Snakeskin Journey

One of the joys of clicking away with my camera is the moment I just know.  Know that there is a small moment in my sight that will be a treasure.  Listening for this feeling, I was explaining to a friend recently, is part of how I function at events.  The object is to melt into the scene as I try to quietly gather photographs, looking for the personal, intimate signals that speak.

A photo taken just three weeks ago on my previous visit. Dwelling in the shadows.

This is my fourth recent trip on this little eight passenger plane.  Rolling along the runway in 100+ heat, I wait for the pilot to pull his window shut signaling he’s serious about taking flight.  The little airline is called “Cape Air” and for the life of me I can’t stop thinking “Cape Fear” whenever I read it.  It isn’t that I’m remotely afraid of flying in this tiny plane, and the fact that it is taking me toward home again makes me quite happy.

I love soaring low over Southern Illinois.  The hardwood forests and lakes, the fields and small towns create a twinge in my heart…this place was home during my formative years.  Leaving the people here…again…causes another sort of twinge.

This visit was a short one—another rushed, next day, expensive-as-hell flight—but this time the call was to watch my youngest brother-in-law (I dubbed him Cupcake at the age of five when I first came to know him) die.  He had a tube down his throat with no sign of coming back and the brothers were charged with the impossible task of executing the Do Not Resuscitate order on file that the hospital missed when he had arrived in an ambulance.  He stopped breathing, a tube was inserted and this latest saga began.

Last Saturday, as I traveled east again after being home for only a few days, he suddenly began to show signs of stirring.  By the time my third flight of the day landed he was clearly beginning to rally.  This was a mere five days ago and each day since he has improved dramatically.  What is clear now is that he has many blood clots in his lungs and one of those surely stopped his breathing.  These clots are the result of his extensive abuse (which came to light last February when he was hospitalized in St. Louis) of nitrous oxide and his subsequent disregard for the blood thinners prescribed then, along with dire warnings about continuing use of nitrous.

The baby brother has been in deep trouble for at least two decades, estranged from the family, using extensive drugs and spending millions of dollars won in a lottery on any and every whim and pleasure.  His is the most classic case of how sudden wealth, coupled with a complete lack of direction, can ruin lives.

Sitting with him, watching, listening, praying, hoping, laughing, crying, frowning, has been a sad affair.  His brain is muddled and confused—often lost in hallucinations—his body unable to walk and incontinent (side affects of abusing nitrous oxide).  Each day my questions are designed to see how much he recalls…how much he actually understands about what is going on.  By yesterday he solidly knew he was in the hospital.  Progress.  His “people” were visiting him, most of them babbling flunkies, but there did seem to be one woman who truly cared about him and will be there when I can’t.  I am thankful for her and only hope that his own choices allow him to heal and perhaps, perhaps, make a turn about.

Looking down on this midwestern landscape, watching the tiny trucks and cars speed along the county roads, I wonder just how long it will be before I get that next call.

Beginning to wake, the evening I arrive.

The second day of being back...for both of us.

My last photo before I say goodbye. Reason to hope, reason to fear.

I recall the pain I felt when the time came to delete the business phone message carrying Michael’s voice.  After some months past his death it began to surprise—and sometimes hurt—old friends and connections to hear his cheerful voice, knowing he was gone.  While my head understood this, my heart did not want to do the deed.  The day I recorded over the message, I carefully read a new one using exactly the same wording.  It took me at least five times to achieve an acceptably upbeat greeting.

These thoughts came to me today as I scrolled through the numbers programmed into the handsets of my house phones.  Each handset (there are three) has a slightly different list of names, but each one contained the name Lenore.  Eliminating this name and number from the phones is painful.  After selecting her name, my phone reads “Delete Memory?” with the options of yes or no.  Three times I click yes, three times the phone reads “Memory Deleted!”, and three times my heart says ouch.

I am tired.  Suddenly I am tired which is completely understandable considering all things, but it has taken me a bit by surprise.  This is my third day home and the laundry is done, the suitcase is back in storage, the bills are paid, the excitement of seeing my kids is satisfied and I am seated in the sun on my front porch feeling drained.

The emotional high of happily helping out family while participating in the stressful events surrounding the misdiagnosis, surgery and healing of my mother compounded by the utterly unexpected death of my mother-in-law is catching up to me…as it should.  We are not programmed to roll through events without needing to remove ourselves and recharge.

The chaos that is evident all around us, the lack of health that reveals itself in record numbers of depressed people, angry people, obese people, and dissatisfied people speaks to the reality.  Unlike my camera which uses rechargeable batteries, we humans must seek our respite in more creative ways.

And so I remind myself to take time—time to sift back through the past month and more, and reflect on just what has occurred.  Time to remember and time to decide what my next steps need to be…time to talk to friends and also the family I just left.  Time to write and time to look through the lens of my heart as well as the lens on my camera.

The photo below is of my mother-in-law and her two sisters when they were young.  Lenore is the oldest and looking quite sassy on the right.  Her sister Joyce and sister Wilma (the baby in the middle) have some serious attitude going too, making me wonder what they were thinking during the shoot.

I took my nieces, Kate, Bekah (the baby in the middle) and Jenny (sassy on the right), attempting the same pose.  They frequently broke into fits of giggles while trying to give me “the look” from the old photograph, but in the end we came close!

Wouldn’t you know it?  The day before I leave for home the bluebirds show me they’ve got babies to feed!  I watched today as they flew back and forth bringing goodies to the new ones hidden inside.

Took photos of my incredibly awesome, smart (understatement of the year…ACT score of 35, folks…if you don’t know what that means, look it up), funny, darling niece Kate.  She is graduating high school this coming spring and on to bigger and, no doubt, better things.  These are some of her many faces.

I would never consider stopping at the Dairy Queen when at home in the Santa Cruz area.  No.  Over the past 30 years I’ve perhaps been there twice and then only because I had kids in tow and we’d been at the beach.  Since I’ve been in Southern Illinois (just over a month now) I have gone five times, each time for the same thing: a plain cone.

I grew up patronizing the DQ in Carbondale, pictured above, beginning when I moved here in junior high school.  I recall watching the Jesus People drag a huge cross down the middle of the street while enjoying a Dairy Queen treat.  My children have stopped there every time we’ve visited from when they were babies.  It is an institution.  Sitting on the curb (or wall if the curb is occupied) while eating our quickly melting ice cream of a hot humid day is an essential part of a summer experience–and I’ve done that twice this trip.

Only twice, you say?  I thought you said you’ve been there five times?!  Well, I’m not happy to report this, but I found out some scandalous information.  Steel yourself.  Dairy Queen has grades of ice cream.  Not all Dairy Queen ice cream is created equal and it turns out the Carbondale Dairy Queen to which I have been loyal all of my days uses the lower grade stuff.  According to Gordon (my favorite brother-in-law) the Carterville one nearby uses better ice cream, and so naturally I had to find out.

Sadly, I’m forced to concede that his information seems to be true.  Thus the three other cones, totaling five.  There is a difference in how it melts, in the richness of the ice cream, in the way it stands up to the heat.  I will forever be drawn to the classic neon Dairy Queen sign and the curb in Carbondale, but whenever I pass that Carterville drive thru, my car is gonna loop the building.

This Dairy Queen rivalry—it’s strictly an Illinois thing, you understand.

I’ve booked a flight for my return home and the clock is ticking.  As long as I told myself my stay was indefinite, I could put off facing the very plain fact that my visit has not changed much for folks here.

I would have liked, of course, to leave a nicely tied bow around them all…a gift of time and energy to be opened and enjoyed in my absence.  But that is not possible, nor was it expected.  The situation here—parents aging in both mind and body, sisters worn from their vigil of care, everyday patterns created from decades of rubbing shoulders—it is what it is.  No temporary infusion from me or anyone else can alter this course although I gladly bear witness to the importance of trying to make a difference.

Contemplating the possibility of my mother’s death only to have my mother-in-law die suddenly instead, has raised the issue of what is truly important.  Trying to make a difference is important to me, for instance.  Being quiet is important, especially when one is weary of the drama.  Hugging is important, as is receiving the hugs that come your way.  Oh, and eye contact—looking directly into another’s eyes (windows to the soul, as they say)—now that is important.  Laughing…black humor will do in a pinch…is important.  And crying, that crying I’ve yet to do over the losses and sadnesses that have piled up in the past month, that is important and shall surely come.

Things, all the heaps and mounds of things we humans tend to collect over the course of a life are not so important.  At best they remind others of a life well lived, at worst they divide and sow seeds of discontent.  As I begin to anticipate a return to the little house filled with all of my comfortable, familiar things I vow to remember what is important.

These photos are of my children saying good-bye to their grandparents in Illinois.  They came to bid a final good-bye to their paternal grandmother, Lenore, and of course the bonus is that they were able to see my parents in the mix.  My father had to be awakened—another day spent in bed after much excitement.  My mother is looking marvelous following surgery, but she is not out of the woods yet.  Yesterday was spent in bouts of dizziness.  Each day brings something new, but these photos show that some days are just a bit more precious than others.