I have been told on countless occasions that I am "the date guy." For what ever reason, dates seem to stick in my head. And it doesn't really matter how far back the date is. The only condition, is that it was significant for me, in one way or another. It's kind of weird, but lots of things are weird, especially in this day and age.
Yesterday happened to be one of those dates. October 6th, 2007 was the day Madonna died. No, not Madonna the singer, Madonna the mother. My mom. Even though I think about her from time to time, it certainly isn't as often as it used to be. I feel that I've worked through the grief as a result of her death, and I'm left with pleasant memories of the times we shared.
In an odd coincidence, there was an essay posted by my friend Guy at his website yesterday, and the title of the essay is, "The Seventh Stage." If you're interested, you can read it here:
http://guymcpherson.com/2015/10/the-seventh-stage/
In short, Guy has added two additional stages to Elizabeth Kübler-Ross' five stages of grief. Stage 6 is gallows humour, and stage 7 is fuck it. Now I imagine that a few readers won't appreciate the fact that I've dared to use the "f" word on my blog, but I find it both funny and appropriate.
In fact, it takes me back to thinking about my mom, on the last day that I saw her alive which was one week before she died. A broken hip had put her in the hospital, and at the age of almost 92, the odds of her coming out of the hospital weren't very good. In spite of her advanced age, modern medicine "came to the rescue" with a hip replacement. I could go off on a rant about whether or not a hip replacement was appropriate, but I won't.
So the day that I'm there at her bedside, a young lady arrives to get mom out of bed, in order to "get that new hip working." At this stage, mom was mostly just skin and bones, and to me it seemed almost cruel to get her up and out of bed and positioned in front of her "walker" in order to exercise this new hip. But I guess the young lady was just doing her job. Anyway, I'm now getting to the funny part. Her plan for my mom was to have mom walk to the end of the bed, and then continue on out into the hallway. Mom made it to the end of the bed, then a few steps more past the foot of the bed in the direction of the doorway, and it was here that I think in her mind, she just said, "fuck it" and made another left and bee-lined it back towards her bed. She had had enough of this walking business. As painful as it was to watch her struggle along, my lasting memory was the look on her face, which implied, that she wasn't going to let some young woman tell her what to do. I find myself chuckling right now, just thinking about it.
She died a week later, and even though I wasn't there by her bedside, perhaps she had decided to call it a day, and say, "fuck it" and drift off into a peaceful, painless, forever sleep.
Never in my life, did I hear my mom use the "f" word, and she only heard me use it once in front of her, which ended up causing both of us to laugh out loud, but that's a long story from a long time ago, so I'll leave it at that. Another happy mom related memory.
Getting back to my friend, Guy's essay, and in light of the bleak outlook going forward, it seems like a good time to be in the "fuck it" stage. Don't get me wrong, it doesn't mean giving up, it just means trying to appreciate even more, each moment.
So on that note, here are a couple of photos and videos showing how I appreciate the moments. Enjoy.
A WEST COAST BEACH HERE IN NANOOSE BAY
_KAIN, THE HUSKY I MET A FEW DAYS AGO
CHUMLEE PLAYING WITH HIS GREEN STRAW
Spending time with animals like Kain, and Chumlee, helps to reinforce the idea of how valuable being in the present moment really is. It's not easy (for us human animals), but it is certainly worth it. And just look at how much fun you can have. Right Chumlee?
Happy Trails,
Paul
The Thoughtful Wanderer
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