heartening

We had seen Calvin's seizure coming for several days. At five o'clock yesterday morning it finally arrived with a godawful, blood-curdling shriek. I half expected it to last a long time considering it had been seventeen days since his last grand mal, but it was the usual ninety seconds. Afterwards, so as to monitor his breathing, I got in bed with him. Though still little for his age, he's big enough to spoon. For an hour, I held my boy as he shivered and twitched in the wake of the fit. 

Thankfully, by late morning he seemed well enough to go for a car ride. I chose to drive the close-to-home loops in case his condition went south. At Simpson's Point, the bay was socked in by fog. Within minutes of our arrival, though, it began to lift. I took it as a good omen that things might be looking up.

Despite my son's chronic condition amid pandemic miseries, I've been heartened by other events of late: the ongoing efforts of some amazing people to get Calvin vaccinated sooner than later; vaccine appointments for me and Michael this coming Saturday; the promise of longer, warmer days for gardening and barbecuing; an offer by Calvin's already-vaccinated former aide to help take care of him in the coming weeks; a seeming decrease in Calvin's overall seizures; cardinals announcing themselves on the tops of trees; an unforeseen and out-of-context greeting with the Carhart three-dog walker smiling and bicycling past me and Smellie as we strolled down our street; a serendipitous and safely-distant yet close encounter with the runner as he rounded a sleepy backroad corner. With my window down and the heat on (an alternative version of underwater respite), he paused his workout and kindly asked how Calvin was doing (he has been reading the blog.) Calvin was in the backseat trying to eat his sock.

After my late-afternoon walk with Smellie, I sat on the front stoop for a spell to watch the world go by. I could hear Calvin stomping around inside the house with Michael; I was thankful to be off-duty for awhile. As cars and folks passed by, I found myself missing my old friend Woody. His porch—high, broad and covered—was so much better for people-watching than mine, plus it came with Woody. We'd sit there for the good part of an hour. Sometimes we'd say nothing at all. Mostly, we'd tease each other or talk about the mundane. Other times he'd listen to me grieve about my little Calvin, at times wiping my tears away. Once in a while, we'd grasp each other's hand from opposite sides of the Adirondack-style bench his son had built for him. He'd tell me that I was the best thing to happen to our street. I'd say the same thing about him. Sometimes his eyes got misty. He would have turned eighty-nine this July. It's heartening to think of him.

Sitting alone on my porch, I studied a slightly irksome, partially obstructed view of the street which I found strangely unfamiliar, considering it's my home. Feeling dissatisfied, I was about to retire indoors when I gazed upwards. There, in the clear blue, I saw the half moon, white as can be like an inverted cup in the sky. It was framed by thousands of little red buds fattening up on the branches of our maple tree. Yet again I felt heartened, this time by the unmistakable arrival of spring.

Simpson's Point

windows

Deep in dream comes the whistle of a train. It's one of few sounds—plus wind chimes, foghorns and rain—that I don't mind waking to, even at four o'clock in the morning. The well-composed symphony of notes, the crescendo, the low rumble and roll of steel wheels on burnished tracks soothes me. I imagine myself in one of the cars headed somewhere—almost anywhere—peering out the windows at countryside, cityscape or coast. I drift back to sleep again until five or six when I must get up to give Calvin his seizure meds. In this house, sleeping in is not a thing.

Earlier, I saved another stink bug, at least I think so. She'd been lingering inside the upstairs bathroom for too long. Like me, she'd been traipsing in circles. I cupped her in my hand and opened the window, tossed her out hoping she'd fly away like the last one. But she was in no shape, and fell to the ground like a pebble. Perhaps she's tough and survived the fall. I'd like to think so.

Milder weather is coming in dribs and drabs. I walk Smellie past Woody's old house thinking that soon it might be the kind of evening we'd be sitting on his porch drinking whiskey together. Last spring we were visiting each other from opposite sides of a window. By june he was gone. I miss him so. 

Mark and Kathy peddle past on their tandem smiling and calling my name. Kathy blows me a kiss. I blow one back to her. Turning my head toward the glare of a sinking sun I see Jill a few houses down standing in her driveway waving both hands at me. I return the favor. At the crosswalk Nan slows, turns then stops. She rolls down her window. Behind my mask, I crouch down to see her better. She says she's eager to get working in her garden. Her perennials are likely the most beautiful in town. I tell her I miss seeing her. In maine's window between late spring and early fall, we often stand in her yard—one she's tended for probably sixty years—regarding the iris and lilies, zinnias, geraniums and dahlias. She seems to know all the botanical names of her many varieties. Every year she gives me a bunch of poppy seeds and a clump or two of something I covet for my own garden. I try to return the favor, but what I have to offer pales in comparison.

Calvin is on his thirteenth day with no grand mals. We rarely see focal seizures anymore, though they're not completely gone. He's changing, growing like crazy. He's doing better on the potty and beginning to wash his hands with a bit less help. His balance is better, his walking more sure. I've begun to peel myself away from him for brief moments in the house and yard. It didn't used to be that way. For seventeen years I've had to always be within arm's reach of him. The weaning gives me tiny windows of freedom. Still, I yearn for so much more.

perfect storms

Strange pandemic days. We walk in circles at home. Drive around the same back roads. I spoon-feed and potty train my teenage boy. With the latter, he's doing surprisingly well. I never thought him capable. Perhaps I need more faith in him, and in my own abilities as his coach. They say if you can imagine something, it's possible. I'd like to think so.

This is the time of year—if windless, sunny and bundled-up—two degrees feels hardly worse than thirty. I'm proof anyone can get accustomed to the cold. Michael runs 5Ks even when the mercury falls below zero. In these parts, a lot of people do. If anything, humans are resilient. Remembering that gives me hope.

On daily drives this winter, I see hawks perched on telephone poles. They search for prey in fields of grass and snow. I stop for flocks of wild turkeys strutting across the road. I've spotted bald eagles and crimson cardinals. The other night I banged the hell out of the bedroom wall trying to shoo some sort of nesting vermin. In this pandemic, squirrels have manifestly taken over the neighborhood.

Yesterday, I baked some cookies. First batch since Woody's death last summer. They came out perfect—crispy, chewy, salty, sweet. Molasses, sea salt and dark chocolate are my secret. If he were still alive, I'd have brought him a handful in a napkin or piece of foil. Like last winter, I'd be on the phone with him standing in his driveway. Pandemic style, we'd be peering at each other through his kitchen window. We'd talk of weather warm enough for drinking whiskey on his porch together. I miss him so.

We're anxious for the vaccine's arrival. It might mean sending Calvin back to school. Why kids with high-risk medical conditions like Calvin can't yet get vaccinated is beyond me. He can't keep a mask on, which is why we mostly stay at home. He's three times more likely to die from Covid than most others. Please wear your masks, people.

This storm is meant to drop a foot of snow. One car is on the fritz. Can't risk driving it in case it stalls. Michael took the other to the studio. The snow is too deep for Calvin to trudge through it. He can't build a snowman. Can't catch snowflakes on his tongue. Can't make snow angels. So, we're stuck inside at home. Anyway, it's nasty out. Wind and freezing rain coming down in sheets. At least he isn't seizing ... yet; nor'easters in pandemics make for perfect storms.