My Summer as a shut in

My new-this-Summer neighbor is a mean mother effin' drunk.

Why else would someone build a fire pit directly across from their neighbor's living room window?
Why else would someone decide to build a fire only after seeing the neighbor's windows open?
Why else would someone build a fire if the only window open was to the neighbor's cat's enclosure?
Why else would someone decide to make the fire extra smoky, so the smoke goes in the windows?
Why else would someone leave the smoky fire unattended for hours?
Why else would someone, knowing the neighbor can't breathe the smoke, keep doing this?
Why else would someone ask the mask wearing neighbor where they got the mask?
Why else this?
Why else that?
Why else?

When my neighbors first moved in, they would invite me to sit by the fire with them.  I would decline, telling them I couldn't breathe the smoke.  I told them I was allergic to lodgepole pine smoke.  So, I would go in the house, and not open the windows on their side of my place.

Then fire season came to Montana.  Smokey the Bear signs showed the fire danger was "Extreme". That meant no more fires in the neighbor's fire pit.  No more lodgepole pine smoke coming in my place.

The air during fire season is thick and milky colored.  I couldn't open the windows.  I drove to and from town with my N95 mask on.  My neighbor would be outside, and see me in my mask.  Question me about my mask.  Question me about the smoke.

Smoky sunrise in Smith Valley 

A couple of days ago the Smokey the Bear sign read "Very High".  I came home, and my neighbor had a fire going.  He walked up and was talking to me. I couldn't understand a word he slurred.  It was one of those conversations where you don't want to agree with them, because you don't know what you are agreeing to.  You don't know what they are saying.  He continued to slur.  I stopped listening.  I went in my place to catch my breath, from the lodgepole pine smoke.

Every day since some of the fire ban was lifted, my neighbor has had a fire.  Wait, sometimes it's just a smoke.  All you see is smoke, no fire.  Wet lodgepole pine smoke. The kind that I can't breathe.  The kind that my air purifier can't keep up with, even with the windows and curtains closed.

Smoke from neighbor's fire/smoke pit

When I went out to feed the rabbits this morning, I could still smell the smoke from yesterday's fire.  I immediately needed my rescue inhaler.  I told my neighbor's wife, I need to go in and use my inhaler.  She laughed.  She kept talking. And talking. My neighbor came outside.  After I went inside he built a fire.  As I sit here, with my head throbbing, my sinuses stuffy, my air purifier going, I write.  I write for therapy.  I write because I like to.  I write to keep from crying.

I write so I don't open my window and ask my neighbor why he is such a mean mother effin' drunk!

  Beautiful. Troubled. Gone.

The beautiful woman in this photo was my cousin's  daughter.  

The other day, my cousin sent me a text message asking when he could call me that day.  He had something he wanted to talk to me about.  I sent him a text when I got home. The phone rang within seconds after I hit send.

My cousin was crying, and hard to understand.  I asked him if his Mom was okay.  He said yes.  Then he told me his daughter was gone.  He said that on March 1st, he and his wife came home to find her dead in a recliner in their living room. 

He said she didn't want a funeral.  She didn't want a memorial.  She didn't want......

I asked him if she had left a note.  He said yes.  He said in the note she apologized for being a shitty daughter and a shitty sister.  She was neither.

We talked for quite a while.  About the loss of his daughter.  About family.  About things.  About his sadness.  About how he and his wife would very rarely leave their daughter home alone.  About who knew of her passing. About how they were coping.  About whether or not they had anyone they could go to for help.

He asked me not to tell anyone.  I am sworn to secrecy.  I will honor his request.  I will honor the request of their daughter.  It's not easy.  It's not easy because in times of pain, sadness, sorrow, you want to reach out to others.  I can't do that.  So, I turn to my blog, my therapy.

Makes me wonder.  I wonder if his daughter felt invisible in life.  I wonder if the wishes of his daughter have made her invisible in death.  Gone. To be forgotten.  To be trouble(d) no more.

I have memories of her.  I remember when she shared a video of a time she and a friend of hers took a boom box to a busy area in Chicago and danced to Michael Jackson's "Thriller".  It was awesome.  I remember seeing photos she took while she was taking photography in college.  They were awesome.  I remember seeing photos taken of her while she was modeling.  They were awesome. 

I remember the day she was born.  Time spent with her when she was a child. And I wonder.  I wonder if she had ever been told how awesome she was.

Rest In Heaven. Rest free.  Be at peace.

Am I 133 already?

I had a major birthday in September, but didn't think I was that old already.  Let me back track a bit.  I have always believed I am going to live to be 133.  I don't remember how I came up with that number.  Might have been a psychic I went to years ago, or maybe a doctor that had recommended surgery for a tumor.  I shrug, because at this point it's not important.  

This past Summer's fire season here in Montana was HELL!  Serious Hell! Hell on my lungs! hell i tell ya! There were too many nights I was afraid to fall asleep, because I was "worried" I wouldn't wake up in the morning.  

I am having that kind of day today.  Although the level of smoke from fires has gone way down, you can't tell it by my breathing or should I say lack of breath.  I hope just make it through the day.  Is this where the saying "One Day At A Time" comes from?

The other morning I had the same kind of feeling.  I woke up at about 3AM, breathing so-so, and trying not to panic.  I did a breathing treatment.  Coughed some gunk up out of my lungs and went back to sleep.  When I woke up for the day it hit me how close to death we are.  One breath away.  One blink.  One sigh. One gasp. One breath.

We Saw A Bear!

Several weeks ago, a friend and I went to Glacier National Park.  Our intention was to see a meteor shower at Logan Pass.  If you don't know, Logan Pass is the highest point on Going To The Sun Road.  On the way up, we were pretty much the only car heading to the "Pass",  That meant we could take our time.  Take lots of pictures.  Enjoy the views.  We came around a bend, and there it was in the road.  A black bear. On one side was a cliff wall.  On the other side the wall that keeps cars from plunging down a steep incline.  A really steep incline.  Before my camera could focus, the bear was gone.  My friend got a blurry picture of a big, fluffy, round thing going over the short wall.  We were so excited!  We high-fived each other.  Our mantra for the rest of our time in Glacier that night was "we saw a bear!".

I Saw A Bear!!

This morning on my way to work I hit something in the road.  It was dark and rainy, but I could tell it wasn't a deer.  I turned around, pulled to the side of the road, got out of my jeep, and I saw a bear.  I had hit a bear.  I started crying.  I hung my head in shame at killing another living being.  

Some other motorists had stopped along the road too.  They walked up to me, and asked if I was okay.  One of them had hit the bear also.  They asked if it was still alive.  I told them its intestines were hanging out.  

I could see the bears glow-in-the-dark-eyes.  I saw the puddle of blood. I cried.  I told them I couldn't believe I took the life of another living being.  They grabbed the bear and threw it in the ditch on the other side of the road.  Like it was a sack of garbage.  Like it was nothing.  Like it hadn't been alive.  Like it didn't matter.

I cried all of the way to work.  I was shaking.  I was sad.  I'm crying now. The bear did matter.

No, no, nah, nope I'm not getting soft in my old age.  I am admittedly an Empath.  There are times I really have to concentrate on not thinking of things going on, because I can feel the pain and suffering of other living beings.  I cry when I see a dead deer on the road.  A dead anything on the road.  An injured anything, anywhere.  I cry.  Then I force myself to not think, not see. But for now, I can't unsee, because I saw a bear.

Is Suicide Painless?

For the first time in my mumblemumble years, I have been touched by someone I know committing suicide.  Wow!  The news of it just sucks the air right out of you. Literally! 

I knew Will.I.Am, as I called him, from our working together.  I liked our conversations.  In his short life he had done so much.  He was an Air Force vet that had a job that kind of put his finger on the button, and a gun on his hip for anyone that tried to push it.  I thought that was quite a responsibility for a teenager to have.  After his discharge, he enlisted in the Army reserve, and went back to boot camp.  He was a combat medic.  An EMT. He was a really great person. One of the good guys.

Will wanted to be a cop.  We talked about police work a lot.  He loved the ride-a-longs he had gone `on.  He had thought of applying for a dispatch job, to get his foot in the door.  He really wanted to be a cop.  I told him of my years working for police departments.

Will had a beautiful German Shepherd dog named Ruger.  I told him that Ruger was going to be my puppy's daddy.  He laughed.  Will's family raised and trained German Shepherds.  He knew the breed.  We talked of my love of the breed.

I found out about Will's death on FaceBook, when a mutual former co-worker posted about his funeral.  It would be the only way for me to find out, because that is the only way I communicate with the people I used to work with at that job.  A while back I had thought about sending Will a friend request.  I talked myself out of it, because I figured Will wouldn't want a friend that was mumblemumble years old.  I think I would have been wrong.

I can't wrap my head around Will's taking his own life.  I don't get it.  But then, I don't know what Will was going through.  I did look at Will's FB page.  There are no condolences from anyone.  None of his friends have posted that they miss him.  None of his friends have asked him why.  What I did see was a video post from America's Got Talent for a cover of the Radiohead song "Creep".  Makes me wonder if Will saw himself that way.  As a creep and a weirdo.

Since I learned of Will's death.  I see him everywhere!  In every face!  In everything!  Out of the corner of my eye.  That isn't the sun coming up.  It's Will.I.Am

To answer my original question.  Nah, nope, no, no, suicide is not painless.  Not for those left behind. Rest in Heaven Will.  Free from whatever made you not see that tomorrow would be another day.  Maybe a better day. 

Within the last few years, I have developed what I call a "Sadness Quotient". Simply defined as the amount of sadness, bad news, blah I allow myself to be exposed to.  The last couple of days when I get out of bed, my quotient for the day has already been reached.  There is so much sadness, meanness, wrongness, badness in the world. What the fuck is wrong with people?  I don't have the answer.   Blah!

I mourn for my Father

Not true.  I just thought is was a catchy post title.  I like the sound of it.  When I say it in my head it sounds sullen and deep.  I say it in a voice that sounds like the deep voiced announcer of movies years ago.

My Dad did pass away on February 26th, 2016.  He had been put in hospice about 10 days before his passing.  I was on my way "home" to see him, one last time.  We were told to get there sooner than later.  The cat, BooDuh, and I were driving through Forsyth, MT when my sister called.  She told me to "pull over."  I knew.  I didn't need to pull over, I just knew.  I did pull over, because the words needed to be said, the questions needed to be asked.  My mind needed to know the finality.  I sobbed, for a bit, then pulled back on the highway.

I had talked to Dad the Monday before he passed.  It was one of the more coherent conversations we had had in a long while.  "Hello daughter," he boomed!  "Hi Dad, I'm coming to see you," I told him. He had no concept of what I was telling him.  He asked the always asked question, "Where you at?" The answer was always "in Montana".  "Oh."  I told him I loved him.  He told me he loved me.  The conversation was over.

I have yet to mourn the passing of my Dad.  I cry sometimes at memories.  I cry sometimes because he is gone.  Just like with my Mom's passing almost five years ago, there have been a lot of firsts. This is my first Easter without a Dad.  Without a Mom and Dad.  As an orphan, in Montana.

I talked to my sister, Betty, about not mourning Dad's passing.  I told her I wondered if it was because I have been mourning his loss for quite sometime.  Dad had alzheimers.  I had been told a few weeks prior that his alzheimers had advanced.  He had been going away for a couple of years, slowly.  Slow enough that I watched from the sidelines, unable to do anything.  Slow enough that it could be seen and heard.  And mourned.

I know one of these days I will have a good cry over the passing of my Dad.  I know I need to. I need to cry. I need to let out the pain in my heart.  I need to.  But, not today.  Not yet. Not today.

(As a side note, when I spell alzheimers I get a squiggly red line indicating the word is spelled wrong. The only spelling error is that it it is not capitalized.  The disease in my opinion is not worthy of a capital a.)

Livin' in a Whiskey Fog

The title of this post sounds like it would be a great Country and Western song.  Makes me wish I was a song writer, it would be a hit. I am not referring to myself in this blog post.  I don't drink whiskey for fear of hair growing either on my tongue or on my chest.  I have no desire for hair to grow in either place. 

The song title and post refer to a woman I know, one of my neighbors, Patti.  In the summertime Patti goes around with a flask sized bottle of "rot gut" whiskey in her back pocket.  In her car, she has an open fifth of the same stuff.  I don't know if she uses it as a refill for the smaller bottle or not.  I shrug, because I'm sure I don't want to know.

Patti is less than four months older than I am.  Her penchant for whiskey and pain pills makes her look 20 years older.  Patti's penchant has not been kind to Patti's family.  Patti has two sons.  I can't think of a time I have ever seen her oldest son, now in his mid-twenties, when he wasn't high.  Patti's youngest son, just turned 13.  Recently he had been kicked out of school for bringing cigarettes on campus.  At 12, he became sexually active.  He also smokes pot and drinks.  Is it genetic?  Is it because it is the only thing these boys have seen?  I shrug.  I'm sure there have been scientific studies done on generations of abuse.  Generations of living in a whiskey fog.

Don't get me wrong, Patti has been said to have a heart of gold.  Would give you the shirt off her back.  I'm thinking Patti's little girl dreams never came true.  What little girl would dream of having the rough life I have been told Patti has had.  Incidents of sexual molestation and abuse.  Living in abusive, domestic relationships.  The father of her youngest son wanted a baby, Patti did not.  She thought she was too old, already in her 40s.  She said he pulled her down some stairs by the hair, with a gun in his hand.  A good thing is she is out of that relationship, a bad that she has to see him daily, through her whiskey fog.

Every once in a while

someone comes into your life, and leaves a lasting impression.  The Summer of 2013, I met such a person, Noah, a six year old neighbor boy.  When I would sit outside, I would see Noah roaming the neighborhood for hours, and hours, and hours, and well hours.  He always seemed so lost, and was always alone.

I took Noah under my wing so to speak.  We would build flying saucers out of paper plates, and draw little green men in the windows.  We would watch movies and eat popcorn while sitting outside on the patio.  Noah would try to do some kind of running and jumping trick, and I would take pictures.  We made paper airplanes and had races.  Oh some of the planes were so cool!  They would fly in a circle, just loop around.  You couldn't race with those planes, well unless you made the start and finish line at the same place.  It was fun.

Sometimes Noah's sisters and other kids would stop by.  I noticed a difference in Noah when the other kids were around.  He acted different.  If they chided him for being a troublemaker, then he would be one.  I knew that wasn't the real Noah.  The real Noah was thoughtful.  The real Noah looked at you with wonder, when you would tell him that meeting a bear in the woods would make you wet your pants too.  Well, it would so why lie about it?

One day Noah knocked on the door with tears in his eyes.  I went outside to see what was wrong.  He told me they would be moving.  In the weeks before Noah moved, we made some kick ass paper airplanes!  Had some great air plane races!  And laughed and talked.  Noah told me he wanted to be a Scientist when he grew up.  One day I asked Noah who I was going to play with after he moved.  He laughed and said "Sarah".  I told him that wouldn't be the same, so no not Sarah.  Sarah was another neighbor kid, that sad to say was from generations of mean girls, and was on her way to becoming a mean girl too. 

Noah moved, and from time to time his folks would let him visit for a few minutes.  Wasn't the same around here.  Even Boo Duh, the cat, missed seeing Noah.  Around Christmas, Noah's Mom posted a picture on FaceBook of Noah wrapping a present.  A few days later, Noah knocked on the door and gave the present to me.  It was my Christmas present from Noah.  The present spoke so loudly of Noah's thoughtfulness, it was a journal for me to write in.  Thoughtful Noah even gave me a pen.  That was the Noah I had gotten to know over the Summer of 2013.  I sent Noah a just because present of a book on how to make "world class" paper airplanes.  His Mom posted a picture of him with the book.  I didn't know anyone could smile such a big smile as Noah did.

I started this blog post in December 2013.  It is now nearing Autumn 2014.  Summer is over.  It was not an especially good Summer, because there was no Noah to play with.  One time his Mom posted a picture of him making some even more kick ass paper airplanes, out of paper that looked like birds and flags.  She said Noah wanted me to know that he was using his book.  She also posted pictures of Noah accepting certificates for excellent reading, and doing so well in school.  I smiled.

Did I have anything to do with the changes in Noah?  I shrug.  Who can say.  One thing I know for certain is that I can attribute some of the changes in myself to Noah taking me under his wing.  Thank you Noah.

Who remembers me

This is going to sound really corny, ready?  For a short time I was addicted to the movie "Mama Mia", staring Meryl Streep.  What do I mean by addicted?  I would watch the movie all day long on my days off.  NO kidding, all my waking hours.  I would watch it several times after I got home from work.  The songs would play in my head when I wasn't in front of the DVD player. Hard core stuff.  I knew I had hit rock bottom when I lived for an ABBA song to be played on the Muzak at work.  I know, I shake my head in disbelief too!

Do you know the movie?  It's about an ex-girl band lead singer, Donna, that buys a villa on an island in Greece.  Her 20 year old daughter is getting married, and three ex-lovers show up for the wedding.  Turns out one of the three ex-lovers might be the daughter's dad.  Donna doesn't know which guy is the father, because she had been with them within a couple weeks of each other.  Oh, and the movie is all set to ABBA songs, seriously.

Here is what fascinated me the most.  The fact that three ex-lovers came to see her after 20 years!  Yes, 20 years!  They didn't know anything about the daughter.  Donna hadn't told any of them they might be a father.  What was the draw?  What had happened that made them want to see her again after so long?

Made me wonder.  Who from the past remembers me?  Do I cross the mind of an ex-lover?  Does Denny ever look out a window, let his mind drift back and then smile warmly?  Or, Bill, or George, or anything but Sue?  (Okay that last one was to see if you were paying attention).  Would any of my ex-lovers travel to see me, after all this time?  Who remembers me? 

I don't dwell on the question too long.  I just wonder, now and again.  Sometimes, I remember someone and say, "what an asshole", under my breath.  Other times, I stare out the window, let my mind drift back and smile warmly.

What do you do with the memories?

The addition of this cartoon is not meant to add humor to this post.  I can't say I ever really found "Hagar" funny anyway, just kind of appropriate for now.

The house my mother grew up in, was built by my grandfather.  The walls were not made of studs, but of tree saplings.  Each time my grandmother had a child, a room was added.  On the South side of the house there was a small hill, going into a kind of swampy area.  Into the side of the hill, Grandpa used a shovel, and wheel barrel to hand dig out a basement.  

I was not born when this happened, but heard the story of it when I was young.  Each time I went into the basement, I thought about the back breaking labor, and hours, Grandpa had to have put in to make the basement possible.  This is a fond memory to be sure.

I have other fond memories too.  Like when we would arrive at Grandma and Grandpa's house in the late night.  Grandma would always get up to greet us.  Then one by one we would go into their small bedroom, to Grandpa's out-stretched arms for a hug.  Oh, the wonderful memories.  Memories of family reunions in the yard, going outback to the outhouse, even though there was indoor plumbing.  The old table set up by the side of the road, where Grandpa used to sell bunches of Gladiolas.  The memory of going there, and Grandpa being gone.  Then many years later, Grandma being gone.  Sigh.

My folks had bought the house from Grandma, several years before she passed away.  When they retired they moved up to the live in Mom's childhood home, with the hand dug basement.  The accumulation of memories continued. In 2008, my brother bought the house from my folks.  My father was living there, with my brother, when Mom passed away last year. 

In 2009, Mom's family home went into foreclosure.  Now, the bank owns it.  The contents put in a storage unit.  My father's heart broken, again.  

I was talking to a friend recently about this turn of events.  The loss of the family home.  The anger, and disappointment I felt.  I asked her what do you do with the memories?  She told me the memories will live on, just like the memories of my mom live on, in my heart.  I told her this was different, because my mom's passing was inevitable.  All living beings die.  I told her the loss of the home was not inevitable.  It didn't have to happen.  There was no big bad bank, or bad economy to cause this loss.  

Where do you put the memories, of a non-living thing, that had so much life?

You can't just say I love you

You have to live I love you.

There are a lot of firsts

After someone you love passes away. If you think about it, every day there after is a first if it was a parent. As I said in an earlier post, my mom passed away on June 1st. Making that day the first in my life that I didn't have her in my life.

Today is my birthday. My first birthday without a Mom. The saddest birthday I have ever had.

My mom had been told not to have children, because of an accident she had had when she was younger. Doctors told her having children could endanger her life. She sacrificed, and had five.

I may sound selfish, I'm glad she blessed me with life. So, maybe I should wipe away my tears, and thank Mom for the gifts she has given me today. The gift of her never ending memory. The gift of her undying love. The gift of her strength. Thanks Mom, for all of the wonderful years you gave me, and for all of the wonderful gifts.

He ain't the Good Humor man

He's the Cool Dude!

You betcha I'd buy his treats and sweets if he came to my neighborhood.

I believe in the power of prayer, and the innocence of children.

"A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace and love, a resting place for innocence on earth, a link between angels and men." Martin Fraquhar Tupper

The picture in this post is of six month old Jaxson. Little Jaxson has been diagnosed with stage IV Neuroblastoma. Please pray for baby Jaxson.

I choose to believe she waited

Life can change in a blink, in a sigh, or a kiss goodbye.

On June 1st, my dad and brother visited my mom in the nursing home. It was a good visit, because my dad would be allowed to kiss my mom before he left. In the days prior, my mom had a very high fever, from an upper respiratory infection. Kisses were not allowed, because masks were mandatory for visitors. A way to stop the spread of infection.

On that day, June 1st, before he left, my dad kissed my mom once on each cheek, and told her he loved her. He said she looked comfortable, and soft. When my dad and brother arrived home five minutes later, they received a call from the nursing home telling them my mom had passed away.

Haven't you heard stories of a person at death's door waiting for a loved one to be there before they go? Or, waiting until they are sure a loved one will be okay with their passing? Or, waiting until the love of their life kisses them goodbye? I have.

Years ago,

when my nieces and nephews started dating, I gave them specific instructions that they were to find out if the person they were dating had a single uncle. Ya know, for their ol' aunt. Then as I got older, I changed it from Uncle to Dad. Now, sad to say, I have changed it again...this time to Grandfather! Mind you my nieces and nephews range in age from 17 to 39, (this is not counting Grand nieces and nephews). Before long it could be Great Grandfather!! :(

"I'm getting married!!!"

That's what my youngest niece's Facebook status read yesterday. Very cool! You betcha I clicked "Like" on that one.

I remember the day, 23 1/2 years ago, when my niece was born. I remember the times her folks would have me babysit her, and it was more like she was the one doing the babysitting. She was a cool baby.

Before she started school, we would do things together. Ice Capades, the circus, movies. I took her on her first train ride, from one Chicago suburb to another. When we reached our destination we went to a movie. I can still see her face filled with wonder as the train chugged down the tracks. She thought that was the best thing. So, did I.

When she started going to school, our fun times happened less and less. Until I moved to Wisconsin, because she spent her summers there. One time we took a road trip to the International Wolf Center, in Ely, MN. It was a good time of camping, laughing and enjoying nature. Then she started working, and became too old to come to Wisconsin for the summer. We saw each other less, and less. She moved to Georgia. I moved to Montana. Life happened.

Now she has met a wonderful man, fallen in love and is getting married! Very cool! You betcha I asked her if her fiance's grandfather was single!

I found a treasure

I try to talk to my mom once a week, that's how it has always been throughout the years. In times of troubles we would talk more than once a week, and our conversations would last for a while. Now our conversations are short, a few minutes at best. I ask a question, and most times I can understand her answer. Sometimes she rambles on, and I try to understand where she is rambling to. I cherish those few minutes a week.

I am a keeper of things. No, no, you'll never see me on an episode of "Hoarders". I keep things that are special to me. Things others might have thrown away long ago. Things that have touched me.

The other day I was going through a box of old postcards and pictures and such. I came across a pink envelope with my mom's handwriting on it. The postmark was September 10, 1992. It was too early to be a birthday card (yep, I save them sometimes too). I opened the envelope to find a card my mom had sent me that read "A little note to cheer you!" I opened the card to find a piece of paper. On the paper, a note written by my mom, said:

"Dear Boni, If you ever need cheering up-just dig out this little card. Love you, Mom"

Now, I don't remember what was going on in my life when that card was sent. Seems to me the card did the trick, because I kept it. And, I'm sure over the years I have found it in the box of old postcards and pictures and such. I'm sure I opened it and smiled, even if I didn't need cheering up.

Finding the card when I did made me cry. It was a funny kind of crying. Not a full out sob, like I am doing as I write this. No, it was a cry mixed with laughter, mixed with memories, mixed with sadness, mixed with happiness, mixed with joy. Yes, the joy in finding a treasure that I will keep forever in a box of old postcards and pictures and such. Thanks Mom! I love you too.

What I've learned in the past few weeks...

....about some parts of life (but not all, well maybe).

It's all bullshit! And what isn't bullshit is a joke!

I might expound on these statements another time, who knows.

and he prays

To say my dad is distraught over my mom being in the nursing home would be an understatement. Not just from the loneliness of being away from the woman he has been married to for almost 65 years, and has loved for over 68 years, but from everything going on in regards to her care.

At 85 years old, my dad has lost control of his life, and his wife. Power of Attorney regarding my mom's health has been taken over by one of their grandchildren. Who in turn "pushed" to have my mom deemed medically incompetent. Since doing so, my father has been told he could be arrested if he took his wife of almost 65 years, and the love of his life for over 68 years, out of the nursing home. No going to church. No going out to celebrate birthdays. No going for drives on beautiful, sunny days. No going home.

They are both very lonely. A kind of loneliness that I don't think another person can comprehend, unless they have been in love like my parents are. A love that has inner-twined their very beings with one another.

So, my dad goes up to the nursing home two, sometimes three times a day. He says sometimes he sits for hours and watches her sleep. (Not understanding how he cannot control what is going on with his wife. Oft times not being told what is going on with her care.) And he prays. One time, he said, he prayed for hours that his wife of almost 65 years, and the love of his life for over 68 years, would die. It would be easier, easier than reliving the loneliness she feels when he gets up to leave, and the loneliness he feels as he walks down the hall without her, unable to take her home.