I have to confess that Kate gave me the word early. Stopped breathing for bit on Sunday (click here if you're interested), got canine CPR, but still am shaky and slow. Words are hard come by.
For all the difficulty, I don't want to pass from this life. I don't want to die.
Yes, it hurts, yes, I'm exhausted, and yes, I dread what tomorrow may bring.
But it is worse to look at the routines I have, the imprints of myself in this place...and to see them soon to disappear.
I hate that.
I hate thinking of the dogs who won't hear my voice and whose just-for-me gestures will be seen no more, the tools that will gather dust, the projects I began and couldn't finish developing a patina of rust, and then being put out into the weather to return to their elements.
Death comes to all; every story ends.
But I don't want mine to, not just yet. There has to be some coda yet to hear, and I will fight hard to stick around for it.
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
I've talked about this before...remarriage for a widow or widower.
I hope you'll indulge me for a revisit to the subject.
The thought of my wife remarrying, and forming a life beyond that which we have shared is, to a real degree, heartbreaking.
I want our routines to be cherished in memory. I want to be something more than a picture in a photo album that's seldom opened.
I want the paths that we walked to be sacrosanct.
I want to be selfish.
Wanting that is natural...but it''s wrong. It reduces my wife to, at best, the curator of a memory, and at worst, and object that was ultimately merely an appendage to my life.
A cruel fate for anyone, and particularly cruel to wish it on the person I love most in all the world.
I have to be better than this.
The memories have to be entrusted to the Almighty. My wife has to have the chains of post-mortem possessiveness cut away.
I must want her to laugh, and to love.
I am constrained by decency to want her to feel free to remarry.
It's not easy.
It's just the right thing 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
Stopped breathing last night, and Ladron the Heeler brought me back.
She jumped up and down on my chest, barking furiously.
I felt myself being draw up, as if caught in a tornado, unable to breathe, and I could see my body, and them my house, receding beyond mortal reach.
Almost.
"Dad, NO!" You can't go!"
And I came back.
The experience was scary. I knew I was not breathing,and that I couldn't. But my buddy canceled my Apocalypse.
Coming back hurt, physically. I'm pretty shaky, but felt this should be documented.
And it's been emotionally rough. I hate to admit this, but I've had crying jags all day. I don't know why.
Glad to still be here. It's a nice day in New Mexico.
It's spring.
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
Time for another Five Minute Friday, the weekly keyword-themed writing challenge hosted by Kate Motaung.
The word this week is...actually, I have no idea what it will be, because it's Tuesday, and I am hoping to have something even remotely ready to post on Friday. (And see below for an update on when this thing was finalized.)
(OK, Thursday night, and the word is UNTIE.)
Lost a lot of ground in the past few days. If you left a comment last time and did not see a timely reply...that's why.
I'm sorry.
Anyway, here goes. (And before we do, the original version had a lot of really bad language. I excised that.)
This post was supposed to be elegiac. Something peaceful, yet moving. That's what was written over Tuesday and Wednesday. Maybe I should have left it, but today a news item came over the Internet, and the red mist came down.
And my soul was untied all over again.
And I should lead off with a disclaimer. I have nothing to do with the VA. I worked as a contractor. A mercenary. Big boys' rules. I've stood knee-deep in a mass grave; and hell itself caught up with those responsible. That was a good day.
I occasionally follow Fox News, and a story they posted has me enraged at the idiots who claim to 'understand' how do deal with PTSD.
The academics are saying that the use of service dogs, trained to scan a room and 'block', and provide a veteran with support, may actually be reinforcing PTSD, and not providing 'healing'.
A quote -
"Critics of the study object most strongly to the tasks the VA is requiring of the dogs — sweeping the perimeter of a room before a veteran enters, for example, or protecting the veteran by "blocking."
"Isn't that saying that al-Qaida could be behind the shower curtain? That's supporting paranoid, pathological thinking," said Meg Daley Olmert, author of a book on how contact with a dog can create a sense of well-being."
Paranoid? When were you in your last gunfight, Meg? When did you have to last clear a room not knowing if a true-life demon was about to pop out of a closet...and kill you?
You throw around words like 'paranoid' and 'pathological', you better have walked where the real people walked. Otherwise you're irrelevant.
And yes, Al-Qaida doeshide behind shower curtains. They also hide behind crowds of kids. They're called 'human shields'.
Ever seen kids die? Sorry, not die. That's too nice.
Have you ever seen kids been killed by people who were making a political point? No?
Any other questions? Great. Go back to your latte.
A bit more -
Four years in, that research has been plagued by problems. Only about 50 dogs have been placed with veterans, and critics question whether the protocol itself is flawed — with the dogs being trained to do things that could reinforce fears. Others worry the animals could become a substitute for the hard work that comes with therapy.
"You will have the veterans go to more places with the dogs and do more things than they would otherwise do. But they are reliant on the dog, not on their knowledge of ... whether really they are afraid of a ghost," said Dr. Edna Foa, director of the Center for Treatment and Study of Anxiety at the University of Pennsylvania Perelman School of Medicine.
I love this. I mean., absolutely LOVE it.
"...a substitute for the hard work that comes with therapy..."
I guess that seeing your friends, people to whom you would literally trust your life, blown into lumps of muscle and intestine by an IED or mortar makes you lazy. Gotta work harder at the therapy to overcome that, lazy-bones!
And, ohhh, Dr. Edna...I'm afraid of ghosts!
I guess the situational awareness I developed, at a cost, is useless in our lovely peaceful Kum-Ba-Yah country. We're all pals here, so I suppose that when I feel a threat...I'm just afraid of the bogeyman.
Thanks. Doc, for trivializing my life. I guess I don't qualify for entry into the hallowed halls of academia after all. Guess I'm just the man on the margins, who doesn't really understand the real meaning of The Modern World.
You went to the mall, Doc. I went to Hell.
Let's get real. There are very few people alive who can understand where I have been, and what I've seen., because almost no one else has been there. You can see Saving Private Ryan all you want. It doesn't make you a veteran of Omaha Beach.
I have the mass grave dream every night, and I can still smell it.
Therapy will not make this go away. A group hug will not soften the ache, and not even the fragrance of Jesus - and I am a devout Christian - will overcome the smell. Not in this life.
My service dogs, Ladron and Sylvia, are my lifeline. The are the reason I did not eat a bullet a long time ago.
They get it.
They understand that my scars are what I am; and that the anger inside is my wellspring of life.
THEY KEEP MY WORLD SAFE.
They bind back up what has been untied, to hold it together.
You don't 'recover' from those memories. You don't transition back into the world of The Voice and Empire and Joel Osteen. and "Let's eat out tonight!" You just don't.
What you do, with combat trauma, is to live a world that keeps the faith. You live a world that recognizes that the bell is going to ring again.
And you're going to go back out, somehow, because that is what you do.
PEOPLE SLEEP PEACEFULLY IN THEIR BEDS AT NIGHT ONLY BECAUSE ROUGH MEN STAND READY TO DO VIOLENCE ON THEIR BEHALF.
George Orwell said that, a long time ago.
I will kill for you, and I will die for you. I can barely move, but I can still pull a trigger, and still have a Bowie knife. Detcord and claymores are my friends.
All I ask is that you respect the cost to me.
I don't do this for fun, and the money was nothing.
I do this for you.
Because I love you all, more than my own life.
In the end, dear readers, the only this is the only thing that makes living worthwhile.
I give a damn, and still have something that's worth dying for.
So, some music...Buffalo Springfield has been on my mind...for what it's worth.
f 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 day late, but here is my entry for this week's #BlogBattle, the weekly keyword-driven flash fiction challenge hosted by the patient and gracious Rachael Ritchey.
This week's Word is FLOAT.
I've been quite ill, and have been very tardy in replying to comments...but please be assured that I read them all, and they mean a lot to me. Illness has kept me confined to the property, so you guys are really my only window on life in The World.
This story is the first in another multi-part 'anecdote' that's just too long for a single entry.
Hope Floats
The L.T wandered over, clipboard in hand. "Got a minute?" he asked, with the professional smile of an officer.
It couldn't be good news, Lieutenants with clipboards never bring glad tidings, so The Dude and Biff stood up from the everlasting task of greasing the roadwheels, while I slid down from the turret, where I was polishing the viewing locks in the cupola.
"Sure, L.T.," I said. "What's up?"
He looked down at the papers under the bulldog clip, and a small, shy smile started to light up his face. This smile wasn't professional. "How would you guys like some R&?"
"Uh," said The Dude. I wasn't sure if he ever wanted to leave Viet Nam.
Biff was not nearly so cagey. "Yes, SIR!"
The L.T. looked at me. "Make it unanimous?"
"Sure. Why not." Like The Dude, I really didn't want to leave but I figured my reasons were different. I didn't want to have to face coming back, You can't go back and forth through ALice's rabbit hole and stay sane.
But maybe that wasn't really all of it, and maybe I was more like The Dude than I realized. Maybe I really did...well, not like it here. But maybe this was where I belonged.
The L't''s smile went to a hundred watts. "I'm glad to hear that, sergeant, because it means I won't have to kick your butts all the way to Saigon to catch a plane."
Interesting. We weren't being given a choice.
"The Old Man isn't giving you a choice. You had two loaders shot up, and y';all need a change of scenery. That's what he thinks."
The Dude said, "Well, one was a ricochet..."
Biff added, "And Smiley was fratricide."
The L.T frowned. I don';t think he knew the word. "Anyway," he said, "turn the tank over to maintenance platoon, and get to the pad by 1500. Admin bird will take you to Da Nang, and you can catch a ride further south."
He looked down at the clipboard again. "Oh, hey...forgot the best part...where do y'all want to go?"
"What's on offer?" asked Biff.
"Bangkok, Sydney, Taipei..."
The Dude interrupted him. "Bangkok's fine," he said.
"Well, great, I'll put you down for..."
"All of us. We'll go together."
Biff looked at him, horrified. "Dude, I want to go to Sydney!"
"It's overrated. Trust me."
Biff's growl was like a kitten choking on cream, but he subsided, and said, "Well, OK. Bangkok."
"Yeah, me too," I added. "Why not?"
The L.T. grinned. "The Three Musketeers! Remember to have you service A's with you. Won't let you out of the country dressed like...uh..." He took a long look at us, and sniffed pointedly. "Like that."
"Last time I looked at my A's they were moldy," said The Dude
"Last time I looked at mine the moths had gotten them," said Biff.
"lLst time I looked at mine I was a corporal," I said.
"Anyone got a sewing kit?"
f you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing (even more so recently!), 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
Not up to saying much, and apologies to those whose comments have recently gone unanswered. It just hasn't been possible.
I have learned that there is only one prayer worth saying.
"God, please align my wishes with Your Will."
That's it.
f you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing (even more so recently!), 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
Here we are again for Five Minute Friday, the weekly key-word themed timed writing challenge hosted by the wonderful Kate Motaung.
The word this week is...EASY
The only easy day was yesterday.
Beyond the point of despair lies I-do-not-care...and beyond that lies something else.
A comforting sort of peace, in which I know that I had better enjoy today, because tomorrow is going to suck, and today will seem like a vacation in comparison.
It's comforting because it makes today feel like a temporary shelter in a storm. I know the wind's backing around, and I'll soon be drenched, but for now, I'm dry.
This is all going to end. When, I don't know. Yesterday there was a bell ringing in my head...you're running out of time.
Melodramatic, and writing it, it seems kind of silly. But I'm sure running out of energy. Writing the blog pots and commenting on other essays...fewer each week, and I hate that...takes almot all the resources I have.
So maybe I am running out of time.
But it doesn't matter, because I've got today. The same hours you have, and everyone has.
And the most important thing is this.
It's not how I use them.
It's how I value them.
And now...let's sing along with John, Paul, George, and Ringo!
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
I looked down at the dead NVA, who New Guy TC has brushed off the back of Ship Of Fools with his second shot, then up at Smiley, who New Guy TC had managed to hit with his first. Still, I couldn't be too angry, because the American frg that the NVA still held was, indeed, still in his hand, and not stuffed down the turret.
"yeah," I said to The Dude. "Give Smiley a hand. I'll check this gomer for intel." Smiley has groaning and kind of flopping around in pain. He really needed a syrette to la-la land for the trip out, assuming we could get moving and reach Con Thien.
"On it," said The Dude, with a glance at the dead guy. He reached up to pull himself onto the fender, and the dropped back for a second look. "Uh, TC?"
I'd knelt down and was moving my hands over the NVA's bloody blouse. "Yeah?"
"I think the pin's..."
SPROINGGGG!
The dead guy had pulled the pin, and as I moved him, his hand relaxed, or something, but I didn't care about that. What I did care about was that the spoon had flipped, and a live grenade rolled hissing from the dead hand.
"Grenade!" yelled The Dude. "TC, COVER!"
I tried to duck and protect my head, and as I did something heavy slammed me into the dead guy's chest, face down.
"Crap!" There was horror in The Dude's voice.
A boot kicked me in the side, and then there was a loud but oddly muffled WHUMP and the sulfur-smell of explosives unleashed. My ears were ringing, and dirt filled my eyes.
But the blast had sounded wrong. Low-order det. I guess the dead guy had a defective frag. Tough.
A couple more boots hit my ribs. Sore but glad to be alive, I got to my knees, kneeling on the dead guy's chest, and rubbed my eyes. The Dude and Biff were crouching over a still form on the ground, and The Dude was laughing.
I must be concussed, I thought. I must be hallucinating this.
I shook by head. My ears were still ringing. And The Dude was still laughing.
Biff reached over and pulled me around. tears were running down his face, and he was laughing, too. "Oh, man, TC...you gotta...oh, man!"
Smiley was laying on the ground, bleeding from a lot of little holes, but I could see his face, and he was...yeah, smiling. His arms were extended in front of him, and were still clutching a large and now badly shredded ruck. Scraps of cloth and torn webbing were hanging off it, and it was smoking. Some cigarettes inside were burning, and gave the scene the feeling of a party.
And there was the smell of ten-year-old Glenlivet.
I knew the awful truth.
Smiley had seen the spoon fly, and had grabbed a ruck from the gypsy rack, and launched himself off the tank to cover the frag. He'd not gone quite far enough, so he didn't quite manage to do the Medal of Honour thing and cover it with his body. Instead, he'd pushed the frag away under the ruck, and he'd lived.
But it was my ruck, and my Glenlivet, and I wanted to kill him.
Smiley looked at me, grinning from the joy of being a living hero, and grimacing from the new holes that had to hurt.
"You idiot," I said.
His grin widened.
"If you think this is your ticket back to the world...you know where to stick that."
"Yeah?" he said, weakly?
"You ain't getting off this tank any time soon."
"I'm pretty banged up." His voice softened. The Dude had stuck him with morphine.
"Well, heal fast...loader."
Smiley's eyes closed, and in the distance I heard the thump of Huey blades. Someone popped a smoke, and Biff went up to lay out panels. We weren't alone any more.
Smiley's eyes closed, and his breathing went from ragged and painful to regular.
New Guy TC came up. "We got air," he said. "Timex got the radio up. So can you tow my tank?"
I stood up, and we looked down at Smiley.
"Thought the guy was bad luck," New Guy TC said.
"Yeah. Well."
"If you wanna trade loaders..."
The Dude pulled out his sidearm, and dangled it in New Guy TC's view. "Son," he said, "don't make me regret I didn't shoot 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
We're linked with Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday. Please visit for some great marriage resources!
An hour or so ago, I baffled poor Barbara. We had been watching The Voice, and a song was described as 'romantic and sexy'.
I asked The B how a song can be described that way; what does the expression mean? She was completely at a loss.
And I still don't know.
Once, I seem to recall thinking that I might have understood that...somewhere in a hazy dream in a language I no longer speak...and maybe never did.
And my wife is at a loss, because she, and most of the rest of the world gets it.
Implicit here is, I think, a warning to caregivers...prepare to be baffled.
As your husband or wife approaches the end of this life, there is, I suspect, a reordering and re-cataloguing of the way he or she has related to life and to the world. Things that seemed clear seem murky...and some things that were mysterious...like why do bad things happen?...are suddenly obvious.
She can't understand why I say, "Hey, yeah, I'm bent double in pain and I just spit up a pot of blood, but it's really ok, and I don't mind."
I mean, it's God's Will, right? It's not comfortable, but I don't recall the Big Fella asking if I minded discomfort or pain. It goes with what He needs done.
And that I don't understand it is just too bad. He does, and that has to be answer enough for me.
But I can't help my wife to see it this way...just as she can't help me understand why Luther Vandross' songs were called 'makeout music'.
I did like his Christmas album, though. He had a nice voice.
And maybe that's all I needed to know.
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
Sometimes the caregiven has to care for the caregiver.
OK, say that three times fast.
I have lately had to give up one of the small household duties to which I'd been attending...washing the dishes. I can't stand at the sink, and a stool is geometrically impossible (it hurts too much to reach). Yes, we have a dishwasher, but we've found that you still have to pre-wash. (So much for advertising claims.)
It wasn't easy. I kept telling Barbara, it's OK, I can do this, I'll feel better tomorrow...but I didn't, and she finally stepped in and said she'd do it.
Giving up was hard. It felt like a step back, but really, it wasn't.
I needed help. And in accepting it, I gave my wife a gift. The gift that says, "I need you".
All I had to do to make that gift was to melt down my pride.
Thus, pride goeth.
And a new measure of love arriveth.
The musical accompaniment is from Petula Clark..."Don't Sleep In The Subway".
Please excuse the brevity of this post. I'm running out of energy.
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
Time for Five Minute Friday, the weekly keyword-driven writing challenge hosted by Kate Motaung.
The word this week is...well, I don't know, because I seriously doubt that I will be up to writing it in a timely manner. So I'm working ahead, in fits and starts, to post something.
If I can drag in the Word, kicking and screaming, I will. If not, forgive me.
It's been a really bad few days, including a collapse outside which left me in the sun for a few hours. Barbara says I was eventually able to crawl inside. I don't remember.
But I do have a sunburn. First of the year.
One has to ask, why bother?
I think I''ll let Jon Foreman answer that for me...
It is a fight, and love is what I fought for all my life.
Not as a warrior...see, I don't rate that kind of honorific. I was very well trained to bring a sort of definite closure to problems. A fair fight meant I was unprepared; the aim was always overwhelming force on an unsuspecting target.
Kind of unfortunate for those on the receiving end, but they made the first stupid move.
Sow the wind, reap the...well, whatever, but it's kind of worse than a whirlwind.
And why?
Love, plain and simple. because people, whoever they are, deserve to love, to hold hands, to wake in the morning to the sound of their children, free from fear.
No one should live in terror for a predawn knock at the door.
And those who would make them afraid had fell tradesmen to whom they had to answer.
That's legacy.
That's why I'm still here.
Because I believe that love is really everything, and without it, life has no meaning. It's a broad spectrum...filial love, friendship, romantic love, the love that says, I'd rather have a PowerBar with you than dinner at Sardi's with Julia Roberts.
And that is the heart of my writing, and the motivator of my soul.
I want to open your eyes to love, because Love Alone Is Worth The Fight.
I know it know...I lived to make the world safe for love.
And I am still in the fight.
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
This story is the fourth part of a specific vignette...the first part was A Life In A Year, the second was White Feather, and the third was Jonah.
Two Shots
"Dude," I said, "I get it."
We were stuck on the road to Con Thien, with Lollipop broken down, Ship of Fools shaken up by a rocket hit, no help in sight...and Mr Charles was out there.
And The Dude had just informed me that Lollipop's crew was talking about Smiley being a Jonah. Great. Not only FNGs, but superstitious FNGs.
"I thought you should know, TC."
I could feel SMiley's eyes on me, and didn't turn around. "Well, what do they want me to do? leave him out here?"
The Dude hesitated. It was not a good hesitation.
"You're kidding," I said.
"They're thinking we're not going to get back, and he's the reason."
No, I wanted to say, if we don't get back it's because we've got one tank out of action, no way to get some support, and two crews to try to get behind the wire...and the NVA's out there, and they are not going to let us just walk out of here.
The Dude read my thoughts. "They know the rationality, and they're ignoring it." he didn't have to say how infectious fear could be; no longer indiscriminate, it now had a focus. Our new loader.
'Well, hard luck on them. They're the ones coming along from the ride."
The Dude shook his head. "TC, if we have to fight our way through..."
He was right. A single overloaded tank was bad enough, and with the new guys riding outside and not believing they were going to make it because of a stupid superstition.
It didn't play well not matter what. If we got hit coming out, we needed every man pulling, and we weren't going to get that.
I changed the subject. "Why just the one rocket team?"
"Hmm?"
"I said, where's the rest of our playmates? Mr. Charles isn't going to go to the trouble of mining this road and leaving a couple of guys with a B-40 to watch it."
"Yeah," said The Dude. "They're waiting to see what we're going to do. Right now we're kind of dispersed, but if we go in to try to tow Lollipop, or we blow it up and ride out together..."
"Easier target."
"We have the watches, they have the time," said The Dude.
I was trying to think of an answer to that when there was a sudden CRAAACK!, the loader-than-an-M-16 sound that could only come from the short-barreled 177 that New Guy TC had picked up...and then another
...and he was standing on the rear deck of his tank, holding the thing, and looking at our tank.
Dear God.
The Dude drew his sidearm, pointing it at New Guy TC, and yelled something unrepeatable and harsh. He thumbed back the hammer, and New Guy TC laid down the rifle.
I spun around, and saw Smiley staggered against the turret, blood on his shoulder, eyes rolling back in his head.
Biff was scrambling out of the cupola, visibly shaking, and as he reached to grab Smiley he stopped.
Mostly to vent my feelings, I yelled to Biff, "That idiot shot him!"
Biff looked at me, and then slowly, like an old man, made a curving, pointing motion with his arm, to the other side of the tank.
A dead NVA lay there, where the impact of New Guy TC's bullet had flung him off the deck of Ship of Fools, a grenade still clutched in his dead hand. A bullet had gone through his Adam's apple. He was kind of a mess.
"Dude?" I called. "I't's OK."
The Dude stepped up beside me, pistol still in his hand. "I'll help Biff get Smiley into the tank. We need to get out of here." His voice was shaking, and I wondered how close he'd come to pulling the trigger, knowing full well I'd never know.
"I almost shot the kid," he said.
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
The season of family gatherings is coming...graduations, weddings, the Fourth of July, :Labour Day...and having a terminally ill spouse can really put a damper on the fun.
Sometimes the question's already answered, and you simply have to send regrets. You can't go, and you can't leave your husband or wife...or don't feel right doing so.
But you can participate through the telephone, or Skype, or Facebook...and you should. Stay involved, and help your mate be a part of a larger whole for as long as possible.
Then there's the gray area...your mate may be encouraging you to go, to get some time away, and he or she seems able to handle things...but you're worried.
If your husband or wife can realistically stay alone for a bit, by all means, arrange to go. Just set some things in place, first.
Have a support system in place, so that in case of emergency, your mate will have help on call. An emergency may not be a rush to the hospital; it could be an attack of severe loneliness, or fear.
Shop ahead, and get bills paid. Take off pressure and chores to the degree that you can (but don't do everything, because even the dying need to be useful
Keep your cell phone on, and be mindful. This may seem to encourage 'clinginess', and perhaps in some people it will, but be that as it may, you've got a responsibility that transcends social etiquette.
If your spouse can accompany you, great! Enjoy the trip.
But be ready for questions...
The super-concerned How are you may be genuine, but don't take over from your mate and give a rundown of test results and prognoses. Those who need to know, you can tell under other circumstances.
Gauge your activities to your mate's level of energy, and be watchful. Don't push someone who's ill to the point of exhaustion, and don't let them do it to themselves
When answering the questions of children, be careful. Parents have the ultimate say, and teling a kid, "Yes, Uncle Andrew is going to die soon" can result in emotional issues that the parents will have to deal with down the road, especially if Uncle Andrew is well-liked.
There's no reason that the Season of gatherings can't be a pleasant time, for both spouse and caregiver...even if both can't go.
Just plan ahead, and be realistic about what the situation is.
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
Yesterday, Barbara took Sylvia to Sonic, and they had lunch.
They needed time away from illness, time away from 'work'. time away from 'terminal'.
If you're a caregiver, you need that, too.
It's not a failing. No athlete, no machine can continue to work indefinitely without rest or servicing.
If you need the time, take it, and there is no need for an explanation as to why you need it. You don't have to justify.
In case you're wondering about ladron, Service-Dog-In Chief...Heelers do not take breaks, period.
Be nice to you, dear caregiver...you are important.
Not just as a caregiver. YOU ARE IMPORTANT FOR WHO YOU ARE.
Please pardon the brevity of this post. Had a bit of trouble today...Barbara told me I collapsed outside, and it took her 90 minutes to get me back into the house. She's not a large person, and her back is compromised, so carrying me's not an option.
I'm pretty tired.
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
