Randomly organized thoughts on a randomly organized virus. #1

March 29,2020

First morning thoughts.  What if we were never able to hug one another again? Maybe one of us died, maybe we will have instilled within us a fear so deep that we are terrified to reach out, literally.  What if COVD-19 continues to mutate at warp speed, becoming more and more virulent and destructive?  What if?  The list of thoughts and probabilities seems endless.  Already, it looks like people feel they will run out of food.  Despite shelter-in-place orders here on O’ahu, grocery store parking lots are at near capacity.  Are all these people getting “essentials?” I wonder. Take that back:  I am certain they are not. The militant in me wants to enforce stricter guidelines, but I see now how laughable that is; I have the blood of greed on my own hands.  Perhaps the only difference is that I’m aware of it.  It is not easy to sit with fear, to invite it in, to have a chat.

I had played out the trajectories in my own mind, before the cases mounted.  I wondered why widespread (even random) testing wasn’t carried out weeks ago to get an early handle on this.  Or why we kept letting planes go in and out to save our economy instead of our asses.  And now, I see those far smarter than I have come to the same conclusions, likely before me, but I am only reading about it now.  If we fail at social distancing, and COVID-19 spreads and infects relentlessly, let those who have recovered and have shown immunity go back into the workforce to perform the essential duties. Train them, pay them, do whatever it takes.  At the very least, protect those who are out there putting their lives on the line. 

I also woke up wondering why we are the only species on the planet that needs toilet paper.

Just a Little Halloween Poison

For years, I’ve avoided ingesting things I couldn’t pronounce. Stuff like methylchloroisothiazolinone. Because of this, my children have suffered permanent emotional damage. In my attempts to protect them from harm, they were ridiculed by classmates for bringing unidentifiable lunch items, viscous brown smoothies with blackstrap molasses and brewers yeast, and other nutritious but horrifying-to-look at treats. One daughter, to this day, tells some of these tales to friends as I, the elderly mother, sit silently with a sheepish grin on my face. The tale of the swollen ticks, for example. 

Food coloring was on my “you can’t eat this” list. Not wanting to be extreme, I allowed sweets and candies from time to time. Here’s what would happen: A bag of M&Ms would be placed in a small container and soaked in water until the color came off. I’d say, “Look! THIS is what you could have ingested!” They would look at the grayish-brown effluvium as it journeyed down the sink. The M&Ms would then be carefully laid out to dry on paper towels. When ready to eat, they looked a bit like swollen ticks, I do admit now. But back then, I was doing my due diligence to protect my children. 

By child #4, Lunchables were found in everyone’s lunchbox, as were pre-packaged Capri-Suns and unhealthful goodies galore. I suppose I gave up. I figured if three children had not died from alar-tainted apple juice, preservatives, chemicals, additives, and other unseen evils that other people gave them despite my threats and ranting, I might as well relent. And every one of my children is alive today, resurrecting stories of their strange, eccentric mother who often did outlandish things. 

I admit, I have a serious sweet tooth. And, I like sales. After-holiday sales are my favorites. Just yesterday I hit AJ’s Fine Foods, an upscale market in Tucson. As I entered, there was a decorative Halloween table full of half-priced treasures. I don’t care if I’m 61, I’m 6 inside when it comes to Halloween. Like a pirate discovering treasure, I surveyed my find. I could have gone overboard if I had carried too much loot away, so I took only a few precious items: ghoul bobble-head and blood-filled syringe pens for work; two kid-packs of Jelly Belly’s; two small scented bat candles; owl napkins. I reluctantly put back the Frankenstein paper plates, the Dia de los Muertos skeleton musicians (painful), the eyeball light-up ring. 

On my drive home, I busted open a package of Jelly Belly’s. These little flavorful jellybeans have always been on my Do Not Eat Ever list. Why? They are too pretty, too tasty, too unnatural. The other problem is that I am not a delicate eater. I should suck and savor, I know that. But I am more like a man when it comes to food. I ingest, inhale, wolf down. 

I should know better.  I was raised in Bel Air, CA and had every last ounce of proper training to appear lovely in public.  What started out innocently as charm school ended up as my entrance to society as a debutante. It grated against me then and now. I wasn’t Barbie, for God’s sake. I was and am the nameless, genderless rebel. I wanted to break the rules, go and eat candy in the woods, hold small bug and animal funerals, get dirty, be a kid. I tried my debutante-best to ration the beans by pouring the little packets into my lap, popping one at a time when I changed gears. I got to coconut and it hit me. What if…a little bit of poison is what keeps health in balance, wards off disease, safeguards sanity? What if? Seriously. A little arsenic cures syphilis. Homeopathy uses lethal plants and poisons in an infinitesimal dose to cure disease. So why not coconut jelly belly’s? 

It made me feel much better about my decision. Relax. That one thing you thought might kill you could actually save your life. One never knows. If we live long enough to become wise, we understand that we will never fully know. And that’s why it’s okay to eat Jelly Belly’s. Because they taste good and make you happy. Just buy the kid-pack. Salud!

Blurring Distinctions

Fact is often stranger than fiction and for providers of hospice care, that distinction is sometimes blurred. Few hospice nurses would argue that strange phenomena are simply part and parcel of the work. In many ways, these unexplained occurrences tell us that there are worlds within worlds and worlds beyond them. Hospice nurses are privy to the sacred and the profound.

Mr. C had come to us severely jaundiced. As in most cases of end-stage liver disease, he was partially obtunded, and his skin itched in a big way. He still had a sense of humor and I could tell that once upon a time he must have been a fun guy. During provision of bodily care, I asked him to hold my hand as I assisted him to roll on his side. He opened his eyes and fixed them on mine, saying with a weak smile “I’m going to hold on to your hand forever.” At some point I told him he needed to give me my hand back so I could care for other patients. The following day, Mr. C. was no longer able to communicate with us; he had entered through the doorway leading to death.

Hospice work can be very stressful and can take a toll emotionally, physically, mentally, and sometimes psychically. Mental health professionals would caution nurses not to take their patients home, metaphorically speaking, but to disengage when they have finished work for the day. But what happens if the patient won’t disengage?

Tossing and turning, reviewing possible causes of why sleep won’t come and steal me away, I whittle away hours on end until 4 o’clock am arrives. Was it the coffee? Did I eat too much of the wrong thing? Was I worried about something I needed to resolve? I spawned a checklist of possible sleep inhibitors and came up empty. I finally relegate my agitation to the full moon, get up, and make myself some eggs.

I return to bed and try again to sleep. It was then that I saw the image of Mr. C holding onto my hand. Remembering his words, I gently gather the light energy around us and bring it down and through our hands, releasing his grasp. I was obviously desperate for sleep, having conjured up this image as causation for my insomnia. Clearly, I had reached the bottom of my checklist barrel. Soon after, however, I fell into a deep sleep.

Reporting for duty the following day I learn that Mr. C had died. “When?” I ask. “4:55 am,” I am told. The line between the physical and subtle worlds is once again blurred. All it takes is one bold stroke from a brush laden with water from the Ocean of Existence that makes no such distinction.

I Vow

I vow to love you
But I am afraid
My heart and soul are wounded
The only team sport I play
Is on a field far from home


I only play to win
I cannot go the distance with you
Only watch from the sidelines
Making occasional comments or
Racing in to change a prop or two
I cannot truly participate
For what would happen if I bound my soul to yours
And lived as if two were one?
No, the risk is too great
I will pretend instead I have nothing to offer
And keep secure the illusion I am free

I vow to be with you
Until somewhere I’d rather be takes me away
My commitment is steadily unstable
Like vapor, my interests rise and dissipate
I make you wrong for wanting more
I minimize your intelligence and worse
Your evolution

People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones
This is true
The stones I throw shatter and destroy me
I am impoverished
Yearning to be alive in the deepest ways
I walk with fear as my companion
Abandoning courage for false security
I cannot love with abandon
Ever counting the return on my investment

I have built a compound
Of lofty ideas that will never take root
While thirsting for waters of love actualized
And out of my emptiness without you
I embrace the unthinkable

Gone Away

“I’m going to make myself an aged sharp cheddar and vine-ripened tomato grilled cheese sandwich. I’ll slather it with real Dijon mustard from Dijon, France, and pair it with a Black Butte Porter.”

And so ends another day with this kind of intimate self talk, inaudible to me and to the swarm of spirits that surround me. I hope to hit the pillow by 3 am, so I can rest enough to meet the demands of the following day with grace and presence.

As a hospice nurse, I hand off people to the arms of the Invisible, but some days, I work other places in the hospital. Yesterday evening was such a time. She was nearly 90, but still beautiful. Her blindness had come on suddenly, unexpectedly, and no cause could be found. The ashes of her former world gave rise to other worlds, most of which terrified her. I hear in report she had tried to find a way out: a telephone cord wrapped around her neck, pillows in smothering places, to name a few. I had to remember she was the one out of 20-odd patients in my care who could not see me. I remembered to speak gently, to touch softly, as I approached her. I hoped that my voice would find her somewhere, and that we would meet in a place that mattered.

Our first encounter went well enough; she opened her mouth as I spilled in the pills and raised a cup of water to her lips. I poured in an indeterminate amount of water to wash them down. Too much, and she would choke on the water; too little and she would choke on the pills. She swallowed. She now knew my name and the sound of my voice. She knew the feel of my hand upon her shoulder. I hoped that this would be the beginning of something positive. The psychiatric team had come earlier in the day to “make a deal” and get her to agree to not harm herself while in our care. I always felt that odd. I would say, “Sure, yes, I promise” then, proceed as planned. Are promises to strangers binding? Maybe better to say,

“Look, if you try to kill yourself and succeed, it is going to create a big problem for me with no end of paperwork and maybe, depending on how you kill yourself, I and countless others will be traumatized, maybe even for life. And all you will have done is created more of you, more people walking around with unresolved trauma. If you were alive, you’d have company, but you’d be dead, watching from a cloud and believe you me, you’d feel bad then. You’d feel real bad, and sad, and you couldn’t do anything about it because you’d be dead. So, don’t kill yourself, it’s just not okay. Hey, can you HEAR me?”

Later, one of the other nurses came out to find me. Mrs. L was not responding. Her hands were clenched in tight little fists, her eyes squeezed shut. I managed to get my hand in hers, as she relaxed her fingers ever so slightly to welcome this stranger she barely knew. I cast an invisible golden line into the ocean of her being to hook her soul and bind it to mine, to reel her back in, but it fell into empty waters. She had gone away. With eyes tightly shut, hands clenched, breathing even and regular, vital signs stable, she had gone away. I told her it was okay, that she could come out again, that it was me, the night nurse, and all was safe. But what did I know? The plain fact of the matter is I do know. I have gone away. I have successfully deadened all that is inside and outside of me. I have been stone cold dead and by the grace of the Invisible, have thawed from my winter of terror and re-blossomed in the spring of possibility. It is alchemy of the highest order. Some go to never return. Others visit willingly. Most are swept inside by a current they cannot control. We would all go away if our world became frightening enough.

We took her to the emergency department. Their attempts to bring her back into our world were the same as ours, only harsher. She only gave them a faint grimace and went back the way she came.

It's Still Winter Somewhere

Like a 5 year-old kid on Christmas Day, I awoke with an awe and wonder uncapped and ready to explode. Barely light, my siblings are still soundly sleeping. I take a peek into their bedroom to make sure. The door is wide open and I need a body count. Perhaps one of them is up to share in my joy. I counted—one, then two lumps under the down comforter. Careful not to wake them, I slowly retreat; gin martinis and a full-bodied Italian dinner the night before had set them into a deep rest.

I realize I am idealizing winter. But this white blanket of finery that decorates everything it touches has touched me to the core. It’s as if I am the very same as the barren tree, held up only by grace and the roots of my years of living. But I am also the great white blanket of compassion that covers the earth, the strong, majestic peaks of the snow-covered range, the infinite stretch of possibilities on the horizon.

There is a wholesome silence here, the very same silence that is of me. We resonate together, that great vast silence and my own. It comforts me and reminds me I am whole. Feeling like sacrilege, I take gentle steps as I make my way through the snow. Fear of falling on ice makes me aware that not all winter conditions are friendly. Some of them insidiously catch us unaware. But this newly fallen snow beckons me.

The sound of timid crunching underfoot is the only sound heard as I make my way toward the pasture. The horses are lined up at the trough, looking pretty much the same as they always do. No bird makes its presence known.

Out on the open plain a single cow moos somewhere in the distance: the light is coming.

Disappearing Act

Today is Easter Sunday, 2010, a day celebrated by Christians worldwide as the day when Christ rose from the dead. I appreciate the fact that he is able to do this conveniently on Sundays, each and every year, as most people have the day off.

This the ultimate disappearing act, an act where the mystery of God is revealed: Jesus dies, disappears, reappears, and ascends. This part gets really confusing. There seem to be many different accounts of how this actually happens, and we are missing plenty of details.

I have no idea why today is not called “Disappearance Day,” or DD for short. The stone was rolled away and the body of Jesus wasn’t there. Plus, even if he were raised from the dead on the 3rd day it wouldn’t be on Easter Sunday if he died on a Friday. Count the days: Friday to Saturday is one, Saturday to Sunday is two.

Resurrection and ascension are two different things. Being raised from the dead is resurrection. Ascension is where Jesus returns to heaven to live with God on a permanent basis. There is an apparent span of 40 days or so in between the two during which time Jesus “appears” to his followers. And then, poof, he’s gone.

I find it interesting that no Gospel gives a definitive accounting of the resurrection of Jesus; we are left to come up with our best guess. Nor are there precise accounts of reappearances after his death. Or why he chose to appear to some and not others. We still have this query today, over 2000 years later. What we do seem to know is that there was an empty tomb.

As was customary of the time, women would visit the tomb on the first day of the week. “Wait a second,” they said. “Who rolled this humongous stone away?” “Hey, look! He’s not here!” Apparently sometime shortly after that, Jesus appears to at least one of them (Mary Magdalene) and instructs her to inform his disciples that he is alive and well.

Jesus had a fondness for women, in very fact (if we are to believe in any of this at all), he appeared to them first. He loved Mary Magdalene, his mother, Mary, Aunt Elizabeth, Grandma Anna, and so on. Yet the Christian tradition has successfully oppressed women since his death. Well, actually before, during and after. This makes me like Jesus all the more. Blood drips out of my pores when I see so-called Christians treat women, or anyone for that matter, in a way that would have made Jesus weep. And it’s not just men who do this. Many “Christian women” look upon non-Christian women with disgust, disdain, and a truckload of judgment. And to top it off, the four gospels have it that the risen Christ commissioned women to teach men! Well, let’s just skip over that part. It’s not important. God picked a man to be his representative and that's final. Who would have believed a woman, then or now?

Like Jesus, we will all descend into the abyss before our ascension into another dimension of being, a dimension far more transcendent than any we can know in human form. Until that time, we remain on earth and watch as our loved ones disappear before our very eyes, sharing the same disbelief as the women at the tomb. And when our own bodies are whittled away by the ravages of disease, sucked dry by the vampires of bodily pain, we will no doubt find women at our sides. For women have an amazing capacity to witness, to enter into the darkness of others, and to offer a cup of love to the thirsty. It is no accident that Jesus picked them to carry the message of love.

You will not find me in church today. My resurrected Jesus will be found at the bedside of a dying friend, in the joy of a child discovering a hidden Easter egg, in the warm lick of a dog’s tongue across my cheek, and in the singing celebration of the birds.

My Easter is right here, all around me.