Your Dying Spouse 137 - Decide To Be Happy {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, the weekly keyword-driven timed writing challenge hosted by Kate Motaung.

The word this week is...DECIDE.

Happiness is a choice.

Today, aside from rather extreme fatigue and pain (and blood on the wall...don't ask) I've been dealing with a relapse of the flu, and a throat that is sore enough to make speech, other than a mouse-like squeak, impossible. Even broke a thermometer...fever went high enough to crack it. I can't describe what that was like.

The dogs like the loss-of-voice. I can't tell them what to do. Like Captain von Trapp, I am developing individual whistles for them, to which they pay not the slightest attention.

But I'm happy. I choose to be, and I work at it.

First, I fill my mind with good thoughts, reading books that I find inspiring and hopeful. I don't need to build character by suffering through agonizing travails. I get that in real life. I want the words I read to make me look up.

Second, I take the time to appreciate the good things...like the dogs, even as they bomb-burst out the door and take some rounding-up.

Third, if Barbara's watching something on TV that I don't like (such as the news, or a lot of what's on PBS), I'm happy walking away. And she's OK with that.

And finally, I keep in mind that others have it a lot worse. There are those whose pain is a source of pleasure for their torturers, and I have seen this.

It's funny...when I was younger and healthy, I wondered how it would feel to face death by natural causes. I was worried about this; death by bullet or blast seemed so much more pleasant.

And now I know how I would feel.

That it's really up to me.

And for musical inspiration, here's "Walking On Sunshine"

And I can die happy, because that's what I decide to do.

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Jonah - A Story Of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle}

Time for #BlogBattle, the weekly keyword-driven flash fiction contest hosted by Rachael Ritchey.

The word this week is LEVIATHAN.

This story is the third part of a specific vignette...the first part was A Life In A Year, and the second was White Feather.

Jonah

Smiley was under a cloud, and he knew it. A reputation of cowardice is a hard thing to shake

It didn't help that our sojourn at Oceanview was interrupted before it began, with an urgent callout to Con Thien, and our regular playmates the Walking Dead. Mr. Charles had been making like moles in the Z, and they wanted a bit of muscle around when they blew the tunnels, and Mr. Charles might object.

You can't say it was a silent ride up...tanks aren't even remotely quiet...but the IC chatter was at a minimum.

Smiley was riding chest-up in the loader's hatch, watching our flank, and The Dude tried to draw him into conversation.

"OK, we've got that Rome plow cut coming up on the left...see it>'

"Seen."

"Had a rocket team try to hide there, a couple of months ago...they didn't seem to realize that trying branches to their backs wasn't very good cammo for cleared ground."

"Oh." Smiley looked quickly at me, and he wasn't smiling. Then he looked away. "Well, I'll look for that." He put his hand on the grease gun laid on the turret deck for his use. His hand was shaking.

I looked back over my shoulder. Lollipop was following, its outline fuzzy in our dust. Strange, I thought, how many people in The World would believe that Viet Nam could be...

BOOM!

Lollipop vanished in an ugly black-orange gout of smoke, then careened off the side of the road into a Rome plow cut. New Guy TC was hanging half out of his cupola, and as I watched unseen hands in the turret pulled him back.

"Lollipop's hit a mine," I said into the IC, and felt Ship Of Fools grind to a stop. "Dude, reverse, let's get us closer, Smiley, eyes up on our flanks, Biff, front."

The Dude couldn't see where he was going, of course, since tanks don't have mirrors (or tape decks, for that matter), so I coached him, making sure we stayed in our own tread-marks. I was glad the road was dirt.

"Okay, Dude, halt. I think their radio's down, I'm gonna go see what we've got. Security, guys. We're kind of exposed." I really didn't like where we were. The NVA were pros, and it wouldn't be in character for them not to have some way of exploiting a mine strike.

This road was supposed to have been kept clear. This wasn't good.

New Guy TC had the same thought. He was growing up. He had Timex up on the sky mount fifty, and he had the XM-177 they'd been gifted, and which I envied. His gunner and loader were looking at the damage.

It was bad, but not hopeless. The front road wheel on the starboard side was gone, and the sprocket was mangled. He couldn't run, but we could short-track him and tow Lollipop ourselves.

Except we were really exposed.

I ran back to Ship Of Fools and, leaning into the turret, told Biff to give Con Thien a call and ask them to send us some security.

"They're not up on their push, TC." Biff's voice had an edge. "Can't raise Oceanview, either."

The Dude spoke up, "Biff, try Rockpile, see if they can relay to..."

WHANGGGG!

There was a massive impact, and a shower of sparks soared over us. An RPG has hit the gun mantlet a glancing blow, and ricocheted straight up, a firework from hell.

"I see him!" Smiley's voice seemed to come from far away, and he fumbled with the grease gun. He was trying to point and unlatch the safety at the same time, and failing. "There, there...!"

"Oh, crap!" Smiley had gotten the ejection port cover open, and his finger was already on the trigger when the safety came off. He nearly took off my head, and I fell from the deck. I heard the grease gun offer a few more rounds, and then Timex, on Lollipop, joined in.

Timex must have been pretty accurate, because I was looking where the bullets hit, and a spray of blood came up, followed by what looked like a...

"Hey, that was a head!" Smiley yelled. "Did I do that?" He was ashen under his dark skin.

I was feeling dizzy and sick, and as I got to my feet an arm encircled my shoulders. The Dude had me. "TC, here, sit...you're bleeding."

I put my hand to my face, and felt wetness. "Jutht my nosth," I said. "Ith ok."

The Dude looked up at Smiley, who was watching us, and motioned for our new crewman to keep up security. Then he said, "Radio's gone. I think maybe the gun computer's gone, too...we may need to get everyone on board and deny Lollipop, get us out of Dodge."

I grimaced and winced. New Guy TC was going to hate me if we abandoned and blew up his tank. "Yeah. Tell Biff, and put a HEAT up the pipe. Then go over and get the guyth. Let'th get out of here." I wiped some gore from my upper lip.

The Dude disappeared into the turret, then popped out and ran to the other tank. I looked up at Smiley. "You did OK," I said.

He was shaking. "I didn't want to let you down. I...I mean, I almost..."

"Forget it. Happen to anyone. The thing is, you shot back." I tried to smile, but it must have looked pretty awful, through all the blood. "OK?"

Smiley nodded jerkily. "OK."

"Now go get the canister out of the tube, load up a HEAT, and let's make sure Mr. Charles doesn't get himself a tank, how about it? Toss me...no, just hand me the gun, I've got the watch."

Smiley carefully handed down the grease gun, pausing to snap shut the ejection port. He gave me a sickly grin and dropped down the loader's hatch, and the turret began to swing around. If the computer was really gone Biff was going to have to sight through the tube.

The Dude came back, frowning. "TC, we've got a problem."

"Well, he's probably not thrilled we're gonna kill his tank."

"It's not that. He thinks we've got a Jonah. All of them do. And they're going to talk."

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 136 - Saying Goodbye.

We're linked to Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday - please visit Beth for some great marriage resources!

The question becomes clearer...how does one say goodbye, when the process of leaving has been so long?

It's not easy, by any means. The months, and now years have taken a toll, and most of the grief - on both sides - has been exhausted.

Or so we think.

The truth is that the anticipation of separation only feels like the separation has taken place. yet all the pieces are still on the board, moving slowly from square to square, it's true...but still moving.

One day, they won't be. One day the game will really be going on short one chessman, and only then will the loss become apparent in its full flavour.

But still...one wants to just get it over with.

Give me the grief now, so I can deal with it, and move on.

But it doesn't work that way. Time does heal wounds, or at least it attenuates the pain, but it can't be paid in advance.

So how does one say goodbye before the fact?

By embracing the presence that's still here, that's how. By living each moment as well as it can be lived, not thinking of the loss, but because each moment is worth it in its own right.

The only real way to say goodbye is to say hello, while you still can.

It works for the caregiver, and for the dying. I am trying to appreciate and fully understand the life I still have, and to keep before myself the truth that it's not about what I achieve or accomplish, but about how fully present I can still be.

Please pardon the brevity of this post. On top of everything else, I've had a relapse of this particularly nasty flu. I mean, you'd think that I'd be immune, everything else considered...

But noooo.....

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 135 - Sympathy and Empathy

As a caregiver, sometimes you have to draw a sharp distinction between sympathy and empathy.

Sympathy says, "I'm sorry you're hurting, I'm sorry you're uncomfortable...and I'm sorry you're scared. I'm genuinely sorry, and I wish that there was some way I could make it all better."

Empathy says the same thing, but adds..."I know how you feel."

Sympathy is always welcome. Even I, who am probably the far right outlier of the 'hard man' (and I'm not proud of this) welcome, when I'm lying on the floor in a pool of blood, a sincere, "Gee, dude, that's really tough."

But empathy...well, you've got to be careful. You may know how I feel. or you may not. And making the wrong choice can really piss off the person for whom you're caring.

Please understand...my wife has never done this, nor have any of the wonderful people who've left comments.

But others have. And yes, they've royally irritated me.

The difference is generally one of kind. People who've been seasick know nausea that's worse than I have had, but they also know that they will survive.

Well, sometimes. I've heard that some who are seasick would prefer death.

But I'm not going to get better. There is pain worse than this, there is discomfort that far outstrips not being able to reach a bathroom before one's bladder - or worse  - lets go.

But the defining thing about terminal illness is the finality of it. It's going to get worse.

And unless you've been there, you don't really know how it feels. I appreciate the effort to understand. Really, I do. But unless you've been here, you don't know how much this sucks.

Best to say, "I'm sorry it hurts," and leave it at that.

And a cold beer would be nice. (If I could still stomach one!)

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 134 - Why I Yet Live {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, the weekly timed keyword-driven writing challenge hosted by Kate Motaung

This week's word is ALIVE.

Works for me, and what I have been thinking about, because why am I still alive?

It's a puzzlement to doctors and family. Professional opinion is I should have been dead last year, and every time I go in, my doctor's always faintly surprised to see me.

So why am I still here?

It's not easy, and not terribly fun. I've got to will my body forward, and talk myself into doing darn near anything. Like writing; every keystroke hurts.

I figure that God simply isn't done with me yet. He has His plans, and they involve my utility to His purpose, and emphatically do not address comfort or enjoyment.

It doesn't mean, to me, that He doesn't care. Quite the contrary; I think he, unlike Bill Clinton, truly 'feels my pain', and wishes it didn't have to be.

But if wishes were horses...well, God made the rules, and if he starts breaking them to give me a break, then we'd have absolute chaos, and a Creation that ended up denying His purpose...which is to make of us fit companions for Him in Heaven, for eternity.

So I'm here on His orders, and while He'll help me, it's up to me to keep going, spurred by the conscience and will He gave me, and reinforces.

That's why I am still alive.

(The really weird thing is that this is the post I would have written ahead of time, but I wasn't well enough. I truly didn't know if I would have had the energy to get one done, but seeing the prompt, I thought, well, that's a sign if there ever was one.)

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

White Feather - A Story Of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle}

Time for this week's #BlogBattle, the keyword-driven flash fiction contest hosted by Rachael Ritchey.

The word this week is FEATHER.

White Feather

We were provisioning, getting ready to go back to Oceanview, and get Smiley snapped in as our new loader, when the Six walked up.

"Talk to you a minute?" he asked. But from our swallowed-a-cleaning-rod-from-the-wrong-end platoon leader, it wasn't really a request.

"Sure, LT, what's up?" I gave the main gun round I was about to hand up to Smiley to The Dude, and followed the Six a few paces. Out of earshot of the crew.

"How do you feel about your new loader?" he asked, without preamble.

"Sm...uh, Dalton? I like him. The guys like him. I think he'll fit in real well." I wondered where this was leading, because the Six was not overly concerned with interpersonal relations. I soon found out.

"Well, great, but word is, he's a coward." The Six looked me in the eye when he said that, and I blinked.

"Ohhh...kay," I said. "He can't really do a retrograde advance out of a tank. We'd kind of notice."

The Six didn't smile. "Word is, he freezes.

The why did you agree to chop him to our crew...are we that shorthanded? I thought.

"We're too short of personnel. Sorry." The Six didn't sound sorry.

"Well, we'll deal with it," I said. There didn't seem to be anything to add.

The Six nodded, and then stopped as he was turning away. "Look, I really hated having to tell you this. Really."

"It's OK. Better I should know." I guess.

The Six went on, "Guy I went to OCS with, he saw it. Khe Sanh. Dalton just froze. Dropped his rifle and went to ground, hands over his head. My friend kicked him bloody, and when Dalton tried to pick up his rifle, he got hit. Weren't for that, he would've been up on charges."

"Ugh," I said, kind of wishing I didn't know this.

"Yeah. Well, the Corps thought they'd just quietly get rid of him, but he found his way back here. God knows why...or how."

"Well, thanks. Better that I know," I said again.

The Six turned away again...and then again turned back. "Look, I'll take my crew this rotation. You just give Dalton a place to hold until your gunner gets released by the docs. You guys can stand down."

You could have knocked me over with a bamboo cane. the Six never made an offer like that. "Uh, sir..."

"Really. I mean it. Something happens, I don't want this on my conscience."

Now I knew why he was a Real Live Officer. "Let me talk to the guys, ok, sir? I don't want them to think it's something about them...well."  Smiley would surely know, but that couldn't be helped.

The Six nodded. "Sure. Just let me know, soon as you can?"

"Ten minutes, sir. Thanks."

I walked slowly back to Ship Of Fools, conscious of three pairs of eyes on me. "LT's offered to take our rotation," I said.

Biff was standing in the loader's hatch. The guys had been handing him up the main gun rounds. He spoke first. "No, TC."

The Dude shook his head as well. "Nice of him, but no."

Smiley looked at me, and he wasn't smiling. "If it's all the same to you..."

I tried to make a joke out of it. "Don't you guys want a couple more days R&R here, on the shores of the beautiful South China Sea? Bet they build a Hilton here some day, and you'll be able to say, I was here when..."

"TC," said The Dude, "no disrespect, but stow it."

I felt my mouth flop open, and then thought to close it. We were informal, but not that informal.

Smiley said, "I told them, TC. That's what it's about, isn't it? Me?"

"Yeah."

"We're giving him a chance," said Biff. "Everyone needs a second chance."

The Dude walked over to me. "What else are we supposed to do?" He looked over to the Six's tank. There was activity around it. "You want to tell him, or should I?"

"I'll go," I said.

The Dude nodded. "Tell him thanks, really. But we have to do this."

When I reached the Six's tank, he dropped down from the turret, where he'd been handing C's down inside, to meet me. "Well?"

"We're going. The guys want to go."

"They know?"

"Yeah. They know. Dalton told them."

"OK. I'll keep my guys spun up if you need a mid-rotation relief."

"Thanks, sir." I turned.

The Six called me back. "Son," he said, "I hope you're half as proud of your crew as I am, right now."

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 133 - Fatigue

We're linked to Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday.

Compassion fatigue?

That's a common buzz-phrase these days, and it's used by people who get oh-so-tired of the tragedies that are aired on the news and social media.

"I just can't stand seeing another story about refugees. I have compassion fatigue."

Actually, no, You're just tired of looking.

Compassion fatigue is pretty specific to first responders and trauma-care personnel who are in a situation in which they are overwhelmed by numbers and scope of casualties, and have to retreat within themselves to survive. They are the ones who are there, and they know what blood, in large spilled quantities, smells like.

And it can apply to caregivers, as well.

There may or may not be blood, and the overwhelming part of the situation is concentrated around one patient...but seeing a relentless decline, seeing more and more pain and debility, seeing how hopeless it gets...that can put you into a position in which you have to be numb to endure it. Cold and distant, and you'll hate yourself for it.

Because the other alternative may be a kind of breakdown, a place in which your emotions are so raw that you go on crying jags, triggered by absurd things.

Or you become easily angered, and feel - often - like throwing at dish across the room...or at the person you're caring for.

Don't flinch. You may some day feel like doing just that.

And it's OK.

This road may not be easy; it may be the hardest and most soul-scarring experience you'll ever have, caring for a dying husband or wife.

It's important how you get through it, but even more important that you get through it.

Some days will be ugly, and you'll feel ugly.

Just keep breathing. You're OK. The bad feelings are OK.

You have the right to be tired.

Just don't throw the plate at the person.

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 132 - Me and Jesus

I'm going to maybe sound heretical here, but I can identify with Jesus, because this has been one heck of a long Via Dolorosa. (And I hope you'll pardon the short post, because I'm not doing too good.)

Explaining 'how it feels' is hard, but here goes...imagine the worst flu you've ever had, that doesn't go away. The high fever is there every day.

Imagine being seasick, and that doesn't go away either.

And the runs...enough said.

Pain under the right side of the ribcage that makes you feel like you've been impaled. (Have you ever been impaled? You don't know what you've missed.)

It will make you turn 270 degrees to the right to be able to turn 90 degrees left, because you simply can't turn against it.

Of course, sometimes it just drops you. On carpet, or on dirt, or on cement. It really does not care.

Finally, the kind of fatigue that makes you want to just stop. And spend the rest of the day and evening in the most...well, the least painful position you can manage, with enough painkillers to put the Chinese Army into a state of perpetual bliss.

The teaching is that Jesus endured the worst pain of anyone who ever lived. Yes. I won't contest that, but I think I have come within spitting distance.

And this makes me realize, in understanding...I think...what He went through, that He is helping me carry this cross. because He gets it.

I don't have to bow meekly and shuffle away backwards, feeling that my problems ain't sh...uh, ain't nothing. They are sure as shootin' something.

And He is there, saying, "One more step, dude...let's do this."

"TOGETHER."

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 131 - The Jedi Way {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, the timed keyword-driven timed writing exercise hosted by Kate Motaung.

Once again, I'm writing ahead of time; I hate not being able to keep up with the keyword, but I don't think I can do it today. Again.

But I will try to modify what I write, if I can, to include this week's word. Which, I have just learned, is SURPRISE.

But first...I'd like to suggest that you visit today's post on Mundane Faithfulness, which features a guest post by Mickey Gauen. It's the heartbreakingly lovely witness of her love and friendship with Kara Tippetts, as we approach the one-year anniversary of dear Kara's leaving us. Please go there...and bring Kleenex.

Kara's final book, And It Was Beautiful says so much, in the title alone. Walking in beauty was not easy for her, no doubt...but it was a choice, renewed every moment.

OK, so...let's go...ha! Appropriate opening for the topic...Letting Go.

I'm having to let go.

Not an easy thing, because my life has been active, and very goal-oriented. But circumstances are forcing a reassessment...and I have to start opening my hands, and letting go of what I want...and what I love.

It's not a bad thing.

For much of my life I was a practicing Zen Buddhist...and I still am (surprise!). It doesn't contradict Christian faith; I believe in Christ's divinity, His resurrection, and His Passion as the atonement for my sins.

Zen teaches something else...non-attachment. (It's a Jedi thing, too.)

Zen, you see, is not a faith. It's a way of approaching life. In a very real sense it embodies the Serenity Prayer...accepting that which cannot be changed, changing that which can not be accepted, and having the wisdom...and peace...to know the difference.

And it's here that I have lately learned that Zen and Christ come full circle...a perfect circle, to a perfect meeting.

Attachment...trying to hold on...Zen teaches that this is the root of suffering. It's the suffering of fear of loss, of the dread that what we treasure will be taken from us by time and fate.

But it's not the case. It never was.

I believe that the good we cherish, the love we value...it's taken in trust for us by God. He's holding it all secure for us, to be returned to our hands...and beheld by our eyes, blinded they may be by tears...when we meet Him, to stay for good.

It's not the non-attachment of thinking we never really 'had' it. Some teach that the people we love, the animals we love, the dreams we hold...they were never really ours.

Bullshit. (There's surprise #2.)

We can let go because we've always had it, and always will, because God, in His loving heart, is keeping our dreams safe for us, and the loves we've held dear are perfected in His presence.

And we can let go.

God's got it, and it's all safe.

And waiting.

That's it.

Today's musical theme is courtesy Linkin Park, "Shadow Of The Day"...

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

A Life In A Year - A Story of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle}

Time for this week's #BlogBattle, the keyword-driven weekly flash fiction contest hosted by Rachael Ritchey.

In honour of #BlogBattle's one-year anniversary, the word is YEAR.

A Life In A Year

The sun had dropped behind the clouds massing over the hills to the west, and the temperature seemed to drop by twenty degrees. For Viet Nam, it was downright pleasant.

The Dude and I were greasing the bogies, a never-ending job, when there was a voice in the dusk. "I hear that you will be needing a loader."

Biff was in the cupola, standing radio watch, and his voice came back. "For a while, anyway. Ours is in the BAS. But he'll be coming back."

"Yes. I talked to him, actually. he suggested I drop by, to see if I could help out." The voice was precise and almost formal, and The Dude and I got up and came around the tank, curious.

A recruiting-poster Marine stood there, at parade rest. He was short, about five-six, and stocky, and his face was the colour of sun-warmed mahogany. The greens he wore were spotless, and while his helmet wasn't polished, it was clean. He smiled at me, and nodded. "Sergeant?"

"Yeah." I wiped my hands on my coveralls, and hesitantly put my right hand out to shake his.

"My dame is Dalton," he said. I could have figured that out; his namepatch was crisp and legible. He wore the stripes of a buck sergeant.

"Well, hi You armor?" The Corps sometimes sent grunt to do temp work in tanks, and that was bad policy. We had to take him, but I wanted to know how much training we'd need to do.

"I was supposed to be, first tour. But when they got me here they put me in a line company."

This was good; a second-tour man. I liked Dalton already, except that he was so shiny.

The Dude asked him, "Where?"

"Khe Sanh." He shifted his weight, and winced, then took a halting, limping step. "Sorry."

The Dude raised his eyebrows, and said, "Ummm..."

Dalton smiled again, andI had a feeling that I knew what his nickname would be. "Don't worry." He patted his right leg. "There's a bit of metal in here, but I can get around."

And with that he swiftly moved past us, but a clean boot on a grimy roadwheel, and swung himself up onto the fender. The he handed his helmet to Biff (who took it gingerly, not wanting to dirty it), and dropped through the loader's hatch.

"See?" came his voice from the depths of the turret.

The Dude looked at me and shook his head. "He's one jump ahead of us, TC."

"Literally."

Dalton popped his head out. "Do I get the job?"

Biff said, apropos nothing, "I'm Jewish."

Dalton turned to him. "Well, I'm a baptist lay preacher. Mind if I try to save you?"

"Oh, I like this guy," said The Dude. The, to Dalton, "Good luck with that. Biff's going to be a rabbi."

Dalton took his helmet back from our gunner, and patted Biff on the shoulder. "Good times."

"Ok, Smiley," I said. "You're on. I'll go get the paperwork cut."

"No need," said Dalton. "I was shining a chair over at HQ, clerking" He suddenly looked sheepish. "I, uh, already put in the orders."

Well, it was nice to be wanted.

***

After drawing a CVC and coveralls, Dalton returned to break bread with us.

The Dude held out some C's. "Franks and beans," he said, "or ham and mu..."

Our new loader quickly grabbed the franks. "Something edible, please." Ham and lima beans, more commonly known by another name, had the consistency and smell of something found in the diaper of a baby.

"So, Smiley," I said, "what's your story?"

"Sure...uh, first, why Smiley?" And he smiled. "Oh," he said.

"Well, we can't very well keep calling you Dalton."

"How about Sergeant?"

"There is no rank," said The Dude," in our tank."

"It's my name, actually. Sergeant Benedict Dalton."

Biff asked, "Did your parents not like you?"

Smiley's smile faded. "My mother loves me very much. She named me after my dad. he was an amtrac driver at iwo Jima. He died there. I never knew him."

The Dude whistled. "You're a walking piece of Marine Corps history." The black amtrackers at Iwo were the Corp's first coloured combat troops, and had a reputation for lionhearted courage.

Smiley looked down. "That he was a sergeant...that was a big thing in our family. He got the bronze star. Posthumously."

"Wow." The Dude was genuinely impressed, and passed the man a Millers, "To his honour."

Smiley shook his head. "Thanks, but I don't drink."

"So," I said. "What about you?"

"Me. Well." Smiley looked around at us. "Well, after I got a divinity degree, I felt that I had to do my father proud. So I enlisted. Went to the Iron Horse,"

"Uh, oh," said The Dude. "Lejeune Marine. We're all Pendeltonites here."

"Not me," said Biff. "I did boot in the swamp."

"I keep forgetting," said The Dude. "I keep thinking you're really human."

Biff made a surprisingly rude remark, and Smiley laughed. Then he went on. "I was supposed to be in the armour replacement pool for first tanks, but...well, when I got here i went to the one-three as a rifleman. And I got nailed."

"Ouch," said Biff.

"It was my ticket home. I felt bad about that, really. But I wouldn't ever walk without a limp, and who needs a limping Marine? I was out on disability."

"We do, apparently," observed The Dude.

"So I went home. Back to Detroit. Wore my dress blues from the bus station, walking home. That was a mistake." Smiley looked down again, and shook his head. "Big mistake."

We gave him the space to collect himself.

"See, my little brother...my mom remarried...he was in college, and he got involved with the protests. He kind of organized a welcome-home for me, but when I showed up in uniform...well, he expected me to resent having been shot fighting for The Man. So he called me a baby-killer. To my face. In front of my mother. Called me an oreo cookie."

"Oh, dear," said Biff.

"And I broke his jaw."

'Welcome home," said The Dude, softly.

"Yes. Well, I went to the recruiter the next day, and said I wanted back in. He said, look, you've done your bit...and you'll never pass a medical board."

" I was wondering about that," I said.

"So I asked him, do I really have to do a board? He made a phone call...told someone he had a crazy gimp who just got back from the Nam, and wanted to return, and was there any way we could oblige?"

"And?"

"And a week later I was here. See, back in The World I would have had to go to a board, but if I raised my right hand and got on a plane...once I got here, no one would care."

The Dude laughed, bitterly but not without humour. "As long as you can shoot you can fight."

"My mom asked me what I was fighting for," Smiley went on. "I couldn't  tell her, at the time. I just knew I had to get out of there. I had to come back. But now I think I know."

"So," asked The Dude, "why?"

"Because I have to live for the same thing my daddy died for."

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 130 - What's The Use?

We're linked with Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday.

As a caregiver, the attitude of "what's the use?" is something you are very likely to see in your terminally ill husband or wife, from time to time, or consistently.

It's not unexpected...I mean, if there is a sundown on life coming, a person can be expected to take some strong blows to morale. I know I have.

But what can you, as a caregiver, do to help...and how can you get through this difficult time yourself?

First, realize that it's not a failure on your part. You're not responsible for your spouse's feelings, sick or well. You can and should offer help, and you should be supportive, but you don't have the master key to someone else's morale.

Morale is, to a large degree, an individual choice.

Second, be interested. One of the hardest parts of terminal illness is the gradual detachment from life, and the feeling that one is no longer making a contribution. If one can't contribute meaningful to the shared life the community, something is lost.

The community may shrink down to the family circle, and in that case it's really vital for the caregiver to maintain an active interest in what his or her dying mate is doing, and thinking.

Third, encourage outside involvement. Do fun stuff together. Set up dates, something for your your husband or wife to look forward to. Give them a hook to pull themselves into tomorrow.

Fourth, try to steer clear of 'downers'; you know the kind, the breakfast groups that meet at McDonald's and turn into 'organ recitals' of illnesses and misfortune.

FIfth, if a new interest is shown, nurture it but don't overwhelm. If your spouse starts writing, ask to read what's been produced, but don't quiz on how many words or pages were written, and don't bring home books on writing craft and sales unless asked (you can offer to pick something up when you're shopping, but leave control in your spouse's hands). As one weakens, there is the tendency to have things fall from one's control; ypu don't want to hint at taking over a new interest. Let it grow.

Finally, dear caregiver, take care of yourself. Do what you need to do to keep meaning in your life, because the best way to care for someone in desperate straits is to remain strong and positive. Don't be distant, be be firm in your own resolve to carry yourself through this ark passage with courage, optimism, hope, faith...and love. Love for your spouse, and for yourself.

You can't hold up a drowning man if you allow yourself to be pulled under.

What do you think? Is there anything you'd add?

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 129 - The Morning Of The World

I am writing this on the evening of Sunday, March 13, 2016.

Yesterday, Saturday, March 12, I came near enough to death. (and so...please excuse my delay in relying to comments!)

Barbara had the flu all week, as did I, and I pushed hard to take care of her so she could return to work tomorrow. She's needed, and I am, bluntly, expendable.

And almost lived up to it, as I completely collapsed, bleeding out. We got it stabilized, but the situation was ugly. I needed to be hospitalized, but there is no insurance, and no money for self-pay.

Such is The Affordable Care Act. Our penalty for not being able to play would buy a couple months' worth of pain meds. If I survive to vote, that will be on my mind.

But I digress.

I survived a bad, bad night, and this morning was like the first morning of the world for me.

Colours were brighter, and birdsong sweeter than anything AC/DC ever recorded.

The air had a taste...the taste of life.

I am very, very glad to be here.

I feel rather like a different person; things that galled me before are hard to recall with any seriousness, and there is a hopefulness that I have not felt for a long, long time.

It doesn't come from "Wow, I might be cured!" That's not the case. I am in worse shape than before. The 'new normal' of pain has torqued a few more notches into 'dreadful'. And my diet is now, literally, bread and water. It's all I can face.

But there is the green shoot of hope, and while I don't know what it represents, I will water it, and tend it carefully.

It is The Morning Of The World. And I will enjoy every sunray, every zephyr, every paean of freshness.

Join me, won't you?

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Hairball - A Story of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle & FMF}

(To my Five Minute Friday friends...there's no way I can write a post today. Barb and I have had the flu, and while she's getting better I am not. As I type this - about 2 pm - fever's going up and I'm going down.

So I'll ask your indulgence, and hope you might enjoy a bit of flash fiction (written a couple of days ago under the influence of a temperature above 104).

And so...welcome to a story called Hairball.

And it does fit in with the FMF prompt of SHARE...as in 'sharing a poncho'. Kate, you saved me.)

Time for #BlogBattle, the keyword-driven weekly flash-fiction contest hosted by Rachael Ritchey.

The keyword this week is HAIR.

The story,s going to be short, because I have the flu...but I didn't want to miss what is a really perfect keyword.

Hairball

"Hairball's coming," said The Dude, drawing the poncho closer over us.

"Uhhh?" My teeth were chattering, and I was shaking so hard the words didn't register.

"Hairball," said Biff from my other side. "The reporter. With the ponytail."

"Uhhh," I said. "Wha-a-a rep-p-p..."

"The one we're supposed to be nice to," said Biff.

A shadow fell on us. It made things seem cooler, which made the chills worse.

"Hi," said a voice.

The Dude answered for us. "Hello."

"Mind if I talk with you guys for a few minutes?"

The voices came from a long, long distance.

"I guess," said Biff.

I could sense the reporter sitting down. "First...uh, what are you guys doing?"

It was a reasonable enough question; not every day in the tropics did you see three marines huddled together under a poncho on a cloudless day.

"TC here's got malaria. His fever's spiking, so we're trying to keep him warm." The Dude's tone was quiet and reasonable, as if it'was something that happened every day.Which it did, somewhere in Viet Nam. Every day.

"Why don't you just take him to the BAS?" The acronym sounded still in his mouth, a newly-learned word of which he was proud.

"Oh, we couldn't do that," said Biff. "He's ours. They might misplace him."

"Misplace?"

The Dude picked up the conversational ball. "Yep. I heard that a guy went in with tonsillitis, and they ended up shipping him back to The Word. Can't have that. I mean, he might go to college...become a hippie...wear a ponytail."

"That's right," said Biff. "We don't want to have top break in a new TC."

"Wait...I thought TC was his name? I mean, his initials?"

"It is his name."

"So you'd have to break in a new one? What, do you guys give each other new names here?"

The Dude laughed. "No...TC is Tank Commander. I don't even know what this guy's real name is."

"Uh, huh...well." I heard the reporter ruffling his notebook, and said, "Uhhh." I wanted to be part of the conversation.

"So, OK...how do you guys feel about being drafted, and sent over here?"

The temperature dropped about twenty degrees, and I felt new chills coming on.

"We weren't drafted," said The Dude. The ice in his voice was palpable, but I could have done without it.

"Nope." I could feel Biff nodding, huddled next to me.

"OK...look, I'm sorry. It's a question I'm supposed to ask...my editor..."

"Is a jerk," said The Dude.

"Yeah. He is. But look...why are you here?"

Biff moved his arm around my shoulders, and squeezed. "For him."

"Why? No, wait...I mean, you didn't know when you volunteered that you'd be together...so how can you say, for him?"

" 'Cause he's here for us."

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 128 - My Apologies

My apologies...barbara and I both have the flu, and as I write this I have a fever of a bit more than 104. So, no real post today...but I am still alive.

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 127 - The Big Why

When you have a terminal illness, or you're a caregiver, you're tempted to ask, "Why, God? Why me, why this?"

So much of Scripture should offer comfort, but doesn't...the assurance that all things work together for good is a bit thin when one is both vomiting blood and having the runs. At the same time.

Sorry, but that's reality.

And you know it won't get better.

For the caregiver, you leave for work in the morning, and you don't know what you'll find on your return.

Sometimes it's ugly, and always, you have to gird yourself for the worst.

It never lets up.

WHY?

There's an answer, but it may be hard to hear, much less accept.

It's not about you.

The trials you go through, the pain and the heartache...their primary use may be as an example to others.

What you do, right now, when your husband or wife has collapsed and you're waiting for the ambulance, or whether you're dying and alone and you can't reach the phone...those may be the vital link in someone else's development, or sustaining of faith.

Your example may not change the world, but it can change a small part of it.

And it's hard to let go of the thought that God is going to shield you from pain and from the peculiar heartache of living in a place that will soon be lacking the sound of your spouse's voice. It's hard to look around your home and realize..."One day soon, he or she is not going to be here...and this place, influenced by our shared life and routines...it will change."

It's one of the worst things about a protracted death.

But in all of that, you still have the choice to live well.

You have the chance to transcend your situation, and leave a legacy for others.

Don't fail. Please.

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Your Dying Spouse 126 - My Rock And Roll Girl {FMF}

And again, Five Minute Friday, and I'm writing ahead of time. I know that I won't be up to writing later tonight. There's just no way.  It's been a hard week.

To begin...

Death came this week, but not for me. It came for one of our oldest and most beloved Pits, Rapunzel, aka Puzzle, aka Beast.

She was a massive, low-slung blue-black dog with an insanely cheerful disposition, and not an aggressive bone in her body. We found her almost exactly eight years ago, in a snowstorm. She'd been used for breeding, and when her usefulness was over, she'd been dumped/

I wanted to call her Snowflake. I was overruled.

Puzzle and I had a game, when we were both well...it was called Bouncy Dizzy Bull. I would pick her up under her forelegs, and let her 'bounce', Tigger-style, on her hind legs. She could get some decent air time! Then I'd spin her around, faster and faster, until neither of us could walk a straight line. She had a giggling laugh, like a child.

She always had a horror of cold, and we tried to keep her sleeping crate as close to the fire, in winter, as possible.

She lost ground quite quickly since the first of the year, and we decided to let her die at home, with her friends.

She could still walk, slowly, to her last few hours, and her death was peaceful.

I had to bury her. There was no one around, and once I tripped and fell into the open grave, looking up at the sky.

It took several hours, and I collapsed at the end of it. Not that strength which I once was, I guess.

Came time to say goodbye, and I told her not to run too far ahead, that I'd be there presently.

It's tempting to draw parallels, to say that I see myself mirrored in her ending, and while it's true...I do...it really serves no purpose, and somehow hijacks the singularity of an individual death.

It wasn't about me, except in one way. She had eight years of a happy life gifted to her, and that was my doing.

Absent all the books I never wrote, the projects I never completed, absent the kind of husband I tried to be, and fell short, I made a difference to a creature who knew the meaning of loneliness and fear and love and fun.

There's little I can do now to make the overall picture of my life a success.

But I'm glad I met Puzzle, and I'm glad that I could be her friend to the end. There may be no major victories, but I would not trade away that small, quiet contentment.

That's it.

For the music inspiration for this post, give John Fogarty a listen...Puzzle was the original rock and roll girl!

As a PS...the word this week is NEWS.

But aside from what I wrote, I don't have any, other than to saythat news of my surrender has been greatly exaggerated.

I will be fighting on.

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Traces of Love - A Story of Viet Nam

Time for this week's contribution to the flash fiction contest #BlogBattle, hosted by Rachael Ritchey.

The keyword this week is trace.

Traces of Love

"Hey!" Sonny's face lit with a handsomely homely smile. "How y'all doin'?"

His right arm was still adorned with a big white dressing where the NVA ricochet had shredded the bicep, and the surgeon had decided it needed to be immobilized, so our loader was confined to bed.

The Dude leaned over and gently squeezed Sonny's good shoulder. "So how's our celebrity?"

A week before, a news crew with a reported named Dan Rather has come through the BAS, and had singled out Sonny for an interview. It had apparently been quite an event, and they'd needed to pull in a Navy nurse, a Texan, to translate.

"Lookee here!" Sonny pointed to a stack of envelopes by  his cot.  "Ah gots fans!"

Biff  dug into the pile, and began reading off return addresses. "Georgia, Arkansas, Arkansas, Tennessee...Arkansas..."

"I'd detecting  pattern here," said The Dude.

"...Arkansas, Georgia....wow, New York! Oh, that's from my mom."

"She's nahce, and she's purty, too," said Sonny.

"Yeah," replied Biff, "she...wait, how do you know what she looks like?"

"Y'all showed me her picture, raht? And beside...she done sent me one herself." Sonny took the envelope, and awkwardly, with his left hand, extracted a photo of a middle-aged dark-haired woman, Biff's mom.

Biff shook his head, as if trying to shake away Arkansas-sized flies. "Well...okay."

"Yer sister's purty, too, and she wrahts nahce."

Biff turned white. "My...sister...wrote...you...and sent you her picture?"

"Shur did...lookee in the en-vee-lope. Raht there."

"Oh..." Biff held the second picture, and then pulled out a lined sheet of school writing paper, carrying lines of neat script.

""She tol' me that y';all'd talked 'bout me when y'all wraht home, an' how surr-prized she'all was ta see me on th' tee-vee. So she tol' me 'bout her lahf, an' asked if I could raht back."

"Well, that's really nice, but she's just seventeen. She's still in high school." Biff's face was changing colours in an interesting way.

"Well, ah'd really lahk ta wraht her, but ah cain't."Jest cain't do it."

"She'll understand." The relief in Biff's voice was like a cool breeze.

"It's mah arm...I cain't wraht with mah left hand...could ah tell y'all what ta wraht, Biff? Ah bet she'd love ta see yer handwrahttin!" Sonny smiled again, and I wondered that I had seen him as homely.

Biff sighed. "Sure. Let me get some paper from the nurse."

The Dude and I made our farewells, to allow privacy. We waited for our gunner outside, smoking.

When Biff emerged The Dude handed him a lit Marlboro. Biff took a deep drag, and coughed.

"She could do worse," said The Dude.

Biff wasn't a smoker, and his face discovered a new colour, a delicate lime green. He coughed again, but didn't relinquish the cigarette. "It's not that."

"What, then?"

"What if he doesn't make it back? And breaks her heart?"

The Dude put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Hey...you're jumping way ahead of yourself...I mean..."

It must have been the Marlboro, for there were tears on Biff's cheeks. "I mean, we almost lost him...and how can anyone not love him?"

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them