Yesterday, 5 1/4 miles tread heading for 100 minutes. I feel better than I have felt in years, physically. Now, all my clothes are too big-I hope the baggy look is still somewhat "in," but I don't really care. I hula hoop for 45 mins in the patio, almost every day. If I choose to do so, I can wear the little black dress my Step Mother used to wear in her hey day for that dreaded day...but I am a very pale blonde, with blazingly white (nice) legs & I refuse to wear panty hose...so if I can get it together, I best go shopping...I really hate shopping. I should not be allowed in stores without an escort.

I finished Patricia Cornwell's "Predator," & though I only bought it 'cuz it was a "#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER," I find it a bit tiresome that so many novels these days center around serial killers...wierd. Now that I am jobless, I need to find time to again haunt local libraries...Sommerst Maughm's "The Razor's Edge" ( I think it is Bill Murray's best, underappreciated movie...) I need to go back to the classics...

I found "Spiderman 3" to be a stinker. We have the 2 earlier Spiderman DVD's & upon review, they stink, too...or maybe it is just my present frame of mind. I am prety sure that Bubba & I will go see the latest "Pirates" movie. I am counting on loving it. Will drop hints with theose DVDs ASAP.

I have a full day. Dentist, post office, ga$, both meals w/Dad today...places to go & people to see...and the beat goes on.

I wish that my Daddy weighed more than his 130lbs. Last month, 149 and the month before that 169.

I wish he didn't need liquid Morphine and Haladol. He might have recognized me longer than the 2 1/2 seconds that he knew me last night.

I wish he had not been so out of it. He might of eaten something for me or asked for water.

I wish he wasn't so agitated, even angry. I wish he could get comfortable. I understand that his blood is lacking oxygen, making him restless, but I wish that it wasn't so.

He reaches out to hold his wife's hand, she babbles some delusion about him going out to dinner without her, and he jerks his hand away. He reaches out for her hand, she says nothing, and he angrily jerks his hand away. He reaches out again...after 6 times or so last night, I could not bear to watch anymore, so I left the two of them alone, closed the door, sobbed down the hall, and drove home.

I wish gas was less than $3.60 a gallon & it wasn't 70 miles for me round trip everytime thast I visit. It is the longest 35 mile ride that I can imagine any and every time that I drive it.

I wish I could handle this time with more courage, grace & dignity.

I wish that his response to my "Moon River" and "Tammy" last night had not been a face of distaste and irritation. I hope that there is still music in his head, but I am not so sure, now. He never made a happy or even peaceful facial expression last night, and he jerked his hand out of my own several times.

I wish this was over with.

I wish it wasn't happening at all.

Once, when the family was gathered at Applebee's dining & drinking, he put an arm around my shoulders and said, "Honey, I just wish I could always just be here with my family, enjoying life..." I wish that his wish could come true...

I wish his doctor had not been so accusatory with my angel sister Jan, stating that she just wanted to keep Daddy sedated...she guilt trips herself over his God-complex arrogance, and I say "Yes! I do want to keep him sedated!! What good does it do him or anyone to have him filled with anxiety, anger and fear as his final hours approach?" Said "Dear and Glorious Physician" finally ok'd the Haladol, but refuses to allow a patch that would dry up some of his oral secretions in the morning saying that the patch would only add to Dad's confusion. Would I rather add to his confusion or allow him to drown in his own fluids? I vote confusion, but I don't count. Poor Jan-who needs guilt trips at this point? Don't Doctors take course in Bedside Manners? Who wouldn't want him to die peacefully in his sleep as opposed to dying in the midst of a choking marathon?

I wish I'd just get out of this funk & get back to tread heading, as I always feel better afer exercise. Yet all morning, I have barely been able to summon the strength or determination to get out of bed...

I guess that there is no right or wrong when we are dealing with impending death.

I guess wishes that things were better & easier for me to handle are selfish and futile, at best. Everyone that is involved is just doing the best that they can do with what they have got in the time that they can afford to spend.

These months that we have had with Dad since before his close-call at Christmas have truly been fleeting gifts...I really cannot ask for any more than the reality that I am dealing with every day.

I am so blessed in so many ways. I have a great support system, family, friends, the Stream, Bubba, my K-9 kids...

This is the natural order of things...and I truly believe that when he finally does cross over that he will not be alone, and that his spirit will live on and that I will see him one fine day again at the end of my own journey. He's always been a wonderful father to me...the moon, the stars and the sun. But he does not want me to dwell in sorrow at his passing, but to get on with my life doing the best that I can do. I just wish it wasn't all so hard. But it is.

Oh great...my bad day yesterday, my trouble getting a grip, the reason I stayed home to rest...the stress, the pain the sorrow, have all culminated into a moderate to slightly severe case of the hives. Now, pardon my language, but ain't that a pisser?!?!?!?! Now, I must calculate when to take a Benedryl without the immeninent danger of getting behind the wheel in a drug-induced fog & making matters even worse than they already are.

Kathy helped with the evening meal last night...2 ice creams, a pudding with crumb cake mixed in & 6 (six!!) glasses of water. This is more than he has eaten in a week!

Can one meditate hives away, I wonder?

"Moon River,
Wider than a mile.
I'm crossing you in style,
Someday..

You dream maker,
You heart breaker,
Where ever you're going,
I'm going your way.

Two drifters.
Off to see the world, and
There's such a lot of world,
To see.

We're after the same,
Rainbow's end,
Waitin' 'round the bend,
My Huckleberry friend,
Moon River, and me..."

I do not have an enviable singing voice. My ex spouse & a coupla outspoken ex-boyfriends have been known to actually ask (or tell) me to stop singing. But for Daddy, my voice never brought a complaint..even now, when I join him in song, or try to lighten his mood with a tune. He sleeps alot, of course, these days. But sometimes a song can make him smile in his sleep, and I realize much of what appears to be sleep is a drowse, a dream, and the literal "one foot in each world" for him. Does he know when my flat voice cracks, fades & sobs, and does he know why I do? I do not appear to be startling him,nor do I seem to make him sad when we sing.

It appears to be a source of comfort, though not every time. Dad says he is composing music in his head much of the time that he appears to be sleeping. Sometimes, outside noises interfere with his "trumpet compositions in b flat..." He is such a precious man.

Yesterday, my best friend Deb came with me to visit for awhile, and sing a few rounds of "Row, row, row, your boat..." ((who is this Merilee, anyway?" Dad repeatedly jokes afer every round), and a coupla "Tammy" encores.

After she left, I had some one-on-one time with Dad, feeding him ice chips, sneaking he occasional sip of forbidden regular cold water amidst futile attempts to get him to even taste the sludge (Drs' orders, "all food, even water, is to be pureed and prepared to be pudding thick") which the kitchen had prepared for lunch.

"Please don't make me eat. Please, I don't want to eat..it makes me so exhausted, please don't make me eat," he repeats, even while falling asleep again. I never argue anymore. I never try any slick tricks like I did in the past, in order to fast talk some goop into his gullet.

"You don't have to eat, Daddy. You don't have to do anything that you don't want to do..."

It is all about comfort now.

Sometimes, I ask him if he remembers some of the good ol times...every road trip in our old station wagon was filled with all 7 of us singing until we all tired, and eventually trailed off into a too-quiet silence. Then, after awhile, one or more of us would start to sing, again and most of us would join in. And he smiles...

When we lived in the music store, come Christmas time, he'd gather all of us kids into the display window which was usually reserved for a piano &/or organ. He'd had a speaker sound system that would play for passer-bys or anyone at the stop sign that was next to our corner store. We'd sing Christmas Carols throughout rush hour for anyone in the vicinity. I was in junior high then, and outwardly mortified, but touched on the inside by my Daddy's sweet Christmas wish, consumed with that never-ending desire to not let him down.

Routinely, when we did dishes after dinner, the 3 of us girls would sing for my parents while they sat in the "breakfast nook", talking quietly or sharing dessert,coffee or a drink. I can still remember sometimes being pleasantly surprised at how good we seemed to sound, one washing, one drying, one putting away dishes, intent upon being good daughters.

Daddy had had 7 visitors, including me, 8 including his wife, when I left yesterday at 2pm. I was really brave, and sweetly matter-of-fact over the weekend. Today,though, I feel like my insides have morphed into flubber. At this point in time, I'm just not having a good day. I hope Daddy is...Regardless, unless I get a phone call to the contrary,
I am staying home this beautiful Indiana day, spoling my dogs, cleaning, doing laundry, making green tea with honey, hula hooping in the patio, then tread heading (all made possible by my nervousness and my ipod). I'm in the midst of Patricia Cornwell's "Predator", and have a calvacade of movies to watch later on in the day, or I may try to take a nap. I am very fond of sleep of late, when I can get it.

Tomorrow, I see Cecile for comfort & therapy & spiritual enlightenment (she used to be a nun, you may recall)). Tomorrow, I will visit for the evening meal and I will be strong. Today, I go in search of that strength. Wish me luck. Say a prayer. Think a thought, Whatever works for you, that's fine by me. I want to thank you all for your kind words of support. The Stream remains an impotant part of my support system. As always.

In the fifties (& sometimes, even now, on independent local TV channels,) big car lots would host an afternoon movie, where the only commercials were when the movie would cut away to a live shot of the car lot & a sweet-talkin' salesman or owner, would show the consumer the great deals that were to be had if the folks would just hurry on down and take advantage...Often times, to keep the viewer's intrest, the car lot would incorperate some local talent onto the scene.

Dad likes to repeat the story of when he and his local swing band(The Blue Notes) were the guests of a Peoria car lot, and when I was a realitively new-born baby in the summer of 1952. The idea of this commercial break would put teeny lil ol' me in my Father's arms, and while the band played on in the back ground, he was supposed to look into my baby face and croon the song, "Daddy's Little Girl" to me. His eyes never failed to tear over every time he told this story...that he'd get all choked up, break down & cry as he repeatedly tried to stick to the band's plan. One, two, three, four times, he tried to sing this song to me, each time, his voice, overflowing with tears and love. Finally, he just took one of the audience seats that was usually reserved for a few locals who liked to be seen on TV, and the two of us quietly cried while the band switched songs and the dealer hawked the latest special deal.

When I came back from California, the last time for good, there were several occasions when Dad & I would share some Scotch (When I did drink, I drank), and he would tell and re-tell this story. A few times, I asked him to play it for me then. Ususally he was already in tears, and would tell me he would play it for me later. Once, I caught him seated at the organ doing another gig at the local Ramada. I'd had a few, & insisted that he sieze the moment and sing & play that song for me, right there and then. He tried. He cried. He mumbled he had forgotten the words, and we should take a break to go have a Scotch because he wanted to tell me how happy it made him that I had finally come home to stay.

I've never heard him sing this song to this day. Today,when I go try to sweet talk him into eating something, I will try to ask him to sing it for me, if he is still in a singing mood. It will be very, very hard for me on the day that my Daddy stops singing or re-telling his tear-jerking sweet old stories.

Another memory he loves to re-tell, is when we lived in a two-story big white house in Galesburg, Ill. A big fan to this day of "The Lawrence Welk Show", he took his cue from the Lennon Sisters, and would put all 3 of us girls on every other step if the semi-winding staircase where his piano & organ were juxtoposed at the base. Being the eldest and therefore, the tallest, I'd stand on the top-most stair, above my two little sisters, and we worked out what I am led to believe was a charming rendition of the, then, very popular movie series' theme song, "Tammy." I still remember most every word, and remember really belting out an almost sensual group of lyrics that came halfway through the song. Sometimes, Daddy would let me have a solo spot there, and we entertained many a friend & neighbor at my parent's frequent parties.

"I hear the cottonwoods,
Weep from above,
Tammy, Tammy,
Tammy's in love.

The old hooty owl,
Hooty-hoots to the dove.
Tammy, Tammy,
Tammy's in love..."

(my 10 yrs old passionate sometimes solo:)

"Does my lover feel.
How I feel,
When he comes near?"

"My heart beats so joyfully.
You'd thik that he,
Could hear..."

(all)


"Wish I knew
That he knew
What I'm thinking of.
Tammy, Tammy,
Tammy's in love..."

I sang it for him as he started to drift into sleep again the other day...my handbook on "The Dying Expeience"("Gone From My Sight") tells me that this is the time when he literally "has a foot in each world."
His facial expresssion changed from one of dead-pan deep sllp into a broad smile, he murmured a heart felt "Oh!" and this time, he didn't cry. But I did.