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IbexBleat of Simmer
Jul. 28th, 2019 11:12 pmHere's some hope: Parkinson's Therapy. The University of Queensland is working on a small molecule that could get into brain cells and reduce the Parkinson's-caused inflammation, thus stopping the destruction of brain cells. Hoping so hard that it works, and that they can do it fast.
The Sparrowhawk went off to church this morning to assist our friend Rita, who was doing the service today. He was there for general support, and also to collect the order of service inserts so he can replace them with the August ones before we leave for the burial next weekend (agh! NEXT WEEKEND), and to make the coffee. I did not go with him because . . . er well, the only real reason is I DID NOT WANT TO. Instead I went out with my shovel and dug up errant mint plants until I couldn't take any more sweat running into my eyes. The nice thing about weeding out mint is that it smells good. That's the ONLY nice thing about it, because those suckers are tenacious, and even though there was thunder and rain last night, it didn't do much to soften the hard clay soil. But I made a dent.
Yesterday I thought of two more people from my mother's past who needed to be written to, and did so. And then I wrote the seven thank-you notes that had not yet been written to people who attended her memorial service. I felt good about finishing that. At least, I hope I'm really done now. Today I went looking for my mother's old address book. I was sure that I'd brought it with me, but couldn't find it when I was writing the notes. I found it just where I thought I'd put it, duh, but hadn't somehow been able to see it earlier. I leafed through it, to see if I'd missed anyone. I don't think so. Most of the familiar names I saw are dead now. Oh my. The long, incurable sadness of time passing! I thought that perhaps it was not entirely fair that my mother was thought to be disorganized and untidy. It's true there were quite a few slips of paper, torn-off envelope flaps, and deposit slips, all with cryptic messages written on them, tucked into the book. But in general, she had printed all those names and numbers so carefully and lovingly, correcting them from year to year. When I was a child, this book was like magic to me. I thought this was part of the magic of being a grownup--you would acquire lists of friends in distant cities, in other countries, even, mysterious people who would move in and out of your life, whose recognition and value would make a Somebody out of you. I have so many memories of my mother sitting with that book open before her, making phone calls or writing invitations or Christmas cards. That never really happened for me. I did not become that kind of grownup. But that is another story. It might have been a mistake to look at the book, which has now become a Book of the Dead. But then again, maybe not. I touched their names again and for a moment, they came to life again, and my mother was alive again, too: slender, dark-haired, wearing her pretty blouse, fidgeting on a kitchen stool as she pored over the list of party guests and pondered a menu. It's all part of the process.
The Sparrowhawk went off to church this morning to assist our friend Rita, who was doing the service today. He was there for general support, and also to collect the order of service inserts so he can replace them with the August ones before we leave for the burial next weekend (agh! NEXT WEEKEND), and to make the coffee. I did not go with him because . . . er well, the only real reason is I DID NOT WANT TO. Instead I went out with my shovel and dug up errant mint plants until I couldn't take any more sweat running into my eyes. The nice thing about weeding out mint is that it smells good. That's the ONLY nice thing about it, because those suckers are tenacious, and even though there was thunder and rain last night, it didn't do much to soften the hard clay soil. But I made a dent.
Yesterday I thought of two more people from my mother's past who needed to be written to, and did so. And then I wrote the seven thank-you notes that had not yet been written to people who attended her memorial service. I felt good about finishing that. At least, I hope I'm really done now. Today I went looking for my mother's old address book. I was sure that I'd brought it with me, but couldn't find it when I was writing the notes. I found it just where I thought I'd put it, duh, but hadn't somehow been able to see it earlier. I leafed through it, to see if I'd missed anyone. I don't think so. Most of the familiar names I saw are dead now. Oh my. The long, incurable sadness of time passing! I thought that perhaps it was not entirely fair that my mother was thought to be disorganized and untidy. It's true there were quite a few slips of paper, torn-off envelope flaps, and deposit slips, all with cryptic messages written on them, tucked into the book. But in general, she had printed all those names and numbers so carefully and lovingly, correcting them from year to year. When I was a child, this book was like magic to me. I thought this was part of the magic of being a grownup--you would acquire lists of friends in distant cities, in other countries, even, mysterious people who would move in and out of your life, whose recognition and value would make a Somebody out of you. I have so many memories of my mother sitting with that book open before her, making phone calls or writing invitations or Christmas cards. That never really happened for me. I did not become that kind of grownup. But that is another story. It might have been a mistake to look at the book, which has now become a Book of the Dead. But then again, maybe not. I touched their names again and for a moment, they came to life again, and my mother was alive again, too: slender, dark-haired, wearing her pretty blouse, fidgeting on a kitchen stool as she pored over the list of party guests and pondered a menu. It's all part of the process.
