More about Dad, More about Me
Michael Kepler
December 19, 2009 · 8 min read · Shared with Public
When I last saw Dad, a little over 24 hours ago, he was the best I had seen him since he entered the hospital. My wife and I arrived a little late, and he was tired from an evening with a room full of relatives, so we didn't stay long. But he was fairly conversational and semi-lucid, and even was aware of the nature of his condition, and able to joke about it. When we mentioned that our Son Tony and his wife had been by earlier he said:
"Were they? I'm not sure. I'm still pretty small-minded."
As we left, we even shared another small joke. He asked me if it had been snowing. I said it had not, and there was none in the forecast, but that snow would be pretty.
"From a distance" he said.
I replied, "Yeah, no so pretty from a ditch.".
And he actually laughed a little.
That was yesterday. Today he was transferred to a nursing and rehab facility with some of the worst ratings and customer/family reviews in the area. My younger sister, who was there for the transfer, described the place as "yucky". I imagine that was an understatement.
Why such a place? Mostly, because it is the facility owned by the same people as the hospital. Secondly, because family members who knew this was a bad choice, who had done the research to find better places, did not have the authority to affect the decision. Basically, it was up to the hospital to decide, unless they were directed otherwise by my Dad's wife, and the only concern she expressed is that it would be as close as possible to her home. And it is the closest to her home, but she doesn't even drive herself anywhere and plenty of family members were ready and willing to drive her farther, in order for him to receive better care.
As in most things, I have the audacity to blame myself.
When I was first belatedly informed of my Father's hospitalization, the situation as it appeared to me was being dominated by my sisters, and they seemed to be cutting my Dad's wife out of things, leaving her in the dark and making decisions she should be making. So, at first, I was among those who advocated for the social worker and hospital staff to include his wife more in the process.
As the days have gone by and I have observed more of how each person has handled things, I realize my misguided heroism was a terrible mistake. It has been my sisters who have stayed at his bedside nearly 24 hours a day, while his wife has dropped by for a few minutes a day, perhaps not even every day. Yes, I know she is very old, too, and has her own infirmities, but she is being offered any and all support and assistance by multiple family members, including her own daughter, and she is, frankly, behaving like a spoiled child who doesn't want to her husband toy any more because it is broken.
This is heartbreaking, because no matter how many people visit him, the only question he has for them is to ask where his wife is. The only face he really wants to see by his side is hers, but she is almost never there for him, when he needs her most.
This is where the "in sickness" part of those marriage vows are put to the test, and she's failing the test. It's not the first time either of them has broken vows they have sworn to others, so I suppose it should come as no surprise.
I know that I am being harsh. I know that I'm being as asshole. But that's me, and that's the way I see things. I don't give her a free pass on being selfish just because she's old any more than I joined the medical staff in writing my Dad off as "as good as dead" just because he's old. I know, I know. I'm not inside her head, inside her life. I haven't been there, don't know her, don't know what else she is dealing with. I know, I know, I know. But still. I can't help it. From the outside it looks cold and selfish and childish and petty and it makes me mad and sad and hopeless. Maybe accepting too much help is as destructive to her sense of personal dignity as what my Dad is experiencing. Maybe she feels so close to hole that is swallowing his mind, that if she holds his hand, he'll drag her down with him. I can't blame anyone of being terrified of that. I'm judging based on nothing, and I'm sorry, but not sorry enough to erase it all. The feelings, and the concerns, are still real.
To be frank, none of this is being motivated by some super deep bond and loyalty shared with my Father. The two of us have been largely strangers to each other for my entire life. But that doesn't matter. This isn't about earned loyalty, this is about basic human dignity that everyone deserves. Well, almost everyone, but I don't want to get into my personal exceptions right now, especially considering that having such exceptions is morally reprehensible. That's a cross I'm willing to bear, and will endeavor to do so in relative silence. Wow, all things considered, the "cross" metaphor is pretty much exactly the worst choice I could have made. Keep my room in Hell warm, I'm on my way.
Besides, I feel I owe my dad something, because I took something from him years ago, something important to him, something I can't give back; can't undo. When I was born, I was named after him exactly, first middle and last name. He was always a "Jim", but I was always called "Jamey", and I always hated that nickname. To this day, most of my childhood family still address me by that name, which is one of the reasons I avoid them. My parents divorced when I was somewhere around 16 or 17. At age 19, acting as my own attorney, I petitioned the court for, and acquired, a legal change of name. Not just the first or last name, but the whole damned thing, first middle and last. I stole from my Father whatever disappointing legacy he might have lived out through me. I'm still not sure what kind of legacy that was supposed to be. He never made clear any specific ambitions he might have had in mind for me. By the time I was 18, he was in a position of some influence in his industry, but would not use that influence to help me get a foothold in the field. Besides, he was a man among men, and I was a weakling, decades away from learning that my lack of stamina was due to a congenital arterial defect. But now it sounds like I'm just making excuses. Excuses both for being a disappointment to my Father, and for the unthinkable insult of changing my name. The fact that he would have anything at all to do with me after that is probably more than I deserve. He would even try to remember to address me by my chosen, legal, name.
This is certainly, to the best of my knowledge, more consideration than he ever showed to his first family, his first children. Somewhere, in Colorado unless they have moved on, he has other Sons, and another Daughter. I don't even know their names, and by all accounts, he has never been in contact with them since he divorced his first wife and ran off to Oregon with my Mother, already pregnant... with me. Me, the ugly stain on the family history. Just ask my aunts. I heard enough growing up, through their uncomfortable silences, their judgmental looks or more often, eyes averted in shame. Am I imagining this? Hard to say. As I have probably said many times before, my childhood his mostly a blank. Odd little dreamlike snippets of memory, nonsensical and out of context, and in between, vast expanses of nothingness. For all I know the bits and pieces I have really are just fragments of dreams, and not my real life at all. Does it even matter?
Now that my own children are grown, and I look back over it all, their childhood, and my own, I realize that my Father was in many ways a better Father to his children than I have been. At least he took me camping. Now, it is my son who takes *me* camping, even though I never took the time to do so with him when he was growing up. My Father and I were both absentee fathers and absentee husbands during the most critical years. Both of us were married first to employers who never, in the end, really loved us back. Nothing we did at work was as important, or as lasting, as what we should have been doing as parents, as husbands. And now it is too late, and what is left of our precious minds is slipping away. He's only a little farther ahead of me down that path to oblivion.
Who will sit by my side as I slip slowly away, staring, half-seeing, half-recognizing, half-remembering? There's another thing I have in common with my Father. Everything, ultimately, is about me. That, and we are both cold-hearted selfish bastards who don't care who is hurt by what we say and what we don't say or do.
1 Comment
Kevin Romero
Is there a chance of getting him moved to a better facility?
12y
Monday, February 28, 2022
Retro-Blog 2009.12.19 - More About Dad, Too Much About Me
Retro-Blog 2009.12.15 - The Night of The Violently Demented
Dad update, the night of the violently demented, and way too much more
Michael Kepler
December 15, 2009 · 11 min read · Shared with Public
During the day Monday, while my son and others were with him, my dad went from semi-conversational to mostly unresponsive. Just as it had happened previously, the transition occurred while nurses were tending to him and family members were out of the room. This obviously makes family members wonder if he is being sedated by the nursing staff. Upon questioning, they deny that this is the case.
This is an ongoing issue I may have failed to mention in my previous update. We can never be sure how much of what we are seeing is due to medication, rather than his actual condition. We are repeatedly assured by staff that he is not being sedated. But clearly something they are doing when they interact with him is pushing him back over the line. Either that, or it's just an amazing coincidence.
I guess I can lend the medical staff some credibility here, just due to the fact that they clearly did not sedate a number of other very vocal, active and even violent patients over the course of the night.
One elderly patient completely trashed his room, breaking glass and cutting himself in the process, and impressively making abstract blood-art of the walls. Police were called in to help the nurses get him into restraints. Unfortunately, he was moved to a closer room, so I spent the night listening to this remarkably energetic old man constantly yelling for his son to "bring your pocket knife and cut me out of these straps. I'm trapped up in this silo." When the nurse attempted to distract him, and to evaluate him, by asking some simple questions, he was very quick and confident in his answer that the year is 1979. It would be difficult to convey just how loud this guy's voice was. Every time he yelled out his son's name, it would make my dad twitch and utter a startled grunt, followed by a short, weak, coughing fit.
Meanwhile, directly across the hall, was another loud and obstinate old man who kept setting off his very loud bed escape attempt alarm, which would be followed by lengthy arguments and wrestling matches with the nurses. At one point, when a nurse attempted to remind him yet again that he was in a hospital bed, it was very late, and he needed to rest, he replied: "I don't care if I'm in a barn; I don't want to sleep on this damned couch!".
That ends the dark entertainment portion of this article, but please read on if you want an update on my Dad.
I arrived for the night shift, at about 10PM, just as they were transporting Dad back to his room after the CAT scan. My son Tony, was still there since leaving work. My younger sister's husband Jason, and my older sister Renee were there, too. She, apparently, as not left the hospital for more than a couple of hours at a time ever since Friday.
At this point, my dad entered a period where his response to any external stimuli was to say "I love you, darling". He would also occasionally utter this phrase seemingly spontaneously. The only other verbal responses, if someone was trying extra hard to talk to him, would be seemingly automatic, either repeating some portion of what had just been said to him, or making generic responses like "Ok".
At one point, he appeared to actually follow an instruction to cough from one of the nurses. I'm sorry to be skeptical about this positive sign, but he was coughing often enough, and the nurse was patting his back hard enough to loosen things up at the time, so it may have been a combination of coincidence and physical response, more than a cognitive response to the instruction.
I spent most of my time sitting next to him at eye level. He would frequently open his eyes in my direction, but I was never sure if what we commonly consider to be "eye contact" was actually happening. He seemed to be in a different place. Fortunately, with all of the "I love you darling", it seemed to be a much better different place than some of the other residents of the hospital.
He gradually became less responsive, and the "I love you darling" period ended. During the night, he occasionally seemed to be asleep, and at other times was weakly restless and would open his eyes and move his limbs around a little. He continued to cough fairly frequently, but was, fortunately, on his side for most of the night.
A doctor came in and talked to us a couple of times during the first hour or two after the CAT scan. He was very adept at finding very time-consuming ways to say "I don't know anything helpful" without ever saying anything close to those actual words. He had no idea what Dad's previous baseline cognitive or physical function had been like, and was not interested in hearing about it from us. He also seemed very frank and completely unapologetic about having virtually no communication or coordination of care with the other doctors who have been in and out of this case. The idea of picking up a chart and reading it seemed too much trouble for him and his colleagues, and for all I know, putting adequate information into that chart to assure some continuity of care was probably too much trouble for all of them as well.
Most frustratingly, the doctor consistently characterized my Father's condition as a linear decline from the time he had been admitted until now. This despite repeated attempts on our part, particularly mine, to point out to him that Dad's cognitive function and general strength seemed to be going through cycles over the past few days, getting better then worse repeatedly.
I was left with the impression that the medical staff has a "one size fits all" diagnosis and non-treatment plan for every patient above a certain age. The doctor talked his way around my point that there are plenty of men older than my Dad who write books and run companies, and thus "he's just old" isn't really a credible diagnosis. I resisted the urge to suggest that there was probably even a man somewhere older than my father with the power to fire any doctor on staff in this hospital. I don't know this to be the case, of course, but it is a reasonable conjecture.
I understand that the human mind and body are extremely complex systems, and in any given case, there are severe limits on what can be definitively known about the condition of a patient, and even more severe limits on treatment options, all of which carry their own, largely unpredictable, risks. As a family member of a patient, it is probably nearly impossible to ever be completely convinced that everything reasonably possible is being done, especially when things are not going well for the patient.
And then, there are times when it seems fairly objectively certain that simple and important basic care is being neglected.
The battle to get the CAT scan was won by Tony and Jason before I arrived. The next battle, which took most of the night, was to convince the nursing staff that Dad was running a fever and that this might indicate something which should be brought to the attention of an actual doctor. We only had a partial victory, in that the nursing staff did eventually confirm that he had a fever, but only in the course of their already scheduled rounds. Their response was not, of course, to inconvenience any actual doctor in the middle of the night, but rather to administer Tylenol. This however, ended up being accidentally helpful for winning our third battle of the evening. The nurses had to administer the Tylenol non-orally, as Dad was too weak and unresponsive to take it orally. Later, in our continuing campaign to get them do do something about his obvious dehydration, and our requests for IV fluids to be administered, the nurse invoked a roadblock of "a swallowing evaluation would have to be conducted before we could do that". She made it sound like this was some kind of complex "wait until morning" kind of procedure. Fortunately, our verbal assurance that previous nursing staff had obviously performed such an evaluation when they resorted to non-oral administration of Tylenol was sufficient to convince her to order IV fluids and bring some ice chips. Again, this is hardly an all-out victory, as it took all night, and when I left at 6AM, we were still waiting for them to follow through with the IV fluids.
It had been my plan to leave when my younger sister returned at 9AM, but I have to admit that I found my presence to be depressingly pointless and unhelpful. Dad at no time appeared to be aware that I was there, my older sister only left the room a couple of times for an hour or two each, and my son remained all night, only getting a four hour nap in a freezing cold waiting room, with a full day of work ahead of him. He was awake and still staying with my Dad when I left. All of the minor victories in getting some basic care issues addressed were won more by my son and Jason than by me. I suppose it is just as well, as I nearly fell asleep at the wheel in the last few blocks on the way home.
This marks the end of the Dad update, and the beginning of the making it all about me. Those who understandably don't give a shit about what a self-involved asshole I am can stop reading here. But, if like me, you find self-involved assholes to be oddly entertaining, or just enjoy the warm feeling that comes with a good hate, feel free to read on.
I recognize that a lot of my criticism of the doctors is a projection of my own feelings of guilt. I have this strange sort of third-hand guilt. I feel guilty that I don't feel more guilty about not feeling as emotionally engaged in my father's situation as I should be. I feel for him the same degree of basic human compassion I would have for anyone in his situation, no more or less. Even worse, my strongest emotional response is entirely selfish. When I get to be my dad's age, and possibly in similar condition, which with the way time flies lately isn't that long from now, I want better care than this. I am horrified to think of myself in his condition, receiving the same careless and passive "he's just old" treatment. I hope to be the guy who trashes his room and keeps everybody up all night yelling nonsense.
Having raised what are potentially "end of life" type of issues, at the risk of being redundant with things I may have said or written before, I wish to make it clear: I want to be as big an inconvenience to as many people as possible for as long as possible. In other words *DO* resuscitate me, over and over again until you can't take it any more, and then have someone else take over. DO NOT PULL ANY PLUGS. I assure you with the utmost confidence that I fully deserve the full measure of any suffering I may appear to experience in the process. I also assure you that you probably fully deserve the full measure of the discomfort that witnessing this horrific spectacle may cause you, whoever you are, imaginary person who at least pretends to care enough to be there, if any such person might exist at such a time for me.
Also, for any period of time that I am to any degree unresponsive yet alive, I wish for there to be a radio near me tuned to a classical music station, or some equivalent thereof, even if you don't believe that I can hear it. It can be quiet and very near if there are concerns about the noise disturbing others. Avoid opera if you can with convenience. Beethoven, Bach, early 20th century ballets and late 20th century minimalism are all great stuff. Not a huge fan of most Mozart or the Baroque period, either, but I can deal with it.
I do NOT want any self-righteous evangelical zealots yelling prayers in my face. A proper preist administering formal last rites is acceptable. Quietly praying the rosary in my presence is also acceptable, but I mean *quietly*. And, no, I'm not a real Catholic, just more of a "fan" of the original church, more in the ideal than some of the less than ideal practices over the years. I feel much the same way about America, but I *am* a real American.
Carrying this out to any possible memorial service, less talk is better, and traditional ritualistic stuff is preferred over more self-righteous evangelical masturbation, especially from some asshole who didn't really know me. The music is what matters to me. During any period of time leading up to any unavoidable talking, I wish for the ambient album "A Blessing of Tears" by Robert Fripp to be played as background music. After any yammering is done, everyone has to stay put for the entirety of "Here Comes The Flood" by Peter Gabriel, preferably in one of the simpler piano arrangements, or my own cover if I ever finish it. It's only about 4 minutes, and it's a great song, so I think you'll survive the ordeal, no matter what your "I'd rather be..." bumper-sticker calling to you from the parking lot says. When finally released from this gruesome event that nobody really wants to attend, especially me, you are to be played out to the tune of the closing theme to Mystery Science Theater 3000. It would be extra awesome if that could be played live on a real pipe organ, but I know that's probably asking way too much, especially coming from a dead guy who won't even know the difference if you play polka music while you piss on his grave. I'm not even aware of an available transcription to sheet music.
1 Comment
Marilen Wood
Thanks for the update, Michael. A few questions I would like to raise (not to mention some unsolicited advice.) (Sorry about that.):
1) Is it time to be moving your dad to a different (hopefully better) hospital? This one can't be the only one around. I promise you, not every hospital has an entire staff holding a "he's just old" attitude.
2) Failing that, is it time to be directing your complaints up the food chain? Maybe you could talk to nursing supervisors, heads of departments, state agencies. There is absolutely no excuse for any of this! Document EVERYTHING on paper, not just here, and start talking to people. If you're not up to it, sick Patricia on them. (If nothing else, it will be entertaining to watch.)
3) You wrote, "...I have to admit that I found my presence to be depressingly pointless and unhelpful. Dad at no time appeared to be aware that I was there...." You also wrote, "..., for any period of time that I am to any degree unresponsive yet alive, I wish for there to be a radio near me tuned to a classical music station, or some equivalent thereof, even if you don't believe that I can hear it." This would indicate to me that you think you would be aware on some level of what was happening around you. If that is the case, how can you be so sure that your dad was unaware that you were there? You might be right; however, you have no proof.
I hope he is able to come out of it soon and tell you himself. Take care of yourself; that goes for the rest of the family too. Let me know how it goes.
-- Marilen
12y
Retro-Blog: 2009.12.14 - More about Dad's condition
More about Dad's condition.
Michael Kepler
December 14, 2009 · 4 min read · Shared with Public
For anyone who might want more detail, I'll do what I can here. The problem is, I get mostly conflicting second and third hand information. Oddly, that's how just about everyone feels, including his own wife. I can only report what I have observed. I don't know how many relatives or anyone else who would be interested might read this, but I feel I might as well post it just in case.
I do not know of any definitive diagnosis, or even exactly what his condition was when he was checked into the hospital. He had been in the hospital for at least 24 hours before I even heard about it. That is a whole stupid petty story in itself.
Yesterday, he was conscious, but only semi-responsive. Speaking appeared to be very difficult for him, and what he said was mostly impossible to understand. He only occasionally appeared to understand some portions of what was being said to him. He was physically very weak and cold to the touch.
Today, his cognitive functionality and ability to communicate seemed much better. He could recognize everyone who visited and remembered our names without prompting. He had no memory of the previous day or two. He had short term memory problems, asking repeatedly where his wife was after she had left for the day. His ability to communicate kind of faded in and out. A couple of times he would form complete sentences with recognizable words, but none of it made any kind of obvious sense. Other times, he could carry on short completely coherent conversations. It seemed that my Son and I had the most success communicating with him, among those present. He remains very weak physically, but was very interested in getting out of bed and moving around, which he did, with help. He very clearly wanted to leave and go home.
Going forward, he is expected to remain in the hospital at least one or two more days. Most people involved seem fairly certain that he will then be transferred to an assisted care facility for an indeterminate period of time before he can go home. Some seem convinced that he may never go home again, as they feel his condition will not improve sufficiently to allow he and his wife to live together independently.
I feel a lot of this is premature speculation. If his condition continues to improve at the rate it has in the past 24 to 48 hours, he could be back to his "usual" self as early as tomorrow, which should be good enough to let him go home with his wife.
If he remains in the hospital tomorrow (Monday) night, I will be taking the overnight shift sitting in his room with him. My sisters have been doing so up until now.
His "usual" self, by my limited observation from short and infrequent visits, is still someone with hit-and-miss memory, both long and short term, but able to move about and take care of himself. When I saw him last Christmas (2008), he actually seemed more coherent in conversation that he had at our previous visit some months earlier.
My dad has survived both lung and brain cancer, and is in his 70's, so all things considered, he has been doing very well until this most recent episode.
And just to get the petty part out there and over with. I am neither pleased nor surprised that both of my sisters knew he was in the hospital at least a full day and night before I found out, yet it was neither of them who called and told me. I found out from my Mother, who had found out from her sister, who had found out from my cousin, and that's where my trace-back of the chain breaks, so I don't even know how many more-distantly-related people it took for word to make it's way around to me, seemingly more by accident than by intent on the part of those closest to the situation. I give much credit and thanks to my Mother for promptly calling me as soon as she heard, especially considering that she has been divorced from this man for more years than she was married to him.
To be fair, I have failed to maintain contact with my sisters now for many years. Both have made multiple overtures to which I have failed to respond. The reasons for this are complex and involve episodes in our family history which I try to avoid remembering. I'm not avoiding the people themselves as much as I am avoiding that history. I'm sorry that I have to be so vague, but not nearly as sorry as I and others might be if I were to get into the details, especially in such a public setting.
That is probably more than enough said in this setting.
This is a cross-posting, pasted from my MySpace blog, which remains my primary and preferred online presence, until I can get my own site into shape.Dad, in the hospital 2009.12.12
5 Comments
Elaine Romero
Michael, thank you for sharing. I send my prayers to you and your father and to your family. I'm sorry that your siblings left you out of the loop. My oldest brother, Mark, who can be found on my Facebook page is a good source to direct medical questions. He has a lot of years of being able to read medical signs and is intuitive that way. Much love to you and yours.
Elaine
12y
Michael Kepler
Yeah, I was told "stroke" at first, but the symptoms don't support it. There is no asymmetry in his admittedly limited dexterity. Frustratingly, an MRI was scheduled, then canceled. He's geetting "oh he's just old" treatment from the doctors and most of his family. I have no influence.
12y
Marilen Wood
For whatever it's worth, Michael, I know how hard this can be. Hang in there...I'm right there with ya.
12y
Michael Kepler
To correct myself, I have since learned that a stroke in the cerebral cortex does not cause any asymmetrical motor function. Obvious in retrospect. The doctor treated me like I was an idiot over this, and I tend to agree. In any case, Dad has had no recent stroke. The MRI showed evidence of a a very old stroke, perhaps years ago, but no "smoking gun" to explain his recent episodes.
12y
Elaine Romero
Wow, Michael. Please know our hearts our with you. I don't like the doctor treating you like an idiot. It sounds like a very difficult situation with your father's condition.
12y
Retro-Blog: 2009.08.15 - First in a series of data recoveries from other sources
Michael Kepler
August 15, 2009 · 1 min read · Shared with Public
This is just off the top of my head
So don't expect a rhythmic meter or a consistent rhyming scheme
This isn't poetry or lyricism
at least not yet
The only universe that makes sense to me
is one that is oscillating endlessly
the ultimate vibration
the deepest singular note
that only God can hear
The only thing that matters to me
is finding enough mass in this universe
to stop this cold and lonely entropy
so this can all be born again
The world is an infinite and empty hole
And we each take up such a tiny space
for such a very short time
we fill our lives so earnestly
with dust and noise and nothing
a joke for some divine comedian
and the punchline can come at any time
It is no wonder that so many choose
their moment to join oblivion
as the one and only thing
they can control
copyright 2009 by Michael A. Kepler, no matter what the "terms of use" that I did *not* read may claim.
Thursday, February 24, 2022
New Statement of Intent
An introduction to an Introduction. It is my intent to prepare content for a physical book. If this comes about, it will undoubtedly be published via a "vanity" publisher in very limited numbers.
This will not be a coherent, or even strictly chronological, collage of things written by me, and maybe some images/collages made by me during my lifetime so far. And let's face it, there is unlikely to be anything more interesting in what is left of my life.
The primary source material will be things already written by me, largely culled from online presences, but also including new best attempts are at recounting stories which were once part of my verbal history, but are rapidly fading from memory. It may also include digital or paper writings previously not shared.
I promise I will do all I can to reduce to the overbearingly mundane material, but then again, the presence of some of that material is required by a self-imposed discipline of honesty.
Right now I am full of the cocktail of drugs I use to attempt sleep, so nothing much is forthcoming this evening.
I would like to re-state my assertion of my intellectual property ownership over everything I have written online thus far, for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I have not read the terms of service for any online forum upon which I have written.
My head is heavy. This is the end for now.
Wednesday, January 5, 2022
Retro-Blog: 2014.01.03 (Originally posted elsewhere online.) My Father The Zombie
So I just woke from a strange dream.
In it, my Father resides in a small house not too far away which I do not recognize from my waking life. Both of my Sisters and my Mother were visiting him on the occasion of him being "awake". In both my waking life and this dream, my father died in 2010, but in this dream he is somehow preserved, not buried, but just lying in bed in this simple little house.
He becomes "awake" and interactive at unpredictable times, but always during daylight, and I had the sense that one of us is always there just in case, and to inform the others. He doesn't eat or drink or go to the bathroom like a living person, but he carries on unfocused conversations and slowly putters about his little house, very much like he did in his final years when he was having one of those days when he wasn't entirely sure who was named what.
The strangest thing about this dream is my Sisters and my Mother and I (Me?) being all in the same place at the same time with no tension or big drama going on. The only drama was an in-dream memory of arguments with my Son who is convinced we are making this whole thing up and are all insane.
This is just one of many dreams I have had when I have awoken with a strong sense that I had just returned from an actual place which I can only visit when I am asleep, and to which I have been going infrequently for years. A place not part of the reality in which I am awake now, but a different reality which is simultaneously familiar and impossibly different from this one. At this point, I've only had about two hours of sleep, so I'm going to go back to bed soon.
[2022 Self-Editor's Notes: Much context from my personal history would illuminate just how much stranger this dream was for me than may be otherwise evident. However, much of that history is visited in various chambers of this labyrinthine, yet somehow monotonous blog, so I won't go into much depth here.
I don't know of any time when being in the same room with my Mother and Sisters, particularly my older Sister, did not result in varying magnitudes of drama, but it all came to a hideous crescendo during the time leading up to and shortly after the death of my Father. To be incisively fair, my Mother was not actually present for any of that, as she had him locked in a box of hate ever since their separation and divorce decades earlier.
During the declining time of my Father's life, through multiple hospitalizations and incarcerations in hellish "care" facilities, I endeavored to be by his side and advocating for the quality of his care as much as possible, and my Son was there with me for most of it, helping me endure it all.
There, that's more context than content, as it is so often with me.}
Monday, January 3, 2022
Newly unearthed micro-autobiography from 10 or more years ago
Life:
Born "James Milton Wood", legally "Michael Anthony Kepler" since 1983. Since around 1997, many have come to know me only as "Mookie". If asked for my name when ordering a blended fruit beverage or other such thing, I usually say "Elmer". There you go, full disclosure of my personal nomenclature.
Not much else to say. I "have" a wife, three kids, two cats and two dogs, and they are all much more honorable and interesting creatures than I am.
I was a mildly interesting person from about 1979 through 1984, but very few people noticed.
Since then I have been mostly boring, except for a period of being a conspicuous embarrassment to my family and all else that is decent from about 1999 through 2003. I may have even managed to become moderately notorious in a few specific bars. I have since spared my family, myself, and those bars from much further embarrassment. I don't really have to keep being boring just because I have almost 3000 characters remaining in my limit for this profile, but I will.
School:
Classrooms and I don't mix well. Usually, regardless of current age, I become an annoying prepubescent class clown. Everything I know I learned from TV, encyclopedias, and trial-and-error. Recently, I have come to realize that there are two subjects which I find interesting enough to sit down and shut up and pay attention: music theory, and history. At least I think so. I haven't actually put this to any practical test.
College:
Since I never went to college, per-se, I childishly scorn college and "college boys".
Workplace:
Jeez. For the whole sad story dig around and find my resume somewhere at tygerstudios.com [Defunct] or kepler.net [in a slow process or resurrection].
Military: I have neither the courage nor the self-discipline for military service. I suppose the military could have turned me into a man if they got their hands on me when I was younger. Now it is far too late for that.