We'll Get There Someday

 Insert embarrassed awkward face emoji here. 

I think, at this point, that I can no longer apologize for my absences. Nothing is wrong -- I am just reeeeaaaaaaalllllly busy. So busy. My brain is full, and I have no time for extra thoughts, or ruminations, or speculations, or writing Stuff That I'm Thinking About. 

If I had time, I'd be a little sad about that. 

I'll be done with the Time-Occupying BONANZA OF DOOM eventually. And we'll resume our chats. I look forward to that. 

----

Two nights ago, I dreamt that I was with some people. I'm not sure what we were doing -- waiting for something, or hanging about before going somewhere else, perhaps. The clearest part of the dream was that I was leaning up against another person who was sitting on an elevated place, so I could rest my elbows on their bent knees. They were comfortable, and I was comfortable. And most noticeable of all, was a complete absence of self-consciousness, or concern that they were annoyed or uncomfortable with my proximity, or bothered by my being there. I felt warm and at ease, and I had the impression that they were glad I was there, and that they felt protective of me. They did not need anything from me, and nothing in particular needed to be done at that moment. We were just There.

It was...

a dream.

And it was lovely. 

Mr. Troublepuffs

 I realize that while I have devoted a post to Stretch the tuxedo cat, I have not done so for the feral tabby who visits the back yard snacks. And so, let me provide more information on Tall Kitty. 

He is very shy and only comes in the dark of night. It's hard to tell what color he is from the pictures, but he's quite gray (much like one of Offspring the Third's kitties), from the few times we have seen him in the porchlight. 

He seems abnormally tall for a kitty (or perhaps Offspring the Third's gray kitty is just... particularly stubby?). 

He's got a bit of a baby face, but he seems to be full grown. 

He and the skunks appear to be buddies -- or at least acquaintances.

He's quite cautious and looks around a lot while eating. 

And he really has a magnificent fur pattern.

Finally, we are sure he is a boy, because one photo -- which I won't share here, because it's a bit up close and personal -- has a clear view of his nethers, and his visible... troublepuffs make it quite apparent that he's not neutered. It's more than I ever knew about feline gonads previously.  Learn something knew every day! 

On the bright side, the tuxedo kitty has an ear clipped, indicating that it has been part of a TNR (trap, neuter and release) program -- so even if she is a girl, at least they will not be burdened with an excess of new teeny kitties. That's too much to ask for a feral kitty. 

Stay well, Tall Kitty. We'll make sure you have plenty of snacks. 

Carbo-meme

 Hahahaha sigh. 

All the Way Across the Sky

It had rained just a tiny bit (though the thunder had been quite more significant), and I stepped out the front door to go fetch lettuce for the bunnies. And lo and behold, there it was, all the way across the sky. 

Lovely.

Are there Birthday Candles in Gan Eden?

 Herself speaks.

My lovely Daddy would have turned ninety-two today.  

Happy birthday, Daddy. 

I miss you. I don't want to dwell on sad things on your birthday, but I have to say that nothing is the same without you here any more. I miss your calm reliability, your dignified presence, your quiet kindness, your good humor.  I hope that wherever you are now, you are enjoying peace, beautiful music, and love all around you, and that the care that you showed people during your lifetime is returned one hundred-fold to you. 

You were an exemplary human being. If there were more people like you in the world, it would be an infinitely better place. 

Twenty-Five

 Herself speaks.

It has been twenty-five years since the planes crashed into the twin towers.

I remember where I was when I heard:  I had just parked down the block from the grade school, and was walking Offspring the First and Offspring the Second to class (Offspring the Third being too young to go to school yet), when another mother just ahead of me on the sidewalk said something about it. It didn't seem possible or too serious, yet.

Oh, how little we knew then. 

The unimaginable unfolded over the course of the morning, and by the time I fetched Offspring the First and Offspring the Second at the end of the school day, the world was never the same. 

-----

It is still horrifying to see photographs from September 11. The World Trade Center and New York City, the Pentagon, the Flight 93 field. It will never not be shocking. I always think of the statement by Obi-wan Kenobi in Star Wars, when he says: "I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened." The ghosts from that day, in those places, will forever remain. 

We remember the lost, and we honor them. 

Godspeed.

For The Birds

 The birds have been quite adept at tidying up any dropped kitty food on the patio. And then some. 

Inside Friends

 While we are viewing kitty pictures, let us enjoy some pictures of Offspring the Third's kitties, who are paying us a visit. 

One inside kitty supervises outside tuxedo kitty. 

Comfy kitty. 

Comfy kitty, again. 

Two kitties momentarily sharing a nest. 

Pensive kitty. 

Kitty on a teeny couch.

Comfy couch.

Stretch

Allow me to give you a more detailed introduction to the tuxedo cat who started the kitty-food-buffet on the back patio. 

She (I am assuming) did us the kindness of relaxing very near the camera the other day, so that we could get a good view of her face. When she is feeling serene, she stretches -- including a stretch of all of the toe beans -- before departing from the yard. 

I have an inordinate fondness for her. I cannot try to domesticate her, because we have Offspring the Third's kitties inside and cannot add a further kitty to the mix, but I will do my best to ensure that she has a safe place to stay in the yard, and food and water readily available.

Good kitty. 

Weaponized Silence

 Herself speaks.

Let's talk about Silence. 

On the one hand, I enjoy -- and require -- silence: the kind of quiet that exists when the house is empty except for me and a few pets; when there is not traffic, nor leaf blowers, nor vacuuming pressing the ear, when there is no television, nor news, nor intrusion of the outside world. Perhaps a bit of rain, or the wind whispering -- that adds to, rather than subtracts from, the silence. 

On the other hand, too much silence -- or silence at the wrong time -- is oppressive. When silence stretches beyond comfort into loneliness, it becomes very loud in an enclosed space.  And when silence blossoms where I have expected (or at least hoped for) communication (whether electronic or verbal), that, for me, is the worst of all. 

In this era of immediate availability via phone, text, and email, it is very easy to become frustrated without a prompt response. Nevertheless, it's important to remember with whom one is corresponding. The vast majority of my Important People generally do not reply speedily: Beloved Husband, the Offspring, Cherished Friend, my siblings -- they all are extremely busy and (especially for those who do not live right here), may not return a message within minutes, or an hour, or a day or two. I spend a lot of time consciously reminding myself that a lack of communication does not mean that they do not care. 

I do not always succeed, though, for there is a monster that sits inside this kind of silence, and whispers in the smallest yet most clearly audible voice, every time: they do not answer because they do not care. They have no interest in what you have to say. You are bothering them. You are making them uncomfortable by trying to talk to them when they clearly do not want to talk to you. They would be happy if you left them alone. They do not want to hear from you. This is a Terrible Silence. And it is nearly unbearable. 

-----

When I was young, there were certain adults within my extended orbit who utilized The Silent Treatment on others. It was very confusing. To have to guess what a Deliberate Silence meant -- sometimes with accompanying Significant Glances -- was always next to impossible. The only thing that was clear, was that the person at whom the Silence was directed had done something Wrong, and that they were somehow expected to know what it was and magically make amends without a word being said. To question why Silent Treatment was happening, was somehow a further victimization of the offended person who had initiated the Silent Treatment in the first place, and further Problems would ensue in that case. 

I could never figure it out. Silence was weaponized in this horrible way, and I did not know how to address it. 

I resolved to always try to be straightforward in my communication. And I have tried. Over time, though, I have ever so slowly learned that various permutations of Silent Treatment -- including Hiding From Conversation, Deflecting/Denying Involvement, Walking Away, DARVO, and Just Saying Nothing -- exist. It's all a horror. Terrible Silence in myriad forms. 

And so, I have a visceral horror of Terrible Silence. Not the cosy, home-y, baking cookies on a rainy day Silence, but the abandoning, indifferent Silence that is filled with that negative whispering Voice. 

What can I do to avoid this kind of Terrible Silence? I cannot put "RSVP" on every communication -- that's just silly -- and making the assumption that a communication has been received and read, without any indicia thereof ("read receipt" does not always apply), does not truly provide enough knowledge about the fate of the communication to satisfy the need to be heard. The awkwardness of sitting in person and waiting for someone to say something in response is unparalleled, too. 

I am slowly resorting to "saying less." It is definitely NOT an ideal solution, because I say less and less about what is important to me to the people I care most about. But if I don't communicate (orally or via the written word), I don't risk bothering them and triggering a Terrible Silence so reminiscent of a Weaponized Silence. 

Weaponized Silence is cruel. I still know people who use it. I will never be one of them. 

On Skunks, Scars, and Boxes of Grief

 Herself speaks.

I think that I should give up on apologizing for taking so long to get back to regular posting. Gentle readers, you know I am sorry. There's just been... a lot in the way. Let's play catch-up, shall we? 

-----

Fifty-nine.

So, I turned fifty-nine years old early last month.  Fifty-nine isn't in and of itself a bad thing.  It's still in the 50s.  The problem with fifty-nine is that SIXTY looms so ominously on the horizon. How can this be? Surely it's not less than a year until I hit the sixth decade. That's the point when newspapers start referring to us as an elderly woman or an elderly man in articles.  Lord help us.  I'm not ready to think about that yet. The birthday itself was fine, as far as birthdays go -- though (at my choosing) the focus of the day was primarily on a celebration for Offspring the Third, who was leaving town the following day.  Good luck with your endeavor, Offspring the Third! We love you and are incredibly proud! 

Thirty-five.

Beloved Husband and I celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary in the middle of last month. That's 59% of my entire life that we've been married (a nice coincidence with my 59th birthday).  My Mother, who is still adjusting to the fact that she turned eighty-nine earlier this year, commented, "I can't believe I am old enough to have a child who has been married thirty-five years!" Yes indeed. Where did the time go? 

Beloved Husband and I celebrated with a nice quiet dinner at a new restaurant nearby (and we went on the early side -- because Lord Help Us, we are getting Old), a few gifts (he outdid himself this year in thoughtful and interesting presents), and some time together that did not involve Work. Nice. Who could ask for anything better? 

Scars misbehaving.

I feel at this point that I should be on a first-name basis with everyone at the dermatologist's office, due to the frequency with which I cross their threshold.  While I was there, I had one of my scars -- the one on my chest from a basal cell carcinoma removal -- checked. It's doing something funny. A bit red and raised midline. What does it mean? 

Fortunately, it does not appear to be a recurrence (unlike the most recent precancerous spot, which I had to have frozen again, because who doesn't love a little liquid nitrogen on their face?). It's most likely a suture granuloma, which means that one of the internal stitches hasn't quite dissolved yet, and my immune system doesn't like having it there and is objecting.  We'll have to wait and see what it does -- will it go away on its own? Will it need a steroid injection? Nothing is ever easy.  I don't particularly enjoy having extra-visible scars. Visible, fine. Extra-visible because problematic and possibly inviting questions... notsomuch. 

What's with the boxes?

The boxes are metaphorical. They are boxes of grief: each box contains a person, a concept, a wish that I am letting go and grieving. I am trying so hard to compartmentalize them, so that I can mentally tackle them one at a time. Sometimes the boxes overflow and the bits and pieces get jumbled together and I have to re-sort everything all over again. 

There's one tidy box, and that is my lovely Daddy's grief box. His picture sits on my desk at work, and I say "Hi, Daddy" each day when I sit down. Missing him is not as acute as it once was -- it's the absence of one instrument in the orchestra of life. Every now and then I dream of him, and it's so bittersweet to hear his voice. I hope I never forget what it sounded like. 

There is a box adjacent to Daddy's box: that one is a box of What-Once-Was that I must also let go. In that box are items that remind me about how things used to be. These items surface, for example, when I double-check his email once a month and pay Mom's bills; or when Mom talks about her current activities and friends an busy schedule; or when Offspring the Third is off on his new adventures to places where Daddy once traveled, and Daddy is not there to talk with him about his own adventures in the same places once upon a time. This What-Once-Was box is a messy box, frequently and unexpectedly spilled, oftentimes by something small that someone else says or does in passing. It's taking a lot of time to tidy up. 

There's another box: the I Broke My Rose-Colored Glasses box (we'll call it the Reality Box for short). Since the multitude of terribles of the past few years, I have worked more at looking at my life as an observer, rather than getting caught in the wishful-thinking-inside-place where I'd been living.  It's been very eye opening.  The biggest lesson so far, relates to People: 

People are who they are, and everyone has limitations. No matter what we want, we cannot actually will them to do anything. We must take what is offered, and that is all that we can get. 

Thus, the Reality Box. The grief inside this box relates to relinquishing hopes that are attached to other people: wishes that they will behave a certain way, or take certain actions under certain circumstances; that they will remember certain things that are important to me but which are practically irrelevant to them. These things will not happen. I need to let go. 

This box is a tricky box because just when I think I have put something away neatly inside the box, I find it again outside the box and need to put it back all over again. A Sisyphean task. 

And so you see, with the juggling of all the boxes, writing ends up being a very low priority. That's not my intention, because I do love to write. Someday, when I have finally gotten a solid grip on my boxes, I will be able to write more. 

There was something about skunks?

On the bright side, I have a new hobby!

About a month ago, one night I looked out the front door and there was a tuxedo cat standing at the end of the walkway, looking at me.  It had something to tell me, though I didn't know what. 

I began putting out a small bowl of kitty food and some water in the back of the house, in case the cat was feral and in need. And I put out one of the cameras I had from years ago to monitor the bunnies, to keep an eye on activity at the kitty bowl. 

And wildlife observation began!

As best we can tell, we have several regulars: tuxedo cat; a spotty tabby cat who is oddly tall; a bunch of birds of assorted sizes and shapes; and (we think) FIVE skunks -- two large adult skunks; two little skunks who always appear together (Frick and Frack); and one small skunk who appeared once or twice with one of the large skunks, and now appears alone.  According to the Googles, at this time of year, juvenile skunks are learning how to forage and starting to go out on their own, so my best guess is, we have two mother skunks, one of whom has Frick and Frack babies, and the other has a singleton baby, and they all live nearby (where, I have no idea). 

It's surprisingly polite at the kitty food bowl. Everyone has their regular time to have a bit of kitty food; there is no fighting (though the birds squawk at one another sometimes); it's tidy and there is no poop. And no skunk smell!  We do not go out when anyone is getting a snack -- they are all feral, and do not need human contact. (Plus skunks are a vector for rabies. No, thanks. Yikes.) The skunks are so cute. And surprisingly small, except for the tails.

We'll see what happens come winter. I may put a kitty house out, up on legs so the kitties can get in safely but the skunks cannot. We don't really want a giant pile of skunks wintering in the yard.

I shall include here, a few representative pictures, and then (hopefully) will be able to entertain you with additional wildlife observation photos in the future. It brings me a few molecules of joy, and that is a delightful thing. 

 

One of Offspring the Third's kitties peeks out the window at the solitary juvenile skunk.

Big skunk having a snack.

Frick and Frack.

Spotty tabby kitty.

The original tuxedo kitty who started it all. 

Arachnid

She was a beauty, the black widow we came across while tidying Offspring the Third's metal yard.  SO BIG. 

I couldn't bring myself to squash her. All God's creatures.

 

2,555

Two thousand, five hundred fifty-five days.

 That's seven years.

A little bit of some form of DuoLingo, every day. 

I'm far from perfect, but I'm consistent. Pat on the back - well done, me. 

Longing

 An older earworm has resurfaced: Harry Styles' cover of Girl Crush. I'm not entirely sure why this particular song is so VERY stuck in my head right now, but it is. Let's contemplate. 

Work has been extremely busy (painfully so), and it's been hard to take a moment to breathe or to seek a moment of zen. I'm plowing through the Things That Need Doing, and I am retaining my patience and my (relative) fortitude. There is precious little time, however, for empathy, sympathy, gentle kindliness, the kinds of sentiments that used to be so important to me.  Am I hardened? Or am I just... tired? Cannot pour from an empty cup. I'm holding on to the feelings that are too personal and too precious to give away right now. 

Girl Crush gives me a moment to feel a few feelings for which there is no time (or no space), the kind of feelings that were so in depth back in the days of youth. I miss the purity and intensity of the longing, the wanting, the wishing for the other person's presence -- a wish so fierce, it burned the edges of the heart. I did not know that those times were the blessedly simple times, before Responsibility became my constant companion in Life. 

Perhaps Girl Crush reminds me of the days when I could put all else aside and think about Love. 

I wish for all of you, the kind of Love that Harry Styles sings of -- but let it be requited, and let it be unencumbered by the follies and foibles of Life. Everyone should be so fortunate. 

Just a Foot Away

 Herself speaks.

I tried to get back in the saddle of writing again, but Mom Duty became paramount:  Offspring the Third, in the course of conducting an act of service (always a Good Egg, he is), sprained his foot quite badly. Immediate Facilitate-His-Life Mode activated accordingly. We've gone to the ER, to the Primary Care Doctor, to the foot specialist; ensured his abode is set up for mobility with crutches and/or rolling about on his desk chair; groceries; anything else concrete he might have needed. Moral support for feeling incapacitated. It was a lot for him, to be in pain, to have mobility issues, to not be able to do much, and I was glad to be able to be there. Everyone should have company when things are a bit Terrible.

He's doing better now: he can walk in The Boot (we all know The Boot that comes with a foot/ankle injury), is feeling much less pain, can sleep better, get things done. Progress!

So -- I'm diving back in. Again. Wheeee!

MEOW MEOW

Fine dining, with kitties. 

Beware

I have questions....

Look at that Bird

 Herself speaks. 

There's a term in relationship-speak referred to as a "bid for connection": a verbal (or nonverbal) attempt to get another person's attention, affection, support, or interaction. The term was apparently popularized by John and Julie Gottman, who are "relationship researchers" (that feels, in the words of movie Hermione Granger, like a "very woolly discipline"). 

I've seen the bid for connection recently on TikTok, described as the "look at that bird" experiment: one person says to their partner/significant other, "look at that bird!" What does the other person do? Do they look? Comment? Research the type of bird? Relay their own bird story? The level of resultant interaction based on the initial "bid" provides the asker information about their relationship with the ask-ee (and also about the state of mind of the ask-ee at that particular moment, to be sure; can't make sweeping generalizations from a single bird moment). It's an interesting idea.

I've spent some time watching my own Bid activity with my own People. It looks like this: if I can, I try to feel people out before I even get to the Bid stage -- will they be amenable to conversation or interaction? Are they busy? Are they mired in their own Stuff? Is this even a moment to point out, "look at that bird!" Assuming I can make an assessment and deem the Bid winds to be favorable, I send forth a Bid. If I am feeling brave, I may blindly send out a Bid without such knowledge. Either way, I know full well that it may be hours before a response appears, but hope all the same for eventual connection. 

I've discovered: I don't even get to the Bid stage much of the time; and when I do, so very many Bids go unanswered. 

It's a bit discouraging.

My People are so involved in their own Things that (my impression is) very often, a Bid will be unsuccessful or possibly even unwelcome. Everyone is either too busy, or disinterested, or in need of their own emotional support, or promptly vacates a conversation to attend to other matters. (In the latter case, I am torn between feelings of, thank you for acknowledging my Bid however briefly, compared to, having a truncated Bid feels worse than "I see your Bid but can't talk now, let's talk later when I can give you my full attention." No one says that and follows through, though.) 

I don't want to be a burden, or a bother. Can't just blurt stuff out Bid-wise when people don't have the headspace for it. And so I am slowly becoming more and more silent.

When a Bid is not picked up but just dangles there, out in the wild, waiting, I feel awkward. Unanswered small questions litter my texts and my environs, like dry oak leaves stirring with my steps. I scurry away from my one-sided conversations, and go hide. Never mind. I'll be (more) quiet now. 

Does no one have any extra bandwidth right now? Am I just... not compelling enough for people to ask what's on my mind or in my heart, or what bird is outside my window? 

It's hard not to take it personally. I know they're busy.

Should I take it personally? Maybe it's me. 

Maybe No One wants to hear what I have to say. There's a certain complexity/sorrow/depth to thoughts and feelings lately. Most people aren't comfortable with that. OK, then.

Send me a Bid and I'll listen, though. Tell me about your Birds. 

Puzzling

Beloved Husband and a couple of his friends went a-motorcyling by the Grand Canyon recently. They seem to have enjoyed it very much. (And they all work hard and deserve some relaxation and scenic vistas -- so good for them. It's important to take time for oneself.) 

He brought back a teeny puzzle from a gift shop, and we worked on it one evening. It has been approximately a hundred thousand years since I've worked on a puzzle, and I'd forgotten how satisfying puzzles can be. It was pleasant for us to undertake it together, especially since we so rarely are able to spend time on projects together that aren't Work projects. 

It was tricky, but we succeeded. Hooray! 

I Feel A Little Uncomfortable

A little while back, I attended a service at a Catholic Church. (I'm always vaguely surprised that lightning doesn't strike when I set foot inside, for I am very much a lapsed Catholic. I enjoy the readings and the rituals and the liturgy, and many aspects of the faith; I do not enjoy some of the very terrible history and cruelty and general exclusionary nature of the Church, not to mention the questionable hierarchy and misogyny and hidden abuse and other Issues.) It was a lovely church, with beautiful stained glass and interesting statues. 

One thought, though: why is Our Lord and Savior so... unclothed? How are we supposed to sit in worship with bare-torso-ed Jesus floating above us like that? It's distracting, frankly. He needs a shirt. If I could knit (or even sew), I would make clothes for our Lord.

Watch

I had previously used my FitBit as my watch for years. Now that I have a new streamlined FitBit (a FitBit Air) which does not have a face, I need to wear an actual watch. And it's a great opportunity for me to wear my excellent Snoopy watches, which I love. It's a little strange to wear an analog watch. Still -- Snoopy is always a happy thing.

Happy Father's Day

Today we celebrate Beloved Husband, for his role as patriarch of our little nuclear family and father to the Offspring. Happy Father's Day, Beloved. I know how much you love the Offspring and how you want the best for them, always. They are like you in many ways -- work ethic, kindness toward others, joie de vivre. Eyelashes. Interested in extended family lore. They are Good People, brought to this world with your help. Thank you. 

-----

I also reminisce about my lovely Daddy. Father's Day becomes harder, not easier, as time goes by. Perhaps it is a bell curve, and we have not yet hit the nadir. 

-----

 I keep four photos on my desk at work: one of Beloved Husband and I, from the week before we were married (ah, so beautiful, the promise of a lifetime together to come); one of the three Offspring, taken at Offspring the Third's high school graduations (my beautiful Offspring, all fledged adults -- what pride I have in them, and what hope for their futures); one small one of Cherished Friend and I together, from my last visit to Oceanside (a small photo, because we both hate having our picture taken, but nevertheless present, because friendship is a sheltering tree, and it is nice to have that reminder when workdays are hard); and front and center, my Daddy and I, smiling together, looking alike, a moment captured in time, never to happen again. 

-----

The other night, I had a dream: I picked up a phone, and there was a voicemail message. It was from my Daddy, and it was his voice, clear as it ever was, speaking the first four words with which he began every message: Hi (nickname), it's Daddy. I woke up, knowing that the voice was a ghost, and haunted by the clarity with which it was his voice, that I can no longer hear except while sleeping. 

-----

Some days, I do not know what to do with myself. So much love, and nowhere to put it. Especially for Daddy. I don't think I told him enough how much I appreciated everything he did for me. 

I hope he knew. 

Happy Father's Day, Daddy, wherever you are. 

Pause the Pause

Back in March or so (good gravy, so many things going on in March), I started up again with hot flashes.  Wheeeeee ewwww. Last time I had hot flashes was about two years ago -- a month of feeling VERY SUDDENLY HOT on occasion. Eventually, the moments dissipated, and bloodwork showed that no, I was not in fact entering menopause at all. Oy. I wondered: could this be it, this time? 

I happened to have a routine maintenance appointment with my OB/GYN at the end of the month (convenient timing), so I mentioned the situation, and left the appointment with orders for bloodwork to see what my hormone levels said now.  

Because April and May were busy, I delayed getting the tests done. But lo and behold, after about a month of feeling VERY SUDDENLY HOT on occasion, the flashes just... stopped. Back to your lives, citizens. Nothing to see here. 

With the bonanza that was the heart monitor, though, I thought it would be helpful to run those tests to ensure that there wasn't some perimenopausal source for my FitBit data. 

And.... nope. 

We're still doing the regular, non-menopausal thing. Which, all things considered, is good for my bones and my overall heart health. A little frustrating, given the body's firm desire to disallow overriding any attempts to shut down periodic cycling, still. But OK.

Do what you must, body. I only live here. 

We love off the mark dot com. 
Because it is, really, on the mark.

Hearty

 Back in April, my FitBit -- which I've worn regularly since the days of The Plague -- announced to me that it had noticed a high heart rate at a time when I was inactive. 

Well, that's not right.

I wasn't particularly alarmed. Nevertheless, in view of the family history of aFib, it certainly warranted mentioning to a doctor. Fortunately, I had a follow-up appointment within a few days to get the results of my cardiac stress test (ah, manteca dreams), so the timing was fortuitous. 

Good news: the stress test was clear. Yay me!

It was decided to run a thirty-day heart monitor to see whether any other aberrations like the one identified by the FitBit appeared.  And so that was done. (I'll leave out some significantly annoying petty details, because they are all water under the bridge now; suffice it to say, some customer service people were helpful in accomplishing the monitor, and some were VERY MUCH not.) 

The technology was interesting, and all-in-all relatively easy to use/convenient-ish. Not too uncomfortable, though a tad sweaty, and poke-y on the cleavage. Hard to shower without worrying about damaging the adhesive. Oy.

Results showed nothing alarming. The monitor did not pick up any further spikes like the one found by the FitBit (even though the FitBit itself identified some spikes in the same time frame). It did show one moment of "bunny ears" (comical, given the number of rabbits in my house) where my heart apparently tried to go into a right bundle branch block, but that appears to be an incidental finding and not of concern. 

In short: nothing to see here, citizens. Move along.

My FitBit has anxiety, maybe? Who knows.

So, moving forward: I opted to get a different FitBit; switch it to my other arm; and not be concerned. I can do either depression or anxiety, and depression has chosen me, so no time for anxiety. We'll see whether the new FitBit provides any interesting data -- it may be completely different data, because the FitBit platform has also changed significantly just recently, incorporating new AI technology (AI: it's everywhere). 

I think my heart might just need a little bit more love. 

Lippy

Because we wouldn't want too long to lapse between the times that I need to visit the dermatologist, I had yet another biopsy of a suspicious spot back in March. Everything turned out fine (in that the spot was pre-cancerous, not cancerous), and the shave biopsy removed the entire area of concern, so ta-daaa, all set. 

The biopsy site took what seemed like an eternity to heal, even though it was no doubt just an ordinary amount of time. Perhaps that was because it is in such an obvious place -- just a few millimeters above my lip, on the right -- or perhaps it was due to its size. There's nothing quite like watching a wee open wound on your face slowly grow smaller and very sloooooowly grow less red, to make you sad about no longer being young and cute and scar-free.

There are now five easily visible scars due to skin cancer/pre-cancer: right temple, two nose, one upper lip, one high on chest. All thinks considered, they are small, well healed (though the chest scar is a bit hypertrophic), not alarming. They might not even be particularly noticeable, depending on the degree of interest that an onlooker takes in my appearance. 

It could be so much worse. I am grateful that it is not. 

I do not enjoy dermatological difficulties. But what else can one do? On we go.  

Evolve

 Herself speaks. 

A bit after my lovely Daddy died, I cut my hair short and dyed it more red. (I used to occasionally joke that I was in my "poison dart frog" era.)  I'm sure that Freud would have a field day dissecting the innermost reasons for the change. 

There was, to be sure, an amount of Heat Miser rage embodied in the short red hair. That year -- 2023 -- was a year of So Much Terrible, of Heartache unimagined and unimaginable, that the only possible action was a complete change of appearance, a metamorphosis, an outward indicator of the difficult state within. 

The Terrible continued into 2024, to the point that I asked for pharmaceutical help in order to further process and move through all of the Things. It has been a very, very, very long road. 

Time has passed, and the Terrible has attenuated. Grief has softened somewhat, although it periodically still has very sharp edges. I have done my best to let go of what I cannot change, and to move forward in new ways. It has not been easy.

The temptation has been to harden my heart, yet that thought yields a complex feeling which fans the embers of anger: why must I be made of stone? Must my joy in being open, kind, and warm also be stolen from me, along with everything else I have lost?  

Such a delicate balancing act -- remaining guarded, yet remaining true to my inner self. And with my Offspring, my siblings, my Cherished Friend all being far away, and with Beloved Husband being so busy and so often unavailable, there are very few opportunities to safely be who I am.

I refuse to give up, though. I may have built internal walls, but I have kept a window. And I have deliberately chosen to remain soft on the inside. You'd have to look really hard to find that softness, but it is there. 

My hair reflects my choice. I've let it grow out, and have returned to a more natural brown color. I like it. It's not as angry. It's kinder. It is hair to put in a ponytail while taking care of Stuff, hair to run fingers through. 

Freud would probably have a field day about this hair choice as well. 

I'll keep it this way for a while.