In My Own Ink: Now Hosted on Substack

I'm moving! Please visit me on my new platform, Substack. I'll be posting there from now on, and you can subscribe for free.  I hope to see you there!  https://andipenner.substack.com

Short Term Memory Lapse Concerning Long Term Care!

     I was feeling smug about being more or less on top of my finances and thinking I would write a semi-humorous piece about the perils of leaving financial loose ends and storage units full of stuff for others to sort out after we die. Having just "downsized" into a smaller home and retired from a paying career, I have plenty of material. 

During my father's final few years, I had the privilege of witnessing first-hand what happens when one refuses to face reality. My father left himself and his wife (and his caregivers) few options for anything but a life that looked nothing like the one he had hoped to enjoy. Some simple advance planning would have been worth figurative millions (especially when there were no actual millions to be had). At least, that's what I tell myself. 

Long-term care insurance didn't exist for my parents. They, like many Americans, thought Social Security and Medicare/Medicaid would be sufficient to see them through their elder years. Also like many Americans, they hadn't planned for any contingencies. My mother's care needs surfaced  out of nowhere not long after she was 65 and newly remarried. She suffered for the next 10 years from an incurable, debilitating disease that rendered her incapable of caring for herself. Her husband was able to keep her at home instead of in a facility, but even that was a difficult situation, and she died at age 75--unusually early given her lineage. My maternal grandmother was still alive and humming when my mother died. The reality of long-term care began much later for grandma but extended into her 109th year on the planet. 

So I figured that whether I die at 75 or 105, I'll probably need some help, and that help will come with a bright red price tag. Of course I hope my own life and death will be different, but given my limited resources and the government's indebtedness, I choose to be realistic and to spare my kids from having to exhaust their savings just to help me. For the last decade, every December I pay my long-term care insurance premium instead of buying my kids the latest espresso machine or iGadget for Christmas. They seem to appreciate it. At least, that's what they tell me. 

However, today's mail delivered an unwelcome surprise--an ACME Insurance Company notice of non-payment!!! WHAT? My checkbook register confirmed my fear--I hadn't written a check to ACME in December. In fact, the checkbook was empty. (ACME is an old-school paper and pen company, so I have to pay by check). Tonight I tore apart my home office, looking in every possible and impossible file drawer and folder for my checks. I unearthed piles of papers and found delicious poem scraps and memoir fodder, art supplies and greeting cards, but none of those valuable bits of paper issued by my bank. At least I haven't lost BitCoin, I thought. 

Eventually, I found the next packet of checks (right where I'd left them, of course), but not before I reached for my I'm So Freaking Freaked Out journal which I had pulled off the shelf in the irrational hope that the checks would magically fall from between the pages. That's when I noticed the last freak-out entry dated Feb. 24, 2022, the day Putin invaded Ukraine. 

In a world where humans still wage war and insist on premature destruction, no one can rely on long-term care insurance, or long term anything.  No amount of planning, no storage unit, no government subsidy, or virtual currency can make up for global stability and peace or personal security. 

The only thing I know is that today, right now, caring for one another matters. In the short term and long term, people matter. Freaking out about what hasn't yet come to pass won't do us any good, but caring for one another will. Hope won't pay the bills, but--I have to believe--it does make a difference, somehow. And love won't stop the missiles tomorrow--but maybe that day after that. Even when we misplace the checkbook, can't afford insurance, or have no idea how to ease someone's pain, we have within us the unlimited capacity for love, care, and hope. Let's share.

 

For the Love of Argument

Photo: Andi with Unknown Cat, 1963*

 

My friend Marjorie St. Clair, a vital member of my writing support circle, recently asked about my use of argument and algorithm in the context of writing poetry and memoir. Hallmarks of the memoir-writing method taught by Marion Roach Smith, both algorithm and argument have long informed my thinking, teaching, and writing.  

 

Like many of you, I learned the art of argument early in my childhood living with smart, opinionated, and vocal parents and siblings. "But Mom..." was a common opener. What followed, however, if not compelling risked a "Don't argue with me" comeback. My children, also, were and still are, admirable arguers. "But Mom, quitting the team is my protest statement against the coach's unfair treatment of some players..." they might assert, instead of saying "I quit. The coach is an asshole."

 

When I taught English to reluctant first-year students, they questioned everything (as did I) and dared me to convince them that essays were more than instruments of torture. They had already been taught the essay as a mandatory 500-word 5-paragraph piece of prose subjected to arbitrary judgment on a scale of 1-5. My job was to argue otherwise, to show the how of essay, not just the what.  (One of my poetry gurus, Marj Hahne, teaches the how of poems. The fact of the barn is less interesting than how it's a barn.) I had to show them how dreaded thesis statement argues more powerfully than a statement of fact or strong opinion. Even a poem, meme, or slogan like Make Love Not War (and the choice to quote it here) argues something. A tailored suit argues, "I already know how to dress the part, so you should hire me (and, oh by the way, my resume tells you how I'm the best one for the job)." Pajamas argue something else (so does the choice of flannel vs. silk).

 

You may argue that good writing is good writing with or without a suit (or pajamas, for that matter), and you may be right. But as I write and edit my poems, essays, and memoir while mindful of my audience (you & others) and purpose (publication), I find argument a useful concept for assessing what I want to say about the universal and how to support it with the personal. 

 

In rhetorical terms (we can thank the ancient Greeks for that fancy word for the art of persuasion), if one asserts a position, posits a premise, or stakes a claim, one must illustrate the point with more than an amusing cat video. [I refuse to link to any of those.]

 

With that in mind, I invented this argument: "My grief when Sunshine died made me see that in living their nine lives, cats can save our lives." I'm not sure I believe it, but we did have a cat name Sunshine who died at age 19 after having lived all nine of her allotted lives.] And if I did believe in the saving power of cats, I would offer details about Sunshine's nine lives, my one miserable life, and how she saved it. My three dogs and my son's chickens and ducks would be left out in the cold, unless of course they were killing me and that's why I got a cat. [*see photo]

Similarly, if I claim innocence in front of a judge, I'd better have some pretty convincing, allowable evidence summarized in catchy opening and closing arguments. [I'm guessing you can imagine your own trial, even if your judge was your math teacher who accused you of being a dolt, gave you an F, and illustrated his point by banging his forehead against the wall.] You would not, however, stand up in the courtroom and shout, "That's just fuckin' not true!"--at least I hope you wouldn't.

 

Speaking of math teachers, I loved high school Algebra and even made it as far as to finish a year of college calculus before I decided I would never be my favorite, beautiful, red-headed, she-who-knows-everything high school math teacher. So I changed my major. I still think in math concepts and appreciate the formulaic nature of argument. Unless you're a philosopher, you probably can't persuade anyone that X is, period. You could claim X is true and mean it. But the argument won't stand up in court until you show how and why X is true and why that matters, something like this: X is true because experiments W, Y, and Z provide data to prove it. 

 

The result just might be a convincing argument:

1. [Introduction] You've heard of X and wondered if it's true. I'm here to tell you X is true and worthy of investment because experiments W, Y, and Z provide ample proof while raising the possibility of a mysterious X2.

2. Method W (how we applied it and what happened).

3. Same for Method Y.

4. And Z, which pointed to the existence of X2.

5. [Conclusion] Therefore, X is true, so give us $1M for further study of X2 and you won't be disappointed. 

 

I recently asked my partner, The Scientist, what in my memoir-in-progress might best argue the universal point I want to make about life. He said something very wise:

People are not interested in the kitchen sink! 

I liked that slogan so much I tacked it to my bulletin board next to my writing desk. And yes, I still write words on paper and but them on display.

 

My memoir argues that my beliefs and my heart landed me in various places (physically and spiritually) because of hard decisions that led me to create the life I want. Interesting as the kitchen sink story may be, in my memoir you won't read I once made sub sandwiches at The Little Pickle and worked for a summer as a Smile-A-While Day Camp counselor. Nor will the photo of me with the random cat grace the book's cover.

 

If you find typos in my kitchen sink, you can either ignore them or you can tell me and I'll fix them. And if you like what you read on this blog, please comment below or send me an email. 

All the best to you, to Ukraine, and flood victims in Pakistan and California. Peace be with us all.

 

Sincerely, 

Andi                        last updated 1/19/2023

Poets Respond to War in Ukraine

            ~ I believe in the power of poetry to move us to compassion and action. ~ 

Greeting you this holiday season....

Yesterday, while making year-end charitable contributions, I faced a challenge: where to send money for Ukraine? I want the funds immediately to reach people in the midst of that war, but scams abound.  And super-sized organizations already have fund-raising machines that both cost and generate a boatload of money. ***January Update: Our due diligence regarding Ukraine TrustChain [refers to the human network of trust, not block chain technology] resulted in a significant donation on our part, and from many of you. Here is a link to their latest newsletter. See more commentary following the poem.***

And then today I received my daily-poem email from Rattle, which I now share with you as part of this holiday message because, as I state at the top of this post, I truly believe in the power of poetry to move us to compassion and action. Please visit Rattle for the full December 25, 2022 post from which this message is shared. I am posting it here with full credit to them and gratitude for their publication of this poem.

It's my hope that 2023 find its way to a healthier, more peaceful world. Here’s to Poetry. Here’s to Ukraine. Here’s to you, dear ones. Shalom.

With love, Andi*

www.rattle.com

THE UKRAINIAN FLAG STARES THROUGH THE BALSAM FIR FROM LARRY’S TREES 

 Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach

just take it he said & I doubted

generosity are you sure? still $30 short

I’ve learned nothing is free

in this country his

white mustache curled

to a smile I’m Larry & this

is the south & these are my trees 

how easy to claim what soil gives 

to own trees & bodies 

to give them away to strangers 

so my children can hang 

the shatterproof ornaments & ask for more 

light while in Ukraine 

the bulbs won’t spark the heat

won’t radiate the soil will stay 

snow-covered & theirs & 

in my house strings & strings 

of electric rainbow dazzle 

trail the evergreen & walls & wind 

my children’s small limbs 

here in Arkansas it’s barely cold 

enough to light a fire 

but we can & do with oak 

& crabapple we home 

its added glow so everything 

smells of invited smoke & pine 

not invaded smoking sky where 

the windows flicker with candlelight 

& shellings & tomorrow 

I will bake gingerbread & fry latkes 

& light the candles 

forbidden in my Soviet childhood 

tomorrow I will pray 

to a god I don’t believe in 

for more miracle tomorrow 

I will still have been born 

from darkness & wick & tonight 

when I lift my daughter 

to place the silver star on the highest branch 

& my American mother— 

in-law takes a photo 

the only light will be the yellow— 

blue horizon of the flag 

frozen in the window behind us 

—from Poets Respond

The Poet’s Comment

“The missiles continue to fall on Ukraine. Millions lose power and heat and even water. It is well below freezing all across the country. On Christmas Eve, when many families in the US and around the world gather around a tree decorated by hundreds of lights, in my birthplace, Ukraine, this day will mark ten months of brutal, full-scale war. It is too easy to grow used to the barrage of terrible news, too easy to forget that during this time of celebration, suffering continues. If you are able, consider contributing to an aid organization that helps those who are in Ukraine and refugees trying to flee. I recommend Ukraine TrustChain, an all volunteer-run nonprofit started by Ukrainian immigrants in the US, they work with local volunteers on the ground, going directly into areas hard to reach by larger international organizations. TrustChain provides urgent food, medical supplies, and transportation to safer regions.” (web)             Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach

*Andi's Disclaimer

Please do your own research if you are interested in either Ukraine TrustChain or Rattle. I am not endorsing sites or soliciting funds!! Just sharing my own commitment to poetry and to Ukraine at a time when the global community struggles to find “Peace on Earth” in any measure. 

Perhaps through our individual actions, we can collectively offer peace and human-to-human “Goodwill” as this difficult year comes to an end. Maybe next year we will be able to say with certainty, "A Great Miracle Happened Here."  Amen.

Here, There, and Back Again (July 20) and Again (Nov 9)

July 20: It's been a while. And I have much to share. But not yet. For now I just want to establish the basics (for myself as much as for you): As long as pens and paper exist, I am a writer in my own ink, with or without a blog or a brand, an online presence or mysterious absence, a hook or an arc or a rhyme. And when I retire from my day job, sometime soon I'll revisit this space regularly and craft it into something new. Until then.... Nov 9: I retired on October 6, 2022. Since then, I've been taking two online poetry classes per week, walking in the neighborhood, cooking and baking, reading anything I want to read (novels, poetry, the newspaper, other people's blogs, magazines, journals, short stories, non-fiction... and insurance policies, bank statements, change of address forms [we moved], email, texts, postcards, writers on writing, etc.). I've been writing, sorting files, hanging pictures, grocery shopping, and making travel plans. And following up with my medical oncologist who has declared me to be cancer free [post-chemo, post-surgery]. I haven't decided yet what I want this blog to do or to be in 2023 and beyond, but I can promise new content and maybe a new look. Hasta luego....

 

A Valentine for My Mother, Marlene

Andi and her Mom in 1987--Marlene was 56

Although my maternal grandmother lived to age 108 and joked about her age, my vibrant mother--a woman of strong faith and will--died at age 75 of Multiple Systems Atrophy (MSA), a fatal neurodegenerative disease from which she suffered for almost 10 years.

MSA patients initially present with Parkinsonian symptoms, but quickly decline into extreme pain, muscular paralysis, physical deterioration, and non-responsiveness to medical treatment. Within a few years of being diagnosed with MSA (after a few years of unsuccessful treatments for Parkinson's Disease), my mother became house-bound, permanently confined to bed, and ultimately admitted to what turned out to be long-term hospice care because there was no cure, not even an experimental drug or procedure. Throughout this ordeal, her vital organs and mind continued functioning normally, but her brain was no longer producing sufficient dopamine, and as a result, her body became rigid, her head painfully angled down and sideways, her neck twisted permanently in pain.

Eventually, my mom could not move voluntarily, with the exception of blinking her eyes and moving her index finger. She could still speak, but only with tremendous effort, and swallowing was extremely difficult, limiting her intake of food and water. She indicated that she did not want a feeding tube, but somehow, near the end, after she could no longer voice objection, she was fitted with a feeding tube and ventilator.

Even though I lived hundreds of miles from her home, I was able to regularly visit my mother during those years. One day when I was alone with her in the bedroom that had become her universe, and with great difficulty after an 8-year illness, she cleared her throat a few times to get my attention. I leaned in closely to hear her. Slowly and with great determination, she managed to say, “If   I   were   a   dog,   you   would   have   put   me   down   already.” 

    ...with my Mom on her 75th birthday, 2006, seven months before she died

She was right. Had she been the family's beloved old Laborador or suffering Boston Terrier instead of our mother, we would have wrapped her in a warm blanket and taken her to the vet for a final, loving, humane act to end her suffering. Yet such an option was unavailable to her or to her doctors. Instead, the doctors, the hospice caregivers, and we, as family, could do nothing. She lingered in pain and dismay for two more years—knowing that there was no cure possible, no future ahead but more suffering and eventual, agonizing death.

The last time I saw my mother, a few weeks before she died, I had the opportunity once again to be alone with her, by her bedside. I held her hand while she alternately slept and stared (she no longer had any normal facial affect). Then suddenly she made eye contact with me, squeezed my hand, and began to speak. She attempted to form words, but I struggled to make sense of the sounds. Imagining profound “last words,” I put my ear to her lips and heard her say, “Wipe…my…nose.” I looked at her face; sure enough, clear liquid drained from her nostril onto her lower lip. I pulled a tissue from the nightstand box and gently wiped her nose. I never heard her voice again and returned home, two states away, not knowing whether I would ever see her again.

And then she was gone. After choking on her own saliva and secretions, in the back seat of the car en route to the emergency room, she gave a final agonized gasp, turned blue, and died. I don’t know why her husband and not an ambulance was transporting her. By then, she had no options, no choice. Mercifully, she died then, before any medical professional had the opportunity to intervene, "save her life," and prolong agony.

I wished then, and continue to wish now, that she had lived in a State where doctors and pharmacists were allowed to help her exercise her right to a good death after fighting so long to live a good life. Hospice is wonderful standard of care upheld by compassionate medical professionals and dedicated volunteers. In my mother's case, well-intended palliative care--designed to keep her alive at all costs--denied her a peaceful, dignified, end of life. She was trapped, not only by  a failing body, but by a healthcare system that failed to "do no harm" and by a social contract whereby our suffering pets are afforded more humane treatment than our beloved humans.  

Thinking of you, Mom, this Valentine's Day.  With love, always.

*    *    *

From the 2/18/21 Albuquerque Journal’s front page:   Lawmakers consider end-of-life options bill

https://www.abqjournal.com/2360801/lawmakers-consider-endoflife-options-bill.html

Rabbit Sun, Lotus Moon

After a long blogging absence, I am jumping into the second half of 2018 with Rabbit Sun, Lotus Moon! My second collection of poetry arrived on the scene (thanks to Mercury Heartlink) in 2017, but I am only just now shining the light on it via this blog.

I invite you to listen to this podcast 2018 radio (KSJE) interview (with Traci HalesVass) about the book. Thanks!

Andi