Be a Star...

Farmer...

"Every atom in our bodies was once part of a star." (Gattaca)

I saw a Star in person today.  She walked down the Graduation aile of Ventura High School's Senior Class of 2011, and as she walked, the effervescent light she gave off was as blinding to my eyes as if I'd stared at the sun.  My oldest, and my one and only daughter, graduated on this date, inside this time continuum of this particular dimension, and it was oh so sweet. So, Bitter-Sweet.

Almost (not quite) 18 years ago, the child that is now an adult passed through the gateway of my tender womanhood, passed by the shaky monuments of my trembling knees, was lifted up into my arms and became her own human being.  And with every moment of her birth I literally prayed (in between the fevered curses that she would hurry the hell out of me)... for her life-long happiness.  I even bargained with the Gods, the Buddha's, the Spirits and whatever power that may be greater than me, that any negative karma this child might have, would bypass her and stick to me. I prayed that I be allowed to take on the debt of her lifetimes, and I happily offered myself to taking it ALL.   I secretly begged for the life of my dearest daughter to be filled with Grace, to be imbued with Hope, to be infused with joyful Laughter, and I prayed that she know the ultimate soul-encompassing meaning of Love.

And, you know what?  So far (for the most part) every prayer has come true.

It was a selfish bargain really.  I mean, seriously, what parent does not want their child to succeed?  What Mother does not want to see her daughter leap up like an offshoot of her own fertile self and witness that her child has sprouted spectacular sunflowers of success surpassing the original plant of her own being?

I am no different than the sea of parents that stood up and clapped at graduation, proud of their child and proud of their accomplishments...because in some small way, those accomplishments are my accomplishments too.  Because in some small way, we (my husband and I) helped it all to happen.  And it is, altogether, an amazing feat.  An amazing journey.  It is a spectacular event to behold.  And as much as I am proud of my daughter, I find I am humbled before the Miracle of Life beyond measure. I am struck to my knees to be a part of it.

Now, my dearest daughter is out partying at Grad Night, and I sit on my front porch typing this note while sipping on a bit of Glinfiddich, and smoking a Cuba Libre (definitely a favorite) and I wonder what my daughter's life will be like as she steps into the world of Adulthood.  I don't think High School really prepares anyone for that.  At least not yet.

The childhood bliss of Senior Prom and Monday Mornings at School after the Facebook gossip of the weekends, the small Political battles between Rivals and the Music of High School plays...these things don't quite prepare a young adult for the Piranha soup that stews in the world, threatening to gobble up one's soul with the least miscalculation.  I tremble in both fear, and in weird anticipation, to watch it all happen (a curious spectator, me)...and I hope...yes, I HOPE, that she will emerge from the feeding frenzy, not only unscathed, but impervious to the teeth.  I HOPE and I pray, she will wear the armor of her life, her love, and her creativity as boldly as the best knights on the battlefield, and that she will leave that field proud...head held high, knowing she truly lived a life that was the best it could be lived.  And that she lived it with LOVE.  That is what I hope.  It is a simple request in words, yet it is a huge thing to hope in reality.

And as my mind, heart and soul contemplate this, I turn my eyes towards my beautiful and radiant son, who at only 13 years, has watched his sister grow, and who has also (unknowingly) soaked up the very same prayers from his watching Mother.  He doesn't know it, but I hope the very same things for him too.  I hope for him.  I pray for him.  And I wait with each passing day for those invocations to the heavens to come true. 

I have never cared at what cost to my self, their happiness.  No price is too high a price to pay for their joy.  No mountain of burden is too great to bear if it means they can fight the fires of the world and emerge unscathed.  Not because they are me, or even a small part of me.  But because they have, in their own turn, taught me how to Love.

~Cin

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig...

I first heard this bit of nursery rhyme on the 1982 Sci-Fi movie "Blade Runner" with Harrison Ford, and Darryl Hannah, believe it or not.  The words are probably the sum statement of my travels to and fro...whatever a "fro" is.

Just after noontime, the Lufthansa plane I'd spent 12 intimate hours inside  (high-five I got an aisle seat this time) pulled in to LAX.  I had the incredible luxury of finally being able to turn on my Blackberry and text my husband that I was there.  What a gargantuan freedom!!  I hadn't been able to use the cell phone the entire time I was in Germany and in Afghanistan/Kuwait.  Jim and I hadn't figured out how to turn on the International calling program, and weren't quite sure about the cost.  I wasn't even sure I could use my program in Afghanistan. "Roshan" is the service there, and I don't think they've been officially introduced to AT&T.

Our plane taxied what I was sure the entire span of the city of Los Angeles, and finally arrived at a designated parking space. Once the polite little "ding" of the plane hit the air waves, officially signaling that passengers could unbuckle and get up out of their seats (always reminds me of the Kentucky Derby), the fight for survival was on.  I was pushed down the aisle (I was already standing up, trying to let my fellow seat mates out to get their carry on's) and struck in the head with several luggage bags in wild attempts for people to hurry and get their carry-on bags out of the overheads so they could wait 10 minutes before they could disembark the plane.

After de-planing, I made it through a wide network of corridors, and airport alleyways, that sent me on a journey to finally arrive at a counter and have my passport stamped.  On this excursion, exactly two people bumped me out of the way with nary an "excuse me" (Yep, 'nary' is a word. Use it in your next scrabble game for points), and while waiting at baggage claim I was jostled, pushed, nudged, budged, riffled, ruffled, and trompled...(OK... you caught me...trompled is not a word, but it should be.  It fits better than trampled and sounds right), and I think (at least one person) even groped me for a second.  But that could have just been wishful thinking.

The pandemonium that ensues in Baggage Claim gives a person real insight into the dark side of humanity, especially at the International baggage claim where 'culture' has very little foothold.  Many people from many countries, few commonalities, and each individual highly concerned with their own personal agenda.  Very little concern for others. It's like an episode of "Survivor" every time.

I seriously think if a shooter had come in while we were getting our bags, and had begun shooting wildly with an AK-47 while tossing out a couple of frag grenades, most folks would continue to hurriedly get their bags, maybe turn on their i-phone cameras to capture the event on video for You-Tube, and then run quickly away using their Smart-Carts as super shields, hoping they could make it through the second Customs counter before anyone else.  For many, the shooting may have even been considered a pleasant diversion, in order to be the first ones out of the gates.

Make no mistake...leaving the airplane, and getting to the baggage carrousel, not to mention getting through Customs, is really all about being FIRST.  I've seen the worst come out in people during these events, and believe me the worst is not pretty to behold.  I guess spending over 12 hours on a plane sitting next to a toddler and a crying baby will do that to folks, but I've also seen the same behavior raise its ugly head on flights that are less than two hours.  So what's the excuse?  I don't profess to know.  I do know that when I'm not extremely exhausted, I find the behavior highly entertaining.  This time around, I wasn't entertained.  Just battered and bruised, and ready to be 'voted off the island'.

My wonderful hubby was waiting for me when I emerged from the mayhem of the air travel odyssey, and it was really great to see him and get a REAL hug.  Traveling among strangers for over three weeks, there is very little genuine human contact, and certainly none with those who really love you (the groping really doesn't count).  It can be more than a little lonesome when you're on the road.

Traffic was quite congested riding home in the car, along the beach-line on the *1, but Jim finally negotiated the Toyota Camry back to our house in Ventura,... back to a fantastic welcome from my 13 year old son, who'd drawn and colored a lovely "Welcome Home" sign on several sheets of copy paper (complete with a picture drawing of an owl), and hung them on the wall, and... (this was cute) ...he had a bottle of wine and a glass ready for me in case I needed it. (I didn't.  All the traveling had actually made me quite nauseous.) What a wonderful hug I received from my young man, who is (I hate to say it) as tall if not taller than me now.  Jim maintains that he thinks Sean is as tall as him.  I'm fighting against the possibility of it.

After watching Sean play some "Infamous" on PlayStation (cool game, really), I went upstairs and took a nap, and awoke to my dearest daughter hugging me, with tears running down her face.

Climbing out of the depths of my slumber, I turned and mumbled to her, "What's wrong, Baby?"  She broke her mother's heart when she just said, "I missed you so much, Mommy."  My maternal coronary muscles just twisted in pain with her sobs, and I held my 17 year old baby girl (who is graduating high school this year) as closely as I did the first day she came out of my womb.  I never knew motherhood could be like this.  I never knew what it would be like to be loved, to be missed.  The magnitude of it is really overwhelming sometimes.  The emotion of it chokes me so hard I can barely breathe when I deeply consider it.  But regardless...it is good.  Incredibly, wonderfully...good.  And beyond scary, to be a parent.

I'd wanted to get back up later and watch movies with the kids, but the jet lag won out over my tired corpuscles and muscles, and I stayed asleep for a few more hours.  Till about 3AM, when my internal alarm clock woke me and forced me downstairs to work on the computer.

I was working on my Dr Stench novel, and editing some blogs I haven't released yet from my travels, when I heard the garage door open.  The dogs were going crazy barking, and I knew the internal household was all accounted for, so who was opening the garage?  I thought the situation was weird, but I didn't hear that creepy music playing in the background...like in horror films when you know the stupid person is going to get it... so I figured it was safe, and opened the door.  The garage door was wide open, the overhead light was on, and the driver door to the Camry was wide open as well.  Giving the garage a scrutinizing look around, to make sure no one was hiding there, I walked over to the car (which is partially in the dark) pushed shut the driver's door (I didn't take time to look inside) and then went back to the garage, shut the door and locked it.

About thirty minutes later, the whole thing was bugging me so much, I called the police and then went on line to fill out a police report of the incident.  I got Jim out of bed to go check the car to see if anything was missing.  Sure enough someone had burgled the inside (Jim had forgot to lock the car), and took two pair of reading glasses (I thought that was odd, I mean...they were ugly glasses) an i-Pod charger, and an i-Pod audio cable.  (The robber didn't take the GPS, which led me to think s/he was clairvoyant, because the damn thing never seems to get us where we want to go anyway.)

The burgling person only took small things to sell, I guess, and either deliberately thought s/he would try the garage door to see what was there, or accidentally hit the door opener, which makes a lot of noise, turns on the lights and triggers the dogs to go all "Cujo".

Jim told me the neighbors recently had their vehicle broken in to, too.  I guess with the economy so bad, some folks are looking for any opportunity to steal and sell what they can for money.  So, folks, remember to lock your shit up.  Locks, for the most part, keep honest people honest, and thieves will sell their wares to anyone in heaven or hell.  It doesn't matter who buys, so long as the color of the cash is right.  Which comes to the end of the rhyme and this story...

"To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,

Home again, home again, market is done."

And, yes, despite the hassles and the vehicle burglary, it is really REALLY good to be home.

~Cin

End of Days...

Well Folks,

It is now May 22nd, and unless I missed something I'm still around and so (hopefully) are you.

I may have slipped through a dimensional time warp while on the airplane from LA to Frankfurt, but if I did I have no recollection of it.  Suffice to say that the "Judgement Day" predicted by Mr Harold Camping didn't occur on time.  No earthquakes occurred of significant value while I was in the air, and mankind (All 7,113,760,400.00  of us at the time of this writing) is still happily polluting the earth and living life in the blissful ignorance that nothing s/he does makes THAT much of an impact on earth. Ah well.  Perhaps the end will be near another day.  2012 is coming, and maybe the Mayans will deliver.

Despite all of the worries about the end of the world, I have more pressing concerns...like the present moment, and reflections of the recent past, which I like to review from time to time.

I left my home yesterday (my hubby graciously drove me to the International Airport in LA), and boarded the German airline Lufthansa, bound for Frankfurt and then Nuremberg. The destination for this part of the trip being a small U.S. Army base on Vilseck.  Now, interestingly on Lufthansa, all drinks are free including the beer, the cognac and the wine.  Quite a few Germans were imbibing before meals, with meals and after meals and most of the people on board were either sleeping or very happy.  German Flight Attendants (I almost typed Stewardess cause, yes, that's my generation) were an interesting lot.  To provide some comparison, Japanese Flight Attendants are generally very quiet, gentle, and subtlety persuasive when they need or want you to do something.  You hardly know they are there.  German Flight Attendants bustle through the airplane cabin with a large noisy presence.  They are loud when they address you, and phrases emitted from them are more like orders that you dare not disobey for fear of some type of reprisal, such as withholding your pretzel ration, or skipping you when they go down the aisle with the drink cart.

Ten hours on a plane can be hell.  Particularly when you are trapped (such as I was) between an overweight older Hungarian/American (who I shall call Hugo) and a tiny slip of an American/Eastern Indian looking woman from San Diego who was 28 weeks pregnant.  Yes, the pregnant girl had a seat next to the window, and Hugo was on the aisle side.  Needless to say, the 28 week pregnant girl had to get up every couple of hours to urinate (sometimes more frequent), and when she did...as Hugo and I waited for her return...I was pelted with stories from the Hungarian/American about how he first came to the U.S. in 1969 after being in refuge camps in Austria.  (I didn't get exact details of how he came to be there, amazingly...) Hugo described his first American job, cleaning toilets.  Later, cleaning for a rich family.  After that, a construction job, and then he went on to join in with another group of individuals for an architectural company and had just recently retired with his wife (his second wife, who is Filipino) with a two million dollar pension.  I was privy to listening about their amazing adventures around the world, and got to see his passport, which he proudly displayed to me with extra stamped pages (48 to be exact) because he'd been such an extensive traveler (He was very proud of it). Hugo explained to me he was getting old and tired now though, and that his traveling will soon be limited to his trips with his wife to Las Vegas, something he and his wife do regularly.  "You can live good in Las Vegas," he said.  "Eat good. Good Entertainment.  It's the life."

Prego girl, whose descriptive name I shall shorten to "Pregs", was anxious about childbirth.  She was amazed, when we first met, because I looked at her belly and said "28 weeks".  "How did you know? I'm exactly 28 weeks." she said.

"I'm clairvoyant." I replied.  The look on her face was priceless as awe filled her eyes.  For a moment, I was living proof that the third eye existed.  I wish it were true.  Coming clean,  I confessed....  "No, really, I'm a midwife.  I've seen several pregnant women, and it was just a guess."

A strange mixture of both disappointment and pleasure filled her face.  Glad to be riding alongside a midwife, but disappointed that I probably couldn't tell her baby's future along the way...she waddled next to the window with an armload of baby magazines.  "I'm in nursing school." she said. "And I haven't had time to read about babies at all."  Up towards the front row, a mother tried to console a 9 month old as she wailed, screamed and cried during the ride (the baby, not the mother).  I nodded my head in the woman's direction.  Pregs looked that way and then looked quizically at me. 
"That's all you need to know." I said.

Yes, I have a habit of being more than less than unhelpful in a pinch, and more helpful than some people deserve when not in need, but still...it made the flight go by faster.  Pregs was from San Diego, and flying to Salzberg Germany to see family before coming back to have the baby in the U.S.. She was two years away from finishing her nursing degree, and wasn't sure what she wanted to do after that.  I listened to her talk about things she wanted to buy for the baby, looked at some of the magazines with her, and on occasion thought perhaps the rapture had happened, and that this was my life of hell on earth for the next five months before 'the end'.  Then, miraculously, both Pregs and Hugo fell asleep, and I (sandwiched in between them) had a couple hours of bliss (and a cognac) while I listened to Joe Hills "Horns" novel on audiobook, and wrote a little more of "Dr Stench" for my novel.
One thing is for certain, when the plane eventually touched down on the Germany ground, I heard angels sing.

The Frankfurt terminal was a very odd place.  Disembarking the plane, there is really no one to tell you where to go, or how to get there.  I wandered from terminal A, trying to get to terminal B, in a massive labyrinth of gates, walls, corridors and such.  Eventually I ended up at the gateway to terminal B, and found that it was another customs check/search.  I showed my passport exactly 3 extra times, was searched in a "security room" because I had extra electronics (which were, apparently, very suspicious), and my computer equipment was tested for ballistics residue, and with that I FINALLY made it to terminal B.  My flight to Nuremberg was a little less hectic, and I arrived at the terminal finding someone who was holding up a little paper sign that said "Dr Cynthia F."  I almost missed him and it, because the name on the paper was barely legible.

A 45 minute ride in a faded blue van, along some beautiful German countryside, with houses that have roofs as sharp as freshly ground number 2 pencil points, and I was at Vilseck.  Needless to say, after not really having slept more than a couple of hours in more than a 14 hour trip, I was giddy and not very lucid as I made my way to my little room.  It was 3 PM in Germany, and I threw my things on the floor and climbed into the bed after quickly typing a note to my family to let them know I'd arrived OK.  I slept from 3PM to 5AM the next day.

Now, I'm here at Vilseck as an Expert Witness for the Defense on a sexual assault case.  Later this afternoon, I will go over the case with Army JAG and they will determine how I can provide the best information possible for the courtroom.  As an expert for the Defense, one of my roles is to make sure that statements provided from the Prosecution expert/examiner (from the medical side) are 'evidence based', meaning they are grounded in the researched science of today.  It is a rewarding process, because now and then, I'm able to help dispel myths and set the record straight so the courtroom can make a logical decision.

Despite being north of towns like Munich and Stuttgart, I was unprepared for how warm the weather would be here.  It's sunnier than I expected, with huge cotton-ball white clouds and occasional black thunder heads that sneak in and dump a pound of rain on your head and then move off to splatter gallons of water elsewhere.  I don't know if I'll have time to go out into town and see any sights.  The courtroom process can be a long one, and usually I need to sit through each of the testimonies in order to provide any thoughts about the medical portion of the case.  But perhaps I will have the opportunity to see the countryside.  We will see.

~Cin

Sitting at the Wheel and Heartbreak...

Describes a good part of my day today.  As for now, my bags are packed, and I'm ready to go.  Leaving on the jet plane bound for Europe for a week long stay and then two weeks in the Middle East.

The morning started out with one of the best things in the world...sleeping just a little later than usual.  (I'd taken leave today so I could rest and relax, and take my time packing.)  Jim had promised me a massage today, and so after some breakfast and homework...I basked in the luxury of an hour massage and some much needed snuggle time.  I hadn't had a massage in ages, and my skin, muscles, joints and sinews were appreciative of the therapy.

After a short nap, it was off to Fantastic Sams to get a hair cut.  I'd had a cut and color done only two weeks ago, but hadn't been satisfied with the cut I got.  Interesting to note that the first salon I went to just days ago charged me $120.00 to color (highlight) and cut my hair, and Fantastic Sams charged me $15.00.  After many a trial and tribulation trying to find the right hairdresser in Ventura, to do what I want for my hair, I finally found someone to do it.  Mabel, a brusque Caucasian orange haired woman, is almost 65 years old, and her hairdresser compadres have been around Ventura all of their lives. When I walked in to the salon, I had the instant feeling of "down home" and "no nonsense" that I'd grown up with much of my life.  It was like walking into the hills of West Virginia and sitting down with many of the plain spoken folk I'd met and learned to know there.  No comment is taboo, as long as its the truth.

My cut and color at the fancy salon took me almost two hours.  Mabel was literally done in 10 minutes.  My hair was as close as it could be to the picture I carted in with me in the hopes I'd get lucky this time.  I laughed for the first time I can remember, while getting my hair done, as their plain conversation was filled with joy, mirth and a joke now and then...and I left knowing I would definitely come back.  No foo-foo.  No frills.  Just a nice simple cut, like the picture I brought, and I was done and out the door ready for the next day's evolution.

After Sean got home from school and Jim returned from his physical therapy appointment, we went to a small art show at Ventura Harbor.  One of the artist sections included a pottery guild, and outside of the guild store sat an older woman named Yevette. Yevette lives in Ojai, and not only makes pottery, but spins yarn and raises llamas.  She took Sean by the hand and led him in his first lesson of making a cup on the pottery wheel.  (I sooo felt nostalgia when she talked about her wheel, and my fingers were itching to spin fibers!)  Sean attacked learning the potter's wheel with gusto, and under the guidance of Yevette, created a lovely shaped tea cup out of porcelain clay.  His first one, and it was beautiful!  It was such a joy to watch him work with the clay, smooth it, bring the edges up, create the collar then finally remove it from the wheel.  Sean is good with his hands when he wants to be. He loves wood working, and tinkering with things.  He's built his own foam swords and shields in the past, and has done a variety of other creative things, but I was so proud he did well today with the clay.

Kira called to say she couldn't make it to dinner.  She was meeting with her soon to be ex-boyfriend.  He's a wonderful young man, but Kira and he are both going separate ways for a while, and my very grown daughter sat down and talked to him about it.  It was tough on her, and tough on him, and when I talked to her afterwards on the phone I could tell the whole thing really bummed her out.  Heartache.  Making those difficult choices.  Trying to do the right thing.  I knew it was hard, but in the end I'm proud of her.  She made sure she approached the situation carefully, and made sure she was honest about it.  Her former boyfriend loves travel, and rock climbing and is the sweetest, most thoughtful and kind individual, but he will be traveling the summer, and then living in Santa Cruz this fall.  Kira will be here, studying Wellness courses and attending more massage courses so she can get her National Certification.  I've never been prouder of my dearest daughter, to make the adult decisions, to stand up and be honest about her choices.

After Jim, Sean and I got home, we went out together, just her and I, and ate frozen yogurt at the Wild Cherry.  We talked and shared things that mothers and daughters do, and I felt nostalgia and sadness wash over me as I realized tomorrow I'd be traveling away...away from my family.  The ones that I love.  Off to serve my country in the ways that I know how, and can contribute the best.  I'll hate not being home...not being with them.  But every moment, I will love them, and love who they are.

As the evening draws to a close, I sit on the front porch (it's actually just after midnight) lightly puffing on a Nico Libre, and mentally checking off the items I've packed in my sea-bag.  Tomorrow ( or really today) is another day, and I pray.  I pray that my family stays safe, that each of my planes take off and land as they should, and that time will speed along quickly until I'm in their arms once again.

~Cin

Attention to Detail

Well All,

I've survived the Joint Commission "survey" (really known as 'inspection', and even the surveyor/inspector called it an inspection).  It was probably a less painful experience for me than for some clinics/personnel in the past.  Oddly, I learned a lot.  The opportunity to go through the clinic with a fresh set of eyes looking at the nuances of everything surrounding me helped me to recognize the little things most people don't pay attention to.  Despite all my previous angst, I found the process very useful.  The key, I think, was the inspector himself.  The fellow who came out was very approachable, and while he asked a lot of questions he was willing to answer many of them too.  And he was willing to teach.  This made a world of difference in the experience of the process.  The worst of it was standing on my feet for a couple of hours while he walked through the clinic, from room to room, opening drawers, talking to staff, etc. (I could physically feel my feet swelling with every passing minute...ah the joys of age...)  I, as his "escort", had to make sure I was with him wherever he went.

In the end, I was pleased that he had such favorable things to say about our military staff.  Most of them are very junior, but I was proud at how professional they were.  They took time to answer his questions.  These young Hospital Corpsmen (early 20's) were not nervous, or flustered.  They approached the task of answering his questions like they were teaching someone about the clinic and their daily duties.  They truly are a fine group of military, and I would be proud to serve with them anywhere in the world.

I imagine many people approach writing a blog as an avenue to vent or complain about society and the difficulties of day to day living, and I admit I do that also from time to time.  But today, I only find myself happy and grateful.  Happy to work alongside some of the finest our United States Military has to offer and grateful to work for an Officer in Charge (OIC) that I've come to admire and consider a mentor.  I think I will grieve some when the leadership changes hands, but I should remind myself to always give the next person a chance, just like I myself would want to be given one.  Still, it is hard to accept change when things seem to be working so well.  I will embrace it though, and go once more into the breech...

I will be traveling soon on a temporary assignment, and so I took the day off to rest/recover from the inspections and other evolutions that had taken over my life.  The Dissertation Proposal is submitted once more with all of its corrections and additions and I'm editing my presentation for the dissertation board and my IRB proposal application to reflect those changes so I can have them done before I go.  The International Association of Forensic Nurses (IAFN) would like me to speak at their conference in Montreal in October, and so I've submitted my request and presentation proposal through the chain of command and hope I'll have approval to do it.  It will highlight my research while on deployment last year, and hopefully I'll have my findings completed by then.

Today was also a day to network and enjoy the company of a friend.  A fellow forensic nurse I know lives about an hour away from me.  We met at a small town on the beach (halfway between our homes) for lunch, and took time to converse about forensic nursing, processes in sexual assault care, course development of forensic nursing for local areas, and such.  What a pleasure to spend time talking face to face with such a beautiful mind and intelligent person (Thanks Jude!).  To be sure, the face to face time was buoyant for the mind/body/spirit, and I really needed that connection.  It has motivated me, and centered me, and made me feel 'connected' to the world.

Ah well...back to work!  May all of you find joy and peace in your daily lives, and may all of you find equally beneficial connections along the way...

~Cin

Scraggles

(Fiction...) 

“Dead as dead can be, my doctor tells me, but I just can’t believe him….”  I whispered the words rapidly, with a hint of irritation, just under my breath.  The man across from me lifted his eyes from the partly smashed body bleeding on the table, and gave me a quizzical stare.

He could never know the hell I’ve been through. 

If she really was dead, I’d rejoice, because I ‘d know that tomorrow the cycle wouldn’t begin.  But I know the truth.  The truth is she’ll crawl out of her stinking hole once again and her calico butt will be waiting for me at my front door step.  Waiting for me to let her in.  And my heart will feel that repetitive glimmer of hope until something goes horribly wrong.  Until death claims her. Or maybe not.

I thought about the people in the waiting room, and wanted so desperately to give them this advice: Never take a stray cat home from a graveyard.  The situation in itself should be a clue that bad news is preparing to follow you to the gates of your personal sanctuary. That demons are already chomping at your heels, and that by voluntarily carting the creature to the one place you consider safe, you’ve effectively guaranteed that they will never leave.

I turned to my boyfriend, Salem.  He still didn’t get it.  He’d watched the nine lives queen die twice now, but still thought the vet had been mistaken.  I’d seen the cat bite it and resurrect six times, and I was betting on number seven.

“That’s it then.” he said, with a conviction that almost made me want to believe him.  I eyed his curly head, his calm blue eyes.  He was the picture of serenity.  Eventually he would understand.  Then he would leave me.

I shook my head.  My sweaty hands trembled.  I could see my reflection in the mirror over the sink that stood across from the stainless steel table where Scraggles lay.  (That’s what I’d decided to call her, since her long feline hair often became bedraggled with dirt and muck after a few days of living.)  Dark circles looked as if they’d been painted under my eyes, the blackened half moons were so even.  Every inch of my hair looked as if it wanted to find it’s own direction to travel, greasy shoulder length brown and golden tresses having had nervous fingers run through them several times in at least three unwashed days.

“What do you want to do with the body?” The vet wasn’t cold about it.  He was being practical.  With a room full of clients, his method of making a living was waiting.

“Cremate her.”  I said.  “I want the ashes in an urn.  How soon can you get it done?”

I hadn’t gone the route of fire yet, afraid of what kind of creature would come back from the flames.  But maybe this time she wouldn’t come back.  Maybe that would do the trick.

The vet stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “The bodies go out every Friday.  We get them by Monday.  You’re lucky it’s Friday.  We can send her out this evening.”

I made an audible sigh of relief.  Perfect. The problem was, there was no specific time-frame when her spirit came back.  It was as if the grimalkin blithely wandered the spirit world and made an impetuous decision to pester the living when it suited her best.  What if she managed to pull her little stunt before the cremation?

****

I picked up the urn from the vet on Tuesday.  The day was glorious, filled with the scent of decaying red maple leaves, damp earth from last night’s rain, and the aroma of someone’s early chimney fire.  The container was a simple black plastic thing, no bigger than a large apple, sealed along the edges of the lid with clear packing tape.  Attached to it was a little paper card from the vet pronouncing its sympathy for my loss.  I made a wry smile.

Placing the urn into the passenger side of my red Toyota, the paint on the vehicle chipped and faded with years of travel, the only thought that filled my brain at the moment was:  

What do I do with the urn?

I couldn’t take it home.  Having it there, sitting on a shelf, would always make me afraid that Scraggles would one day pop out of it and claim me as her human once more.

Driving along the winding country road, it was a while before I realized I was near a part of the James River where a bridge crossed one of the deepest areas of rushing water.  I pulled over.  Grabbing the urn, I got out of the car.  Autumn winds whistled through the arms of somnolent trees.  Perhaps it was nostalgia, or some weird need to say goodbye a bit more intimately, but I found myself kissing her urn just before I pulled my hand back and chucked the remains into the frothing white rapids below.

“Goodbye, Scraggles.”  I said, and let myself smile.   Then I turned the car towards home, making a mental note on the way back to stop at the grocery and buy cat-food.

(written via a Writing Prompt through Ventura Fiction Writers....)

(Image from Greykitty on DeviantArt.com)

Out of Gas....

There are days I come home too exhausted to write much.  This is one of those days, and this post will be short because of it.  Tomorrow is International Nurse's Day, and I've organized a pot luck for the nurses, and little gift bags for them.  I'm not usually the nursey type but someone has to appreciate our hard working nurses.  My boss, and my fellow co-worker, are going in on the gifts and the appreciation day, and I'm glad.  I'm a little short on dollars, and not big enough on sense, but I want them to know that we know how hard they work.

MED-IG will be at our satellite clinic tomorrow, and Friday they'll visit us.  Joint Commission should be here soon as well, and I'm finding myself almost hopeful for my return to Afghanistan.  The worst part being I can't take my family with me.  Deployment, as most military folks will tell you, is not all that bad.  There's less politics, more real work, and the worst of it is the stench of porta-potties in the summer, and waiting at the air terminal to actually get on a flight.  Other than that, the sand, the heat, and the distance from the States is not all that bad.  The food is good, sometimes too good, and there's the constant need to exercise to avoid gaining weight.  The worst is being away from family, and trying to find ways to communicate with family when you're gone.  It will be a challenge, but I'll be glad to be away from the rat race for a while....

Back to the dissertation work, and rework.  Wishing you all blessings and peace in your lives.
~Cin