Land

Ed is gone. Gone gone gone. When I walked into Steve's room on Tuesday afternoon, they were making his bed and clearing out his jetsam. There were three or four people in the room, including the physical therapy assistant who was working with Steve. I made several smarmy comments about how much more pleasant the room seemed without SOABMA Ed, and everyone gave a look or a nod in complete agreement.

The sling is now off Steve's right arm, and he's actually using the hand for some things (like working the TV remote). You can tell he's still weak on that side if you hold his hand, but it's working, and he has a little gel ball to squeeze and work the muscles.

The biggest thing I'm worried about is his mental condition: after almost three weeks of laying in bed and staring at the walls, he sometimes isn't focused on what's going on, and you have to say things twice, especially if it's a double entendre or something that takes making a jump in thinking. His next doctor's appointment is Oct. 30, and when I talked to the administrator about transporting him, she said that, most likely, I'll be able to load him up in the car and drive him over.

The best thing people can do for him right now is call him on his cell phone (send me an e-mail if you don't have the number and I'll get it to you). Just to say hello. Don't expect great acuity on the other end of the line, but he's not muddle-headed, either.

A lot of the time, he's trying to hear the caller while there are announcements over the public address system, or there might be people in his room changing sheets, taking his blood pressure, etc. And there's also the chance that the cell reception's not it's best.

Cards would be nice, too. The address is:

Gary Stephen Burtner
Room 15-D
Californian-Pasadena
120 Bellefontaine St.
Pasadena, CA 91105

On the studio front, I have the chamber directory going (including all the ads), and I'm starting up a website redesign for a local poet. I've probably told you that before. Looks like Steve's not the only one who's mental acuity is suffering. In any case, I've got the base template for the directory pretty much finished, and I'm collecting the copy and artwork for the website as she sends it over.

I am so lucky to have the clients I do: they're all nice people with interesting content and a real openness to my design ideas. I only hope my good luck continues on that front.

So, no long tirade this evening, just a little update. Hopefully, in four of five weeks, Steve will be home and I won't be making the twice-daily jaunt over to see him, because he'll be downstairs.

Laundry and Loathing

This is getting old quick. For Steve, I'm sure it got old about a week ago. Much will be improved when that son of a bitch motherfucker Ed gets discharged.

I thought, early on, that I saw some compassion behind his eyes, belying the gruff, crusty exterior. But the more I encounter him, the more I realize what a son of a bitch motherfucker he is.

Not a kind word for anyone. Not a decent thing to say about any part of or item in the Universe. I always make a point of greeting him when I visit Steve. I always bid him farewell when I leave. Except for the one "Fuck off, Ed" that I intoned when Steve turned on the TV the other day, all has been civil.

On Saturday my friend Jessie came over to visit Steve. She lives over a Basque bakery in L.A. and was going to bring pastries over for a Saturday brunch. I made a point of asking her to bring a couple extra with her; one for Ed and one for his wife, Kit, in case she was visiting.

When we arrived, our friend Steve McCuen was visiting with Steve. Jessie and I started unpacking our bags, listing off the contents: four different types of muffins, three raspberry cheese danish, three apple turnovers, a piece of apple pie, a croissant and fresh coffee with cream and sugar. I asked Ed if he wanted something; he looked at me with surprise. "It would be rude not to bring enough for everyone," I said. He passed on the coffee but did take an apple turnover. "I'll save it for dessert after lunch," he muttered and put his nose back into his book. He's always reading a book; that's how he escapes the boredom of the nursing home.

We had a good visit, everyone had a little something, and as we packed up to leave, I noticed that Ed had finished off the turnover without a word.

It was really good to have Jessie over. She's had her share of sickness and dying in her family over the last few years, so I feel like I'm talking to a kindred spirit when she's  here. She had things to do, so she left for home and I got to work on some web stuff I'd been wanting to check on.

One thing that bothers me is Steve seems to be getting disoriented, which is understandable, since he cannot move more than his right hand and foot without assistance. He lays in bed all day staring at the walls, save for meals and a daily session of physical therapy in the bed. The highlight of his day is getting transferred to the wheelchair to go to the john. I try to spend a couple hours a day there, but there's nothing new to talk about, nothing to report when you go in the morning and then return in the evening again.

It's been 10 days that he's been in convalescent care, and I've been wracking my brain trying to come up with something—anything—that would be a distraction or entertainment for him. The problem is, all the possibilities I've come up with (DVD player, Kindle, jigsaw puzzle) require two hands.

Then it hit me: the solution is sitting in his room, up on the wall: TV. A remote control can be operated with one hand, but Steve's kept the TV off because Ed objects to profusely when he turns it on.

What a son of a bitch motherfucker asshole. In a few days, he's going to leave and go back home to the people who love him (or at least say they do), and Steve's stuck with at least another month of recovery. What kind of self-involved, bitter, nasty, vile person would try to deny a full-on cripple the one diversion he has available to him? Answer: Son of a bitch motherfucker asshole Ed.

And then I got angry: What kind of God takes a sweet, loving, gentle, compassionate soul like Steve when there are so many SOABMAs like Ed that the world can do well without. After pondering it for a while, I figured it must be because there's room in heaven but hell has a waiting list of these bastards and can't take them quickly enough.

I started imaging scenarios of revenge: Bringing in three or four outrageously dressed drag queens every hour of so for the entire day, every day, and let them fawn over Ed. I could do it with just a couple of phone calls. Drag queens have the biggest hearts on the planet.

Then I thought about how Ed would go home and, standing at the top of the stairs, push Kit away ("I don't need your help!") when she attempted to assist him. His legs buckle. He tumbles, twists and turns and ends up at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck, paralyzed from the neck down (hold a book now, motherfucker!) or, better yet, end up a vegetable. Killing him off right away would be too merciful.

I took a mental step back and realized that I had been infected; I was thinking like a SOABMA. I've gotten too wrapped up in feeling protective of Steve, too wrapped up in trying to be the chipper, positive, supportive husband, taking over all the chores and duties of the household, taking time out to go and visit Steve, still working on my clients' projects and smiling through it all. That's tough to keep up for any period of time without another day of breakdown.

Usually in my life when I meet a person like Ed, I take a step back and say, with relief, "Thank God I'm not the one stuck inside that skull, driven to be that foul and detestable by nature." It makes me appreciate the insight that God and the Universe have taught me, and makes me pity that growling, nasty, angry person. One thing I know is that you have to accept people just as they are. If you can understand them, so much the better, because everyone has a lesson to teach.

Now, before all this mental activity, I had gone to visit Steve around noon today. I was still in the find-something-for-him mode, and asked if he would use a Kindle. He looked at me kind of sheepishly and shook his head. While I was there, Kit came in (obviously coming from church) with two women in tow. The ladies chattered and Ed was morose and mute, speaking only to correct them on the name of a novelist he read. All three were out of there in under five minutes flat: They were visiting to make Kit and Jesus happy, not to spend time with someone they liked.

I came home and started the laundry, since I was on my last pair of reserve underwear. (Women may not know this, but men keep underwear forever: When the elastic separates altogether is usually when they get chucked. The philosophy behind this is "I might run out of clean underwear, and then I will have backups just in case." I have seven pair of backups, and all but one was in the clothes hamper, the last pair being on my body). With Steve being gone, the hamper just never filled up.

I forgot to set my timer for the washing machine, and so forgot about it until I went down to clean the cat box (which is outside the door to the garage). In any case, I realized I would be washing well into the evening if I wanted to get everything done (towels, sheets, etc.), so I called up Steve and asked him if he didn't mind me skipping an evening visit. He was OK with that. And then the subject of SOABMAEd came gushing out of me.

I told Steve that it was bullshit that Ed should lord it over the room. "You have every right to have that TV on all day, if you want," I told him. "And if you don't want to tell him that, I'm more than willing to read him the riot act."

Steve said I should calm down, and that he would take care of it. I then mentioned he might check and see if the hospital had remote earphones so he could watch with the sound off in the room. He said he would check. See? Even when I'm trying to be a SOABMA, I still end up looking for compromises that will keep everyone happy, no matter how vile and undeserving of happiness they are.

As with every other SOABMA I've met, I'll be more than happy when the bastard is out of our lives forever. Now I have a name to check for in the obituaries. I only hope that Steve's next roommate likes television, or at least can tolerate it being on.

As for me, the last load of laundry is going into the washer, and I have clothes to fold.

Bastard.

I'll Have a Breakdown With a Xanax Chaser

"To weep is to make less the depth of grief."
—William Shakespeare

Today was my implosion day. I've had plenty of explosion days since Steve's original diagnosis in March, but those blast out of me and they're over in a few moments. Emotional implosion takes a lot longer to work through.

It started with Steve calling, thinking that he had a doctor's appointment this morning when, in actuality, it's on Monday afternoon. It's a fairly big thing for him, as he's still working on moving from the bed to a wheelchair; still only one hand to use.

I had had a tiff the day before with the convalescent hospital folks. They were adamant that I bring them a check for $50 as soon as possible to cover the two-block ride to and from the doctor's office (and not even in an ambulance, but in "medical transport"). Since the check was made out to the transportation company, the desk at the hospital wouldn't give me a receipt for it, and wanted me to wait until the transport company got around to faxing one over ("There's nobody there now," explained the receptionist at 11 a.m. on a Thursday: the fact that I cannot find them anywhere online makes me think it's probably somebody's brother driving a modified VW Microbus).

After I explained to Steve that the appointment was Monday afternoon, I could tell he was not feeling good about getting something so simple so wrong. There was a little pain in my heart that he is in a situation that is so monotonous, so limiting, so stultifying, that he's slipping on facts like that.

About 10 minutes later, a woman from Dynamic Metric, a "digital marketing" company called. They have been sending me their e-mail newsletters, unsolicited, almost daily for the last month. The fact that they are ripping off mailing lists from the chamber of commerce and bombarding everyone with offers of "free eSeminars" shows how little regard they have for Internet business ethics or taking the time and money to develop a genuine target audience: I'm the last person in the world to use online marketing to "grow my business." And yet they bombard me with their aggressive, pushy and blatantly black-hat online techniques.

"Hi. Could I speak to Mark?"

"This is Mark."

"Hi. This is Karen from Dynamic Metric; how are you doing today?"

Without a beat, I replied, "Take me off your mailing lists. Good-bye," and hung up. So my day started with worry about my husband's deteriorating mental condition in hospital and anger at this obsequious telemarketer. (I known damn well she was calling because no one is signing up for her "free eSeminar.")

So the day started shitty. I got up, showered, sat down to check out where the household bills stood (since Steve has handled the lion's share of them these past eight years). Most of them are hooked up to online Bill Pay on Steve's bank account. We have connected accounts so we can transfer back and forth, but we can't access one another's Bill Pay services. so I signed on as Steve and tried to cypher out what had been paid, what hadn't been paid, what was scheduled for automatic payments, etc., etc. And at some point I started crying.

Finally, that well-built and expertly crafted bubble of brave ebullience burst, and everything fell apart in my head.

Being emotionally mature (well, mature), I realized it would be awhile before I would have another such breakdown, and so I had better make the best of it: I played Barber's Adagio for Strings, followed by Rutter's Requiem. Just my luck, there were only two tissues left in the Kleenex box, so I ended up blowing my nose with paper towels.

After 20 minutes or so and some rehydrating, I calmed down and returned to the bill paying. I tried to sign on to Steve's bank account via my iPhone so I could make a mobile deposit of a check I found on his desk. The bank did not recognize my "device" as matching up with his account, so it asked me in what town his mother was born. Even carrying around his wallet, that was information I didn't have, so I called him but he didn't answer, so I left a message. About 10 minutes later, he called back.

Just talking to him again got me going, and the waterworks returned while I was on the phone: I miss him so much. The house is so lonely without him here. It's been two weeks since I've been able to hug him, much less touch him without fear of causing pain, and it will be weeks more before I can have him back home with me. As I hung up, I hoped that he didn't feel dumped on.

Robert Bailey, the salesman for the chamber directory ads, called later and was wondering why I hadn't updated the information on the ads—which ones were in, which were approved, which needed to be built. I reminded him about my situation and Steve, and asked him what he needed to know. He wanted to know if Kaiser Permanente had sent in their ad.

So I opened my files and gave him a rundown of each and every ad that was in, which ones had final approval, and which needed to be built by me. I rattled them off, as I am very organized with my clients' stuff, and he sounded genuinely impressed. So I told him, "If you have any question at all on ads and I haven't sent the updated information in, just call me and I'll keep you updated. At some point I'll get this info on the spreadsheet and back to the chamber for updating."

Around 4:30 in the afternoon I stretched out for a short nap, slept until 5:30, and then went over to the hospital. Steve was snoozing when I got there. Kit was assuaging Ed in the next bed, and he was grousing, as usual (although after she left he was more than willing to ask me for help getting his tissues within reach for him).

Ed plays a radio all day long and the content is exclusively "easy listening" (what I call "elevator music"). It's simply assumed that everyone else wants to hear it. So while I was visiting with Steve, he finally picked up the television remote and turned the TV on (Ed hates television, just like he hates computers and most of the modern world, I'm sure).

"Aw, Christ!" he yowled from behind the privacy curtain.

"Fuck off, Ed," I answered in a blunt and authoritative manner. There were two or three beats of silence.

"At least turn it down," he grumbled.

"That I agree with," I said, and Steve brought down the volume. When a commercial came on, I said, "Muting the commercials will help a lot, too."

Ed is scheduled to be discharged on Monday. We will be very happy when that happens, because, at times, I'm more than ready to bitch slap him for his nasty attitude. I'm crossing my fingers that Steve will have the room to himself for a while before they fill Ed's old bed. And when someone new comes in, Steve will have seniority, as Ed did. If a decent sort of person arrives, hopefully they will respect that and cooperate rather than trying to dictate and dominate (as Ed does with his wife and attempts to do with everyone else).

The sun had set. Steve and I sensed that we were both getting bored with "visiting," so after a kiss goodnight, I left and drove home, cried a little bit more, and took a double dose of Xanax. Right now, I'm feeling pretty mellow.

I look up at the clock and there's only an hour left in the day. Another 24 hours passed, never to return. Why are we so mystified by the past and the future: They really don't exist, you know, and only the future can ever become something we can anticipate and experience. The past is gone, with only nostalgia lessons to be gleamed from its memories.

Box o' Food Just No Good

For the first time in my life, I tried Hamburger Helper. Perhaps I was feeling daring. Perhaps because I'm eating alone these days. Perhaps because I had this wicked cheap coupon for three boxes.

Yes, three boxes. Actually, two of them were Hamburger Helper and one was Chicken Helper (with the same zaftig white glove on each box—no doubt the love child of Poppin' Fresh and the Platex Gloves hand model): Sweet & Sour Chicken Helper, Three Cheese Hamburger Helper and Stroganoff Hamburger Helper. I cooked the Stroganoff.

It was fairly brainless. The results were dismal. If I'd taken 10 extra minutes I could have made the dish from scratch and it wouldn't be sitting in my stomach, a chemical clod daring to be digested. I've always eschewed food stuffs and mixes out of a box (especially cakes, cookies and brownie mixes), and now I am once again reminded why.

Things are really lonely around the house with Steve in "the home." It's only about a 10-minute drive from here, and I try to get over there twice a day (though sometimes I only make it once). Steve is looking really good, and you can tell little bits of mobility are returning as the bones heal. I think we've both pretty much emerged from the emotional devastation of this whole experience (although Steve has most of the physical recovery still ahead of him).

His major frustration right now is being unable to move much of anything. He has his one good hand (the right, and he's left-handed) and he's unable to move the other arm at all, so there is very little he can accomplish. I can't bring books because he can't easily hold them and turn the pages. I mentioned downloading the Kindle app for iPhone, since he does have that with him, but he didn't seem to enthusiastic about the idea; he had the same reaction to my suggestion of a DVD player, or mentioning the fact that he can download movies on his iPhone and watch them with his ear buds in so as not to disturb his roommate, Ed.

Ed also broke his hip. He has a studied crotchety, sour old-man façade, but he's really a pretty nice guy. This evening his wife was visiting and I finally got introduced: Her name is Kit. I told her the tale of the Kitties in my family (great aunt, aunt, sister, niece) and how the name's passed down, a sibling naming his or her first female child after his or her sister Kittie. Ed's wife's is a family surname, Kitson, but the generational thing is still true.

It's really a relief to be on speaking terms with everyone in the hospital room. They know I'm Steve's husband, and I'm not shy about kissing him goodbye when I leave. Ed's a retired architect, and he loves to complain about how computers are ruining the art and craft of design. He may be a technophobe, but I do see him eyeing Steve's iPhone with jealousy, as there are no phone extensions in the rooms.

I'm feeling slightly a shambles: the house needs a good cleaning, I haven't had a decent meal in a week, and all I can think about is getting Steve back home, with a walker or not, because I am so crazy-lonely for him. Having other folks drop over just isn't the same thing as being with the person you love.

The cats still yowl every evening for Steve. The get up on the couch where he usually sits and circle round and round, like dogs making a nest for the night; after a bit, they hop down, get a bite to eat, make a pit stop at the litter box, then head back upstairs to sleep.

In the studio, I'm starting design work in earnest on the chamber of commerce directory, but it's slow going. It's very important to take time in building the master template, since the entire book relies on it for visual consistency. Building type styles and graphic styles and the element library is important, so that revising a style updates all 96 pages. Along with that, I have a new website I'm building for a local poet, which should be a lot of fun and super artsy-craftsy.

My friend Jessie is coming over on Saturday moring, and we're taking a danish and coffee brunch over to Steve's room. I'm really looking forward to that, since she brings such great energy with her, and I'm hoping Steve will get infected by it. I'm sure she'll bring great danish, as well.

Not much else to report. It's been almost two weeks since Steve's slip and fall. I'm hoping that means only four to six weeks more away from home. Still, that will be around Halloween. At least we'll start the holiday season with my honey home.

If anyone wants to send Steve a card or some flowers, the address is:

Californian-Pasadena Convalescent Hospital
120 Bellefontaine St.
Room 15-D
Pasadena, CA 91105

You can also give him a call on his cell phone: 818-807-7077.

I know for positive certain he would love to hear from you. If you'd rather send things here, I can ferry them over with me when I visit.

Lifeboat

John Hodiak and Tallulah Bankhead on a lobby card

I'm thinking of the Alfred Hitchcock film now, a World War II propaganda piece that takes place all in—ready for it?—a lifeboat. It's the only film with Tallulah Bankhead that I can remember, and its characters are as two-dimensional as propaganda symbols need to be.

Not that it's bad writing: John Steinbeck wrote the script, though later tried to get 20th Century to remove his name, since they had distorted key characters and incidents to turn it into the palatable propaganda it is.

But if you look underneath the Nazi baiting and patriotic chest beating, it's also an intimate film about life: its values, virtues, vices, shortcomings and possibilities: As many layers of understanding in art as in life.

I had that experience this evening sitting in Steve's hospital room at Huntington Memorial, waiting to transfer him in the ambulance.

But let's back up and catch up on the zaniness of the week:

The broken hip was repaired in surgery on Sunday. I showed up and sat for four hours: seems the surgeon overslept or something, and the procedure didn't start on time.

I learned my lesson. Show up about 15 minutes before the surgery is expected to be completed: Sitting through the whole thing in the waiting room is maudlin and a waste if time: even if your loved one dies on the table, you're not going to hear about it right away.

No, its wisest to find out when they arrive in the recovery ward, then plan your entrance about two hours after. You'll still sit through hours of drugged snoring, and when your loved one comes to, they won't remember you were there, even if they hold an extended conversation with you.

On Monday, Natalie, who handles post-care arrangements, gave us four options:

1. Stay at the hospital while receiving physical therapy (but Medicare would not cover the $180 room cost);
2. Transfer to a local extended care facility that would provide the physical therapy needed (20 days covered by Medicare w/remaining stay at 20% copay;
3. Transfer to VA extended care in Long Beach; or
4. Return to home after installing adaptive devices.

No rush: we didn't have to make a decision for a day.

Surgery on the broken shoulder occurred on Tuesday. Fighting back the guilt, I timed my arrival for 3 p.m.: Still spent hours watching Steve sleep. At one point, his blood oxygen content monitor went off (very loudly) and he woke up, looking around the room as the nurse came in to fix it. He looked at her. She began firing questions at him:

"Do you know where you are?" she asked him. His eyes wobbled around, taking in the room. "No," he replied.

"Do you know what your name is?" His head bobbed a tad. "No," he said.

"Do you know who I am?" He looked at her with mild affront. "I have been taking care of you all week." His sniffed. "No."

"Do you know who that is over there?" she asked, pointing to me. Steve's gaze bobble-headed over in my direction. His eyes focused a bit and he smiled. "That's Mark," he said. "He's my husband." And with that he fell back asleep.

I was stunned to realize I penetrate that far into his psyche and his consciousness: He couldn't remember who he was, but looking at me brought him together, made him happy. The feeling is mutual. It brought tears to my eyes to realize how strong love is, the kinds of primal pathways it carves into our heads, and the spiritual, emotional and psychic strength it provides.

Wednesday, Steve was in great spirits, all things considered; the staff were telling him he would be discharged in the next day or two. We had decided on local extended care, since we can afford the copays, and six to eight weeks of round trips to visit him in Long Beach seem infeasible to me. Natalie found a bed in a facility just two blocks from the hospital.

Thursday and Friday Steve got more and more agitated: they kept changing the discharge dates; they were starting to talk about Saturday or Sunday instead.

On Friday morning, Physical Therapy got him out of bed and sitting up in a recliner. I visited about 2 p.m. He said as far as he knew, they were transferring him Saturday morning, so I told him I would put together a set of clothes, toiletries, etc., for his new digs and drop them by around 6:30 or 7:30. I said my good-byes and went home.

A not long after, Steve called to say they were moving him tonight, and he needed his stuff as soon as possible. Having just cleaned out a neglected cat litter box, I was not in a good mood to start with, and I snapped about it. Steve started crying and apologizing for what he's putting me through.

Hell, I'm the whiney baby ballerina man; I'm going through stuff, yeah, but Steve's the one who bears all the inevitability and suffering here. I'm just sharing a slice of it; interfacing with it, we would have said in the 1980s, but not having to own it.

I got the clothes and toiletries he requested together, put them in a shoulder bag and drove off to spend my last $8 on valet parking ($7 plus $1 tip; with the self-parking at $6, why not valet?).

I got up to Steve's room and sat down. There are so many people who come and go in the room, it's rather confusing; I'm sure even Steve didn't know who all of them were. In all that hubbub, that's when it happened:

While we were waiting for the ambulance to arrive (they take their time on non-emergency runs) I looked over at Steve and I realized who contented and fulfilled I was, sitting here with someone I really loved and just sharing the moment; all the incredible physical and emotional and spiritual layers of what has gone past, what is happening and what is yet to come.

I'm not even sure he was aware of what I was feeling; like I said, he's the one with the real troubles: I am Goofus to his Gallant as well as yin to his yang.

Very like Steve's room, except his is warmer,
sports green walls with white leaves

After several technical delays and remedies, the paramedics showed up to take Steve by ambulance the two blocks to the Californian-Pasadena. I arrived there first (since I had no paperwork before leaving, save giving the valet my card). In a few minutes the ambulance arrived, and we got Steve situated in his new bed. He has only one roommate (not a jolly-looking fellow, but perhaps friendly; it's hard to tell when people are really ill). We shall find out.

As for me and my days, the house is terribly lonely without Steve. I look around and remember a time when I still didn't feel quite at home here, before marriage was a possibility in our lives, when the cats still looked suspiciously at me, the longterm interloper in their domain.

Now one cat has died, replaced by a young female named Patty. The other cat is now old, and has actually chosen me over Steve as his favorite person. They both look at me nightly with an accusing gaze that says, "What have you done with him? Did you put him in a burlap bag and throw him off a bridge into the river? We heard that happens."

So while Steve contemplates six to eight weeks of physical therapy, I contemplate six to eight weeks alone in this house. I have work to keep me busy, but the thrill of absolute control of the remote wears off after a week or so. At least there's a timeline penciled in before us. Goal: getting Steve back home and mended.

And the saga continues…

Nose Plugs With My Dip, Please

Steve's in the hospital again. This time it's not the Long Beach VA facility, but Huntington Memorial Hospital right here in Pasadena. The drive's a lot shorter, but the parking costs $6.

Steve was supposed to start another round of chemo last Tuesday, but on Monday he asked to go to the Emergency Room at Long Beach, because he was feeling so dizzy and wobbly. He had fallen several times over the previous week.

He was admitted to the VA hospital for transfusion and, by Tuesday afternoon, the medical consensus there was that the problems were caused by a combination of postural hypotension (standing up too fast makes your blood pressure drop) and anxiety (an M.D. finally uttered the word).

I have kept suggesting that he make a point of walking up and down the stairs a couple time a day, just to keep from becoming atrophied. After he started falling and passing out when standing up, I suggested he stand up at the couch every so often (like whenever ads came on) to "harden" his system again. He agreed these were all really great ideas, but did nothing about them.

Finally, today, I took out the kitchen timer (it's a little chrome tea kettle), set it at 30 minutes, put it by the TV and told him, "When it goes off, you get up, set it to 30 minutes, and sit back down." When it was presented that way, he simply did what he was told, and it seemed to go fairly well.

Another thing I had insisted on was his return to AA meetings, especially the Friday night meetings, because he has so many friends in that group. And I wasn't going to take him; he had to ask someone to take him. He ended up calling Bob McBroom (his ex and a really sweet guy), who picked him up at 7:20.

The meeting starts at 8 p.m., then there's a speaker for about an hour, then group sharing, and things wrap up around 9:30. I got into my robe, since I figured Steve would be pretty worn out after the meeting.

A little after 9 p.m., the buzzer from the front gate goes off. It was Bob: Steve was laying on his back on the sidewalk, looking Kafka-esque. His legs had buckled and he fell. He was pretty sure his left arm and leg were broken. I called 911 and went looking for Steve's Medicare card, which he said was on his desk.

I couldn't find the card, and by the time I got back outside, they were working on getting a back board under him. I didn't have his card, but I did retrieve his "hospital bag" (a small shoulder bag with two books for reading, a fresh pair of underwear and his cell phone charger, among other things). I knew this was going to be more than a treat-and-release situation.

About midnight, Bob dropped me off at home, I got the car and drove back to the hospital, making the mistake of not noting in which parking structure I had parked. I still had my visitor's badge on, so I got right back in. By that time, the nurse had been in and said that Steve was being admitted and was on a pre-operative regimen (no food or water).

Around 1:30 they finally administered some morphine, and Steve dozed off. He woke up about 2 a.m. and told me to go home. When I got outside the ER, I couldn't remember from which direction I'd come. I walked to the parking structure Bob had parked in, but it didn't look familiar. After about 20 minutes of wandering around the buildings and parking structures, I found the car.

I'll try to keep you updated here about things as they happen.

A scene from "Who Frames Roger Rabbit?" comes to mind here, I'm not sure why: the villain has Roger by the throat over a barrel of "dip" (acetone and benzene; the only way to kill a 'toon), and he asks Roger "Any last requests?" to which Roger replies, "Yeah; nose plugs would be nice."