Somehow, I always thought that family blood bonds could not be broken, no matter what. Every family has its dysfunctions; I figured ours were no worse than most.

Wrong.

My mother is with my brother, and I have left. Chances are that I will never go back there. I didn’t want to leave my mother, who has late-stage dementia:

Common signs displayed by people with late-stage dementia who experience physical or emotional discomfort include: increased agitation, fidgeting, or repetitive movements; tense muscles, body bracing; increased calling out or repetitive verbalizations; decreased cognition, decreased functional ability or withdrawal; changes in sleep pattern; falling; increase in pulse, blood pressure, and sweating. A good deal of emotional discomfort in dementia patients comes from difficulty sorting out and negotiating everyday life activities.

But as my brother’s rage against me escalated, I realized that harassing me was more important to him than taking care of my mother, even if the resulting vocalized tension increased her agitation and anxiety.

So I left. I broke my heart and I probably broke hers. But my presence in my brother’s house seemed to be a constant source of irritation to him — irritation that slowly built into outright rage.

Because I fought back, finally refusing the burden of the last bullying straw.

And so I left. I left my mother in pain and bewilderment. I left my brother in a rage at me for something that had nothing to do with my care of our mother.

Tomorrow, a live-in home health aide is supposed to arrive. I hope that she is kind to my mother. I hope that my brother is kind to her.

I might never know.

While I was moving, I sorted through some of the stacks of poetry that I had written over the years and pulled out a batch of short ones. Perhaps Thursday will be the day of each week that I will post one of them.

I live in Pioneer Valley these days, but I wrote this one back in the 70s when I lived in another valley. I think one of the reasons I call this blog Kalilily Time is because of my memories of that past valley time.

I am thinking today of my late once-husband, who loved the power of words more than anything in his life, except his children. We shared both of those loves, but not in the same ways or same volume.

I am, once again, searching for the voice that I misplaced somewhere during this last decade.

We are all writers in this family: my daughter, my son, me, and my late former spouse, whose unexpected death almost a year ago still affects our offspring. My kids and I write when we are moved to do so and have the time. He wrote because, as he once said to me “everything else is sawdust.”

And so our daughter has launched a brief and intense campaign to raise enough money to fund a summer writing workshop for a talented kid. She is negotiating with the New York State Writer’s Institute to provide this support through their program.

She has until March 21 to raise $550.

Those who knew Bill Frankonis know that his life was dedicated both to the art of writing and to encouraging creativity in children of all ages.

We have been affected by the legacy of his voice. It’s fitting to extend his legacy even further, and to help some young budding writer to find her or his own unique voice.

You have until March 21 to add your $10 (or more) donation. If the goal of $550 is not met, your donation will be returned.

You can go here to donate to the W. A. Frankonis Budding Writers Scholarship Fund.

It’s the first snowfall here in Massachusetts. If I were at the address that I am leaving, I never would have gotten out to enjoy the day. My daughter’s nuclear family went outside to play in the snow (and clear off my car). I just hung out, took some photos, and generally was delighted to be, finally, in the midst of laughter and play.

I will be driving back to my mom’s/brother’s tomorrow. It’s supposed to be a nicer day — for a drive, that is.
At least I didn’t fall down and break my hip, like fellow elderblogger Darlene of Darlene’s Hodgepodge. It might be cold here, but at least I’m comfortable, unlike Darlene who lives in warmer Arizona but is still in rehab. Mend soon, Darlene.
I feel as though I’m on vacation in my new space. I’m not totally moved in yet, and there will be a lot of organizing once I get everything here. But, for now, it’s slow, relaxed days and evenings — which is good in some ways and not so good in others.
It leaves me time to think. About my life and what kind of person I’ve been.
The truth is, in the past, I was neither a good daughter nor a caring sister. I was not a particularly good spouse or mother, either. I had my own ambitions and my own dreams, and I always managed to fit them in, even at the expense of others. I guess that watching my daughter with my grandson reminds me of all the things I never did for my kids as they were growing up.
Maybe these feelings are prompted, now, by my guilt over leaving my mother in my brother’s care, of forcing my brother into the position of having to figure out how to give/get her the care she needs or face legal consequences. If assume her guardianship, I will have to put her in a nursing home, and that will break all of our hearts.
Cold comfort.
Until I hear my grandson giggle or wake up from a restful night’s sleep. I can live with the cold.

I’m standing by the kitchen window, looking out at the trees and the pure blue sky, drinking hot chocolate and eating challah smeared with Smart Balance. My daughter’s voice drifts in from the living room, where she is reading a book to my grandson, who is sprawled on the couch nursing a fever and a cold. The book is one I bought her when she was a child — “Grandma and Machek,” about a Polish grandmother who tells her granchildren the story of her living in Poland as a little girl and how her friend Machek (who became their grandfather) outwitted a wolf. They are doing a home school unit on making a family tree, and we have just finished looking at two fading photograpsh of my 1940s extended family — one that includes more than 50 people. I showed him the ones who came over through Ellis Island. He is interested in every detail.
Such is my life without care(giving).
But in a few minutes, I will be leaving to go back to the turmoil of the other part of my family, where my mom, who is in her nightgown day and night, needs better care than she is getting when I’m not there.
I visited a nursing home yesterday that’s located 1.3 miles from my daughter’s house and has a secure dementia unit with an enclosed outdoor courtyard. The bedrooms are big and sunny, with room for personal furniture etc. Unless my brother hires someone to come in and help with my mom during both this transition of my leaving and my actual departure, I will fight him for her guardianship and power of attorney. She deserves better than she gets from him; and I just can’t give any more. I could see myself volunteering at the nursing home a couple of mornings a week and visiting her several days a week, at least until she gets acclimated.
My brother wants her, but doesn’t know how to give her the kind, patient, consistent care that she needs. I just want to see her get good care. And I need to take care of myself for a change.
And that’s how it is, as I go from this place of peace to that place of war. It never had to be this way, but that’s how it is.

My 92 year old mother is up late since I am watching the election returns. Obama has won and is about to speak.
“Look, Mom,”I say. “That’s the new president of our country.”
I’m never sure she hears me and/or understands. But this time she looks hard at the television screen, taking in the crowds, the shouting, the man.
“Is he black?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer, explaining (now that she seems to be paying attention) that his mother was white and his father was black, and he is now the president of the United States.
She continues to look intently at the television screen as Obama begins his acceptance speech.
“Can you make it louder?” she asks and moves to a chair nearer the tv, where she sits and listens and watches until he’s done.
I’m not sure what it all meant to her, but I sure know what it all means to me. We have a truly democratic leader as president.
On my daughter’s blog, she reflects on her feelings about the election and tells of how this election has been a unique “teachable moment” for my grandson:

This morning I explained to my son why this is so historical. Why it’s a big deal that an African American could be President. To do so, I had to introduce slavery as part of our history (mind you, he’s only 6 and in first grade)…he askes SO many questions. “Why did men take them from their homes?” “What do you mean, can you explain more about how they were treated badly?”

And as I explained the best I could in appropriate terms for a 6 year old, but also without sugar-coating the truth, I saw tears fought back in his eyes. Our SIX YEAR OLD felt the injustice those men and women must have felt. Our child felt the horror and sadness of it. “Just because of the color of their skin?!”

He was aghast and stymied. Disgusted and outraged.

The only way I could make him feel better was to assure him that in the end, other men felt the way he just did. Which led to teaching him a bit about the civil war, Abe Lincoln and Harriet Tubman. It helped a bit, but there was no totally shaking him from the sadness he felt to learn how human beings had been treated.

I told him I was proud that he cared. Proud that it mattered to him. And that in the end, that is why it was historical today.

Don’t tell me kids can’t get it. And don’t tell me a kid can’t help direct his learning. Homeschooling rocks!

And my son b!X parties in Portland, missing his Dad, who would have been overcome with joy at the reality of President Obama.
Yes, mom. He’s black and he’s our president.

How about doing something really nice for b!X, whose recent employment ended when a wall in the old building where he was working fell down, revealing a substantial lining of black mold. That was sort of the final obscenity in a work environment that had gotten steadily worse over time.
B!X birthday is October 25, and when I asked him what he wanted, he responded by saying that he wished all of my friends would by one of his photographs, which he has for sale here. They come 8X12, matte finish, unframed, and printed by a professional photography shop.
This is “Broken Circle,” one of my favorites. I even bought a copy for my new living quarters:
If you don't see any you like in his virtual storefront, you can go to his Flickr photostream list of subjects and pick one of those — for example, from his cemetery series , or his green door series, or his central east side (Portland) series. If you want one from there, just let him know and he’ll move it to his storefront so that you can buy it.
It’s never a great time to be out of a job, but this time it has to be the very worst.
Actually, if you know anyone who owns a bookstore and needs someone who can do just about anything that needs to be done — from ordering to inventory to cataloging to shipping to stocking shelves — give them b!X’s web site, where he posts his resume (of sorts) under “about,” which I quote here, just in case…. (He says he’s even willing to relocate.)

About The One True b!X
An eleven-year resident of the Portland of Oregon, born nearly forty years ago in upstate New York, he is a devout agnostic and misanthrope who aspires to be an at least passable rationalist. He believes that cynicism only results from first believing people are capable of better and then repeatedly being proven wrong.
If events were pictures and emotions were sounds, his memories would play as silent movies.
•
When he was very little, he learned the all-important lesson that adults don’t always know what the Hell they are doing, when he revealed to a number of grown men that the reason the ramp on the U-Haul truck his father was using to move out of the house was not steady was because they had failed completely to attach it properly.
During his senior year in high school, in response to an uncooperative student newspaper, he published several issues The Myra Stein Underground Press (named for an infamous teacher who one day disappeared without explanation), which despite being an anonymous publication he later saw sitting in his file on the guidance counselor’s desk.
His brief college career in the main was marked by the eruption of controversy over the playing of a bronze Henry Moore sculpture with percussion mallets, a debate which landed him in The New York Times and ultimately led to him writing (the night before it was due) a well-received term paper on social drama.
Prior to moving to Portland, in 1995 he helped organize the S. 314 Petition, one of the first large-scale Intenet petition efforts, which sought unsuccessfully to prevent passage of the Communications Decency Act, although it did yield him an appearance in Rolling Stone.
Shortly after moving to Portland in 1997, he become co-owner (and then sole proprietor) of the Millennium Cafe, which he then ignominiously proceeded to run into the ground, but not before holding two successful July 4th events at which people read aloud the Declaration of Independence.
From late 2002 through late 2005, he published the critically-acclaimed Portland Communique, an experiment in reader-supported independent journalism whose departure is still lamented by some today, although likely not by the people who falsely accused him of taking bribes in exchange for coverage.
Sometime in 2003, he discovered The Finger, a zine apparently published by Swan Island shipyard workers during World War II, which he made available online and for which he has perpetually-delayed plans to make available as an on-demand reprint.
In early 2006, he founded Can’t Stop the Serenity, an unprecedented annual global event consisting of locally-organized charity screenings of the Joss Whedon film Serenity to benefit Equality Now, which to date has raised more than $200,000, making it far more important than any of the many other Whedon-related fan efforts or websites for which he’s been responsible.
Late in the Fall of 2007, he helped launch Fans4Writers, a grassroots effort to support the Writers Guild of America in its strike against the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers, although he was involved only long enough to get the website up and running.
He no longer is employed at The Great Northwest Bookstore, and would not necessarily object to working at another independent bookstore if a full-time opportunity presented itself, and in fact might even be willing to relocate for it.
•
He neither bikes nor dances nor dates nor drives nor drugs nor swims. He does, however, drink. Oddly, he no longer smokes. He is a life-long resident of Red Sox Nation who, when not wearing his baseball cap, enjoys wearing a porkpie.

Well, I’m not really going fishing, but I am going to the ocean, along with my son, and daughter and her family. We will be carrying out my once-husband’s last wishes and having what will probably be our last chance to all be together for a while.
This will be the longest time I’ve ever been away from my mother since I started caregiving in 2000. She will be in my brother’s care for the next six days.
And when I get back, I will begin counting down to my own “move on” day.

He’s waiting for me on the steps to my new door to a new life.
The space for me at my daughter’s is ready except for the painting. I am conflicted about leaving here, but, after eight years of the increasing burden of caregiving, I just can’t do this any longer.
When my mother was my age, she was going on cruises with my dad, surrounded by couples with whom they had been friends since their dating days. My dad passed away in his early seventies. I want to be able to have some sort of life before my number comes up.
I imagine being able to come and go as I please, being able to sleep through the night, sitting outside on my steps in the morning and having a cup of tea in the sunshine. Here, I am not only sleep deprived; I am deprived of all of those small things that become big things when you don’t have them.
I imagine being able to get off my anti-depressants, walk my way off my cholesterol med, throw away my muscle relaxant.
It’s come down to my life or hers. My brother, who has control of everything here, will have to figure out how to get her the care she needs so close to the end of her long life.
I don’t know how long my life will be. I can’t give away what’s left. Not any more.
And waiting for me with anticipation is my grandson, whose loving energy will help me overcome the guilt I will bring with me.

For a while before his death in April, non-blogger Myrln (aka Bill Frankonis), posted here on Kalilily Time some kind of rant or other every Monday. Our daughter has been sending me some of his writings to post posthumously, but we were all away all weekend at the party Bill said in his will that he wanted.
So, today, I post my second letter to the dead.
Dear Bill:
Were you whirling in your ashes as so many of those people whose lives you touched so meaningfully told stories about their relationships with you? Even a few with whom you were no longer on the best of terms stood up and remembered the good times.
I know how much you wanted to let those people with whom you felt close at various points in your life know how much they meant to you. Well, obviously they already knew.
I didn’t count how many of the little theater’s seats were filled, but there had to be between 50 and 60 people who came in for the story telling. And there were others who came and left before that time as well.
You would have loved to hear the stories — some funny, some poignant — all remembering you at your best. There is no doubt that you will be remembered by your colleagues and students not only as an amazingly talented writer and director, but also a uniquely nurturing mentor and teacher.
You would have been so proud of our two kids. Well, I should say proudER, since you always have been proud of them.
You also would have loved to see your almost 6-year-old grandson and the (equally young) granddaughter of our friends Pat and Bill. They hit it off amazingly. Word has it that she said that she really liked his hair and was going to marry him. The pairing of our respective offspring didn’t happen last generation. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if it happened with this one.
I wish I could talk to you about that novel Enchantment that you gave me a while ago and I found in my pile of books-to-read last week. I couldn’t help see you and me in the princess and the scholar. I wonder if that’s what you thought as well. I’m only half way through, so I don’t know how it ends. I hope that it ends better than we did as a couple.
On the way back to where I live now (I can’t call it “home”), I played the Famous Blue Raincoat CD that you gave me.

There Ain’t no Cure for Love.