This is me: just imagine that's a bottle of Simple Green in my hand, and not a skull. I am pleased to share with you that today I joined the ranks of some women writers I very much admire: Literary Mama has published a piece of my writing ! There are two reasons this is fun for me: First, because someone other than me posted something I wrote. That's just awesome. Second, because I can share Literary Mama with you! Please visit, browse, share, comment, and repeat. It's a wonderful space for the "maternally inclined. Enjoy! Post Script. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do wear poofy Elizabethan sleeves and tights while cleaning. Doesn't everyone?
Showing posts from September, 2014
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Thank you to everyone who has shared kind words with me after my latest post about my mom . Each one made me tear up a little bit…good tears, as opposed to the sloppy, nose-running, blotchy-faced, sleeve-mucking business that sometimes happens to some people but not me. Ever. Mostly. I haven't been able to keep up with this blog very much in the last several months due to having a job I love and a family I pretty much like well enough. But I'm very grateful that I have this space, for those moments when I need to write something down. Writing, as many people have said, is a solitary activity. But reading -- and commenting and sharing -- those things create community, or show you one was there all along. So thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading and responding. I'm grateful for you all. Much love, Monica
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Dementia and decline. Decline and dementia. Disease and depression and doctors. It can feel all consuming, as if all those "D-words" are the only things that exist, as if the person suffering is hardly there, crowded out by D's big and small. My father's time these days is spent managing all those D's, trying to make sense of them, trying to respond to them, and trying to make BIG D DECISIONS about care for his wife of 49 years, 8 months, and 18 days. My too brief visits with my mother these days are overwhelming for so many reasons: guilt that I cannot visit more often; anguish over what she is experiencing and our inability to help; compassion for her, and for my father; gratitude that I can be there at least in some small ways. And great sadness over how much she has changed. It is a painful time, but it is not without its bright moments. As is usually the case, one such bright moment came to me, and to my mother, courtesy of one of my kids. I broug