Oh, what a relief it is!!!!

e-NOUGH!!

Have we paid our weather dues yet? Surely we've finally gone through the final indignity, and get some respite. Here's the latest: winds over 65 mph Thursday night. The cedar tree shed most of its top across (just missing) the front of the house. One-third of the horse chestnut fell across the driveway - the third that held one of the yard lights. The cedar Bill raised from a seedling was uprooted - again across the drive. The last of the ancestral fruit trees was felled. An oak limb fell exactly across the area we've been planting to Japanese maples. Another blocks the drive into the woodlot. A third one landed in the neighboring orchard.

Have I forgotten anything? Oh, yeah, there aren't even words for this one:

So rich, so moist, so tender

Given that we had about 12 inches of rain in November, it might surprise you to hear this was a great week in the garden. All that rain left our soil the consistency of gingerbread - moist, crumbly, and smelling a lot like heaven. Those rooted cuttings we tucked into the nursery bed back in March survived the hottest, driest summer we've ever seen, and we planted 55 lavishly-rooted native trees and shrubs this weekend.

All the posts for the vinyard are cut and curing in the shed, too! They came from the black locusts Bill planted 30 years ago - posts on demand and reproducing faster than we're cutting! There were adventures involving most of our vehicles and lots of cable, but no one got hurt, no equipment was smashed, and all the trees in the orchard are still standing. You say it would have been easier to just buy posts? Sure, but where's the fun in that?

It was that tricky kind of weather all weekend - freezing overnight, and the house got cold in all the corners. But when we were outside in the sun, working, it felt balmy. OK, it would have seemed warm inside if we'd been cleaning house or something, but that's not the kind of dirt we like! And I secretly don't mind the shorter days when it starts getting dark just about beer o'clock. Seems about right.

Read the *&%$# label!

. . . or, How I Nearly Killed the Kitten

So, Bungee, the elastic kitten, has an eye infection that's responding s l o o o w w l y to treatment. The vet thought an antihistamine might bring down the swelling and itching (and give me more practice pilling a whirling dervish).

Yesterday was a busy day, but there was a moment in the early evening when Bungee was calm (asleep) and there was an extra pair of hands available to pinion him for me. This is not an excuse; it's just what happened. I didn't read the label carefullly. It said, "GIVE 1 / 4 TAB . . ." and I gave him a whole one.

For some reason, I looked at the label again (too late) and saw my mistake. While Bill googled "chlorpheniramine dosing in cats" I paged the vet. We watched our dinner plates cool to unpalatability while waiting for the call back, and I imagined horrible outcomes, several of which were patently impossible.

Long story short: Bad or life-threatening reactions were only possible during the first few hours, and all he did was act sleepy and a little out-of-sorts. He'd get stuck in really impossible positions - all stretched and twisted - and apparently too stoned to adjust. You know how cats tuck their tails when they're frightened or miserable? Bungee's was stuck in a lovely spiral against his flank until about 10:30 when he joined the warmups for the 11PM heat of the cat olympics.

It was great to come downstairs this morning and find him right there with the other two at the foot of the stairs, tail up and purring, this morning.

Sleepy thought on the way to the bathroom at 2AM looking at those long tails waving about with handy curls at the end: isn't it nice cats have handles?

The Hirsute Henchmen

As you will recall from yesterday, we are monitoring, with increasing alarm, the activities of a race of pink-skinned aliens whom we believe to be bent on our destruction. They, however, are the least of the problem. It is the belief of the scientific community that without their overlords, they would be no more of a threat than dust-mice or the pubic hair in the sink.

The real threat comes from a second type, distinguished by their furry appearance*.

*While scientists debate whether this is fur as we know it or iron filings, such questions can only be answered when we are fortunate - or unfortunate - enough to examine one closely. Note: until we have more details, the exterior will be described as "furry".

There are two forms of these larger, darker creatures. One looks like a cross between a raccoon and a bear, with dark "fur" and large, rather morose, yellow eyes. Several of our field staff have witnessed it roughing up MoleRats and Tripods, and even stalking Bulge. These attempts have been rebuffed by the frantic efforts of the apparently lower-ranking MoleRats and Tripods. Such attacks have led us to label the attackers "Guidos".

Late-breaking news: One of these Guidos has been captured, affording our research team an invaluable opportunity for close study. To our surprise, this individual, which was caught while bitch-slapping a pair of Tripods, was quite docile when held - see illustration, below.

Unfortunately it escaped just after this picture was taken, but we were able to definitely determine that it is not covered in iron (or any other metal) filings. Lab results on the "hairs" left behind may give us valuable information about this bully from scientific-inquiry-wants to-know-where. Clearly its passivity was a ploy to lull its captor into inattention, thus enabling its escape.

Speculation is that it has rejoined its brethren or gone back to report to the creature we feel certain is directing all Guidos. This most monstrous being seems to be covered in similar "fur", but has none of the dull stupidity of the Guidos. On the contrary, the one which has been sighted by our field staff is uniformly described as eerily malevolent and menacing. All indications are that it is worshipped by Guidos, Tripods, MoleRats and the Bulge alike. That this adulation is based in fear and oppression cannot be questioned. We feel it our duty as persons of conscience to warn humanity and mobilize the necessary force to crush this threat to all we hold dear.

If the evidence thus far reported does not suffice, consider the single extant photo, and experience the dark aura of . . . Zygadenus!

There are threats unknown to the Bush administration

Our hidden cameras have documented the presence of mutant life forms bent on our subjugation. Wily and secretive, they are difficult to study, but we report our preliminary findings here in order that you may be alert to signs of their presence in your homes, too.

There appear to be two distinct types. One has pink skin and from zero to four appendages, which we have codenamed Bulge, MoleRat and Tripod. MoleRats, although blind, are the most mobile. They may communicate with their sighted cohorts for directions.



Tripods are sighted, but less mobile than MoleRats. They achieve locomotion by balancing on what appears to be a pointed abdomen and swing their "legs" forward or back. They are able to turn in limited fashion, but attempts to do more than about 30 degrees cause them to fall and thrash about violently until aided by allies.



MoleRats and Tripods seem to take direction from Bulge, who appears incapable of locomotion, but whose vision is hyperacute. Presumably the need for motion is obviated by the ministrations of the less senior members of the cohort, namely Tripods and MoleRats, although this has not been verified. There is some debate among researchers as to whether Bulge is equipped with night-vision goggles or is just a fashion victim.



These are the three skin-clad life forms under study at this time. Please report sightings and document their activity. Your cooperation is vital to understanding and neutralizing this threat to our way of life!

TOMORROW: The Hirsute Henchmen

What have they done to the rain?

I know it's supposed to be a good thing to eat organically-grown food but, honestly, sometimes the things our health-food store sells just scare me worse than eating pesticide-laden, over-processed goods from the local chain supermarket.

Case in point:




Fractals enchant me, but I'm not sure we're supposed to EAT them! They say we can eat this "broccoli romanesco" raw, but it looks dangerously pointy - like it could start drilling through our gizzards!

Tears for breakfast

At 7AM I had a thick quilt pulled up to my chin, a hot-water bottle in one hand, a heating pad on my chest and "Shadowlands" on the DVD player. This is the setup for donating platelets at the Red Cross Apheresis unit: the heat to keep everything flowing and the movie to keep from going starkers, because it takes me about 90 minutes to pump my pint.

Choosing the movie is a very big deal. There used to be one VCR for every two donors, so the first one there got to choose. That's how I once got stuck watching "Milk Money" - a disgusting bit of drivel. Now that there's a player for each donor, we only have ourselves to blame for poor choices. For me, a poor choice is a generally a thriller or a weeper. Emily will appreciate that "Singing in the Rain" works perfectly, but then so does "Twelve Monkeys" and "Antonia's Line", so figure that out. And "Shadowlands" is both a weeper and one of my favorites.

The donors I knew used to avoid weepers because we had to keep both arms still throughout the procedure (whole blood out one arm, everything except a pint of platelets back in the other arm). So, when tears leaked out, a nurse had to mop them up or we let them dry itchily on our cheeks. My donation site has changed over to mostly one-needle machines, so now I can wipe my own eyes, blow my nose, scratch my ear . . . oh, my gosh! I just realized, I can read a book!

Anyway, today it was "Shadowlands" for the sixth or seventh time. There was a group of writers called "The Inklings" that included C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien and Charles Williams. I couldn't get through the Narnia books, found the four books of Tolkien's trilogy exciting, but am still awed by Williams' novels. Fortunately, "Shadowlands" isn't about the Narnia books; it's Lewis himself, nearly fossilized in academe, doubting just enough to risk his comfortable life and finding he was capable of great happiness and crushing pain.

Oh, yeah . . . I love this movie. And when it was over, I got juice and cookies and still had the whole day ahead of me!

Fish on bicycles???

We've had a warm, sunny, dry Fall. It finally got dark and wet, but the warm got left behind, and we found ourselves waltzing into November with 70-degree days and buckets of rain. We call that "the pineapple express" because it comes to us from Hawaii (I can almost smell the coconut tanning lotion).

I lay awake the night the wind picked up. Like a child with a toy flute, the wind played the cedar tree - long on vigor; short on finesse. It wasn't the fury of the wind that kept me awake, though; it was the temperature. Even with all the heat turned off, the thermometer wavered between 72 and 76 for the next three days! Talk about stewing in your own juice!

Our neighborhood is fine, but it's flooding, especially at the coast - roads collapsing and houses being washed away, too. I don't wish the people of Gleneden Beach ill, but if they had the wits God gave a goose, they wouldn't have built there in the first place. Why do people respond to places of great natural beauty by plunking down a house or a hotel? Do they think it's a game of Monopoly? Then they shouldn't whine when they draw a bad Chance card.

Here's a great little video that gives you an idea how off-kilter things are. Don't mind the ad; it's short. You'll have to copy & paste the link, because I couldn't embed this one. Sorry. http://www.katu.com/home/video/4593501.html?video=YHI&t=a

I'm rich! Rich!!!

We got a load of compost today and I think it's humming something deep and soft and warm - a siren song for the garden's best friends. Over the years, I've tried tilling in some of this and spading in some of that to loosen up our fertile-but-heavy soil, but it was when I quit thrashing the ground (and myself) that I discovered we have a full-time gardening crew who, for a few yards of compost and a good rain will work over each planting bed without disturbing a single plant, incorporating all that organic matter, loosening the soil and aerating it to a faretheewell. You call them worms; I call them my gardening staff.

Other things that make me feel RICH:

• a stack of clean clothes


• jars of peaches cooling from the canner
  


• change in my pocket (!!)


• having a new book I haven't started reading yet


• quail talking in the bushes


• being outside at night with Bill

Money in the bank? (Yawn) Sure, it's nice. I just can't get very interested, though. I guess it's that momentary feeling of absolute goodness, rather than the total of a column of figures, that makes me feel well-to-do. Would it be different if I were hungry or homeless? Yeah, some . . . but I'll bet I'd always stop to bathe in a perfect sunrise or love the feel of 87 cents in my hand.

Like a pig

After a couple of months of me zigging when Bill was zagging, we're back in the garden together. Sweet.

Pop Quiz: How do you know your rosemary is out of control?
Answer: When you need a chainsaw to prune it.

We slaved like - well, slaves - this morning, freeing the granite from the rosemary's clutches, weeding, mulching and reducing the sumac thicket to what we laughingly consider a manageable size.

But here's the best part - we had a nice big pile from clearing the orchard and today was a burning day. By the time we were tuckered out from gardening, there was a bed of coals - I kid you not - six feet long and three feet high. We cut filbert suckers for skewers and sipped a cold beer while our sausages sizzled. A great horned owl lit on the top of the little fir tree, silhouetted against the western sky. It looked like a really big black cat (except for the flying part).

We went back long after dark and sat watching the sky and the glow of the coals. Even with fire-glazed eyes we saw the Milky Way clear across the sky. It was a nice respite from the thundering feline horde in the house, but we couldn't stay out too late. We think they've figured out how to use the internet and I caught Bungee with my credit card yesterday . . .

Breakfast at Tiffany's it ain't

I spent yesterday on a clear liquid diet and then spent the evening drinking ONE GALLON (I kid you not) of a product jokingly named "GoLYTELY", and then shitting my guts out. The prize for all this was getting a colonoscopy this morning (good report!). I am, of course, overdramatizing (blame the anesthesia) - it's not really terrible, just mildly undignified. Luckily, as we age, we learn a) to maintain a modicum of dignity at the worst of times and b) to care less and less about maintaining a modicum of dignity.

And the hits just keep on coming

So, as I said, the wedding was a romp, a rollick, a fest o' good spirits. The day after, we woke feeling smug and laughed about having a blank calendar ahead of us. That lasted about an hour. Then our sneaky firstborn and her equally sly husband, who had been keeping the secret for three months, finally got to tell us we'd be grandparents in the spring!

One minute I'm smiling over one couple; the next I'm grinning over the other; and then I laugh out loud because life is good.

On the road again . . .

Ahhhhh. . . One of the joys of traveling through PDX is clearing security and finding Aero Moka just beyond. Laptop connects and life is good.

All was not, however, beer and skittles. Here's an airline first for me: after waiting nine (9) hours for the connecting flight (including a whole hour to find a flight attendent!), they called us to board and then mentioned the plane had been "downsized" (apparently they didn't notice this before boarding started) and half of us would not be going on tonight, after all - oh, but our luggage was leaving. Sheesh!

I'm falling for Oneonta in a big way. I'm staying a few blocks from the kids and a few blocks from "The Latte Lounge" which, in spite of its unfortunate name (how would a lounging latte look, anyway?), is a great place to read the paper after a nice long morning walk. The weather gets clearer and brighter each day and the trees are making up new colors for themselves.

We're trying to be tense and irritable about the wedding, but we're all too happy to pull it off. Everyone we work with is pleasant, thoughtful, courteous and prompt, so we can't bitch about vendors. And Mike's family is just great. Emily is so lucky to have Connie for a mother-in-law! And I'm far enough away that Mike shouldn't suffer too much, either.

Late note: the wedding went off BEAUTIFULLY. The one teeny, tiny little problem was handled before the guests noticed, which is the same, in my book, as no problem ever happening. The room looked great all filled with happy people, and the newly-married couple finally got to relaaaaaaaaaaxx.

Corn pudding and cheesecake

Today was the community potluck at the grange hall, and we had so much fun we hung the last dog. Unbeknownst to us, interesting people have infiltrated the neighborhood! I base that judgement on both the food they brought and on how witty their repartee - with style points for sassy children or comments like, "Oh, I've always liked your house!"

What I don't like about such gatherings is catching wind of some local conflict, but not picking up enough of the details. So, I come away with the impression that she thinks it's a crime and she's 100% with whosis, and we sure hope what'shisname doesn't bring it up today, because it will just start an argument. Arrrgghhhhh!

We were encouraged to wear name tags with our addresses, which lead to conversations like,

"So, which house is 2140 Oak Grove Road?"

"It's right near the top of the hill past the big power line."

"Oh, you mean the Griffith place?"

"Well, the original Griffith place was on Orchard Heights. The one on Oak Grove was built . . ."

You get the drift.

As the day wound down I remembered the first potluck I went to in that hall, about 35 years ago. All the men gathered in the hall or outside, and all the women were in the kitchen. But now we all break down the tables and chairs, then we end up together in the kitchen until the last teaspoon lands in the drawer. Then the hall is empty again and we chase the last few yellowjackets out as we lock the back door.

Fuzzy slippers

Ahhhhhh . . . I slip on my snuggly wool slippers and give a tired but happy sigh to be home again after ANOTHER trip. My God, do those people ever stay home?

After a looong weekend in Tennessee, North Carolina and Virginia, I think we should all take a hint from the disarming friendliness of our Appalachian peers. What passes for normal grumbly chit-chat just seems churlish in their midst, and after a Mason jar or two of hard lemonade, it's hard to think of much to grouse about. Note to self: save the snarky comments for your first novel.

While we were having perfect warm days and cool crickety nights, it was (at last!) raining at home. In fact, it snowed on Mt. Hood - we saw a news report of a bunch of people at Timberline Lodge in shorts and flip-flops tip-toeing across the parking lot. They looked pretty silly.

When we came home tonight, the kittens came prancing up with their pointy little tails at attention, looking unbearably sweet - for about 30 seconds. They're enormous; I think they learned to read while we were gone and it looks like a couple of them may have started smoking.

some day my guts will be fiddle strings

Our reward for feeding Mehitabel, the stray who appeared this spring, is a litter of kittens. They're soft and silly and very cute - what are the odds of that? One, at the tender age of four weeks, is a tiny lion stalking his patch of savannah - our woodshed. His opposite is a solemn, yet savage, panther, as quietly deadly as the wee lion is brashly lethal. When they're all asleep, I know there are three others, but awake they are like spilled mercury - scattering and regrouping in unpredictable, sort of sinister ways.

I'm looking forward to long winter evenings with a good book and a warm little furball or two in my lap.

Stayed too long at the fair . . .

There was a parks department picnic at Spencer's Butte when I was about six. I'm sure there were all sorts of healthy things to eat, but I went for the cupcakes, cookies and pop, and ended up tossing it all in the bushes and spending the rest of the evening lying on the back seat of the car feeling sorry for myself.

A billion years later, on the last morning of two glorious back-to-back vacations, I woke with that ominous feeling. It wasn't going to be a very good day, and I had a couple of hours of driving before I could pull the covers up over my head.

The irony this time was that I had eaten wisely, exercised and slept well, and drinking? OK, I'd had two glasses of wine instead of one some nights - not exactly a binge. No, this was a bug. My cousin's wife fell to it first, and then my cousin the next day. They blamed the crab. But what they ate on the way to the hotel didn't cause my malaise.

Did that take the glow off the week? No, siree! We stuffed enough fun into those seven days that I'd do it all over again - next year.

Redeeming qualities

OK, I'm woman enough to admit there are things I do like about summer.

It's nice to roll out of bed, pull on whatever, grab the pocket radio, and ask for a ride that will leave me a respectable distance from home in that flat morning light I so enjoy. Walking back, I'm dazzled by those wild oats glowing white-gold beside the road, with their seeds a-dangle in the breeze. At the far end of the filbert rows are diminutive arches framing a buttery-yellow field. A song sparrow flits along ahead of me, drawing my attention to the the fencerow - a tangle of wild roses, hawthorn, poison oak, wild apple, snowberry, and blackberries already warm from the early sun. And all the while, the voices of NPR overriding my mental prattle, and April Baer from OPB giving periodic updates on the traffic for Portland. Ahhhhhhh. . .

There's that half-awake state, somewhere between 2 and 4 AM, when I feel a cool breeze across my face and put my toes out to play for a while before snuggling back to sleep. The voices of a few coyotes or the whistle of the train tell me the night crew is at work and all is as it should be. And whoever is in the cedar tree is welcome, however odd the sounds it's making.

Long summer days as we're mooching about the place - sometimes working, sometimes just loafing - we find the treasures only summer can provide. Under huge leaves in the old tank there are strawberries dangling coyly. Weeding the end of the pine bed where the bindweed grows thick, there are blueberries to keep our spirits up. At the raised bed, a Black Plum tomato between two large basil leaves is a refreshing snack, or young carrots which taste especially good with just a little dirt still clinging to their tender skins. Picking raspberries is an exercise in patience, moving slowly and carefully among the bumblebees who are so graciously pollinating them. Then apples and grapes and walnuts and filberts . . . oh my!

The games people play

Those evenings when it just wouldn't cool off we ate dinner at the patio table with a sprinkler at our feet. And this time, there were no bad children making up reasons to leave the table so they could stomp on the hose "by AC-cident!" (Actually, someone did kick the hose about two more times than I think could qualify as accidents.)

We celebrated my birthday by doing a butterfly hike up Horsepasture Mountain with an very pleasant group of strangers. Even though we knew the terrain, the birds and the plants, it all looked completely different from the point of view of butterfly and moth ecology.

The mountaintop only has a few remnants of the lookout my parents manned during the summer of ‘42. They packed all their supplies in by mule and weren't resupplied all season. It's hard to imagine having to anticipate everything you'd want to eat, wear, read for an entire summer! I have trouble remembering keys, debit card and grocery list for a simple trip to town!

I'm watching tractors, trucks, cars go by these days and trying to figure out whose is which. It's a matter of waving, see. When I ask whose pickup that is, I swear he just picks a name at random. Then I'll say, "But Merle's pickup is blue, isn't it?" and he'll laugh. "Yes, it was - ten years ago." I think he can actually see the driver, which gives him an unfair advantage.

We're watching five kittens to pick out a couple to make housepets of. They're such lumps at first, but a couple are starting to see a little, and their ears are popping up, too. Some of them hiss like little snakes when I come talk to them, which is just silly - as if they could carry out that threat! The mother, who wasn't much interested in us until this litter, has decided I'm her very best friend, and she'll hang out with me when I'm weeding, so I can talk to myself out loud and pretend I'm talking to her. Who am I kidding?

Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy!

My cousin, Pris, reminded me of the radio shows we grew up on, and I've been in a reminiscent haze all day. To get myself in the mood, I listened to the Stan Freberg Show called "Orville Arrives from the Moon". It's the one that made catch phrases of "Turn off the bubble machine!" and "Gee, Dad; it was a Wurlitzer!"

I liked "Bobby Baker of the B-Bar-B", "Big John & Sparky" and "Tom Corbett, Space Cadet". This was probably coincident with my crush on Sunny Jim, the Seattle peanut butter company trademark. Staying home with the measles, mumps, chicken pox meant getting to listen to "Don McNeil's Breakfast Club" that came, I think from Chicago. The weirdest part of that show was when they all got up to "march around the breakfast tables!"

But best of all were the grown-up shows, often listened to in bed with the covers pulled way up and the volume way down: "The Green Hornet", "The Whistler", "Let George Do It" and "The Shadow". "X-Minus One", with it's sci-fi stories, alternately creeped me out and thrilled me. A geek is born.

My radio was a brown metal affair that boasted a spectacular antenna. I clipped the lead right to my bedsprings, which were conveniently unobscured by padding and fabric. If there was a signal out there, I could pick it up!

TV, which had to be watched communally, lacked both the intimacy of radio and the personal control. As the youngest and least assertive viewer, I tended to watch what someone else chose. Still do . . . But radio hasn't disappointed me; it's still there, and still has worthy shows. Fewer? Perhaps, or maybe I just haven't found them yet. And don't get me started on podcasts. . . Wow, what a goldmine!

Poor, pitiful Pearl!

I'm going to do some preemptive whining, so I'll be able to just grit my teeth and get through the next few days. I hate heat! And when I say heat, I mean anything over 80 degrees F. So, you can just skip this post, and go on about your daily life.

Heat makes me cranky and lethargic. I suffer agonies over the garden and the wildlife. Heck, I even put out water for the bees! And it's supposed to get really hot. Well, ok; not hot like it's been in Chicago and New York. We don't have that humidity problem, but it's going to be really hot - like, over 100, ok? All I want to do is lie on the cool floor and drink beer. I always envied the dog, who could wrap herself around the chilly porcelain of the toilet.

I love it that Spring can last clear through June and that we can't count on summer weather until after the Fourth of July. If it's 65 and overcast, I'm one happy chica, because it's really the SUN I don't like; the heat is just an unpleasant side-effect of too much sun. So much for astrology . . . I'm supposed to be a Leo, for Pete's sake!

Shhhhhh! There's a California quail at the water dish! I'd take a picture, but Mrs. Stupid left the camera . . . outside! Oh, well, maybe the quail will take some pictures.

OK, that cheered me up a lot. I'm going out to set up the teeny-tiny hose with the misting nozzle to give the critters a mini-spa.

Sweet summer nights

In July it's so hard to come inside to sleep. As the evening fades so slowly into night, it feels like things are just starting to get good outside - cool breezes, new animal sounds, and fragrances that get lost in the heat of the day. I can forget about sunscreen, and quit worrying if I should drink more water. Without my hat, my visor or my sunglasses I can see the sky, the mountains and the fields as a panorama again.

So, we've put up this screened canopy where we can't see the neighbors and will go "camping" within easy reach of flush toilets and the espresso machine. What would Sarah Isabel Fawk think of that, do you think?

Ch... ch... ch... changes

So, while I waited for Bill to come out of a surgery that turned out to be sublimely uncomplicated, I had some time to think. I'm not a worrier, but I could see several possible outcomes, and considered them one at a time, a little like pondering different places I could go for a vacation, except without the thrill of expectation.

First, I thought, what if he dies? And I thought about paralyzing grief, affairs to reorder, being alone, the rest of the family . . . Yes, that's what that would be like, all right, and then some. Second, I thought, what if he takes weeks or months to recover? I'd take a lot of time off work, ferrying him around, caring for him and the house and all. Then, what if he's permanently disabled? He might need more care than I could manage alone, or even need to be in a care facility. While I ran the scenarios through, I kept thinking, "OK, I've looked at that and I'm not afraid to face it." But I kept coming back to how I'd need to take good care of myself.

Then I thought of another scenario: what if he recovered beautifully, and didn't need heroic efforts from me? Well, then all I was left with was taking care of myself! When I looked as frankly at my situation, I dared myself to do the same what-iffing. Like: what if I didn't have to carry a pager 24x7? What if I didn't have to commute 106 miles round trip? What if I admitted to myself that my dream job wasn't such a good dream any more? What if I retired?!?

So, I did.