Thomas P

                                                                                             Wednesday June 18^th 9:30 P.M.

             I hope I am alright. I went into the kitchen to get a knife to stir the food I was heating up in the microwave. I stepped on the red mat in front of the sink and felt a sharp pain in my right foot. Damn scorpion. I grabbed a shoe and crushed him. I purposely did not clean it up. I soaked my foot in the tub. Pain is running up and down from my foot to my thigh. I am keeping an eye on it. I plan to force myself to stay awake until I feel I am okay. I miss Diana; she would know what to do. Lots of tingling. Too late to phone anyone.  

            So read the hand written note I left next to my computer, just in case. Not that I expected to die. You never know how your body will react to a poison infusion. I had been stung by bees and wasps many times as a kid and knew I possessed no allergic response. But this was different. Lots of horror stories about scorpion stings exist, and I admit I am intimidated by these mysterious arachnids.

  No swelling as of yet, still shooting pain. I will clean it up when this pain is gone. 

My wife is staying with our niece right now. I figured I would e-mail her about my situation. She would read it in the morning when she awoke; I know she checks her account often. I was surprised when my phone rang. She was still up and alerted to my condition. We discussed options and I assured her I would not hesitate to phone the paramedics or drive myself to the emergency room if I deemed my health was at issue.

                                                                               Thursday June 19^th 12:30 A.M.

 It’s now almost 3 hours later. I don’t know if it is the ice I applied to my foot or the sting but my whole foot is numb. I sandwich bagged the scorpion carcass and took it outside. 

After another hour or so, I was convinced it was okay for me to fall asleep. I set the alarm for 4 A.M. to access my situation and decide if I could go to work. That numbing feeling, not really painful but like the affected area was asleep, was still present, but restricted from the shin area down. At this point I thought if I could get my sock and shoe on my right foot I would go to work.

I started about my routine, then quickly realized this was not going to happen. It was the hot shower that got me. As the cold ice the evening before was soothing, the hot water was unbearable. I couldn’t get out of the shower fast enough. The throbbing that set in was the clincher, and I phoned in sick. I set up a chair under my work desk to elevate my foot. I wore slippers around the house, shaking them out first. I took a 2 hour nap. I was not feeling any better, but not worse either.

Around 4 P.M., my youngest daughter phoned to catch up. I was wandering the house while talking, when I glimpsed another scorpion, about the same size as the other one, lying on the wood floor in front of our red hutch. As I brushed by it didn’t move and I assumed it was dead. With the phone occupying one hand and most of my attention, I grabbed a piece of cardboard to scoop up the critter to dispose of it. As I began to slide the cardboard towards it, the scorpion quickly ran under the hutch. It had been playing possum. I grabbed a can of Raid and blasted away at the base of the hutch. Diana came home that evening to find me tired but in good spirits. I was looking forward to a good nights sleep.

 On Friday morning at 4 A.M. the routine starts again. This time the hot shower has no effect. I can get my socks and shoes on with just a little difficulty. I leave for work with that tingly feeling in my foot and ankle, but no pain. Sometime in mid-morning that prickly feeling disappeared as work occupied my mind. I arrived home ready to start my weekend with no repercussions. 

The way I figure from start to finish this process, this poison took me 36 hours to cycle through. Not an experience I would wish on anyone. Just another first on this side of 50 to cross off my list.

        The Clintons hadn’t been out of the oval office too long when I got the opportunity to meet her. Me and five hundred other people that is. I am not a Clintonite, but my eldest, Christy, is a member of the strong female coalition, and I convinced myself I was doing this for her. I was curious and anxious to go to my favorite book store and attend this celebratory event.

            Hillary was in Arizona for a fund raising dinner and to autograph her new book. A tight schedule dictated how many tickets would be sold. I phoned up and reserved three slots, deciding not to tell my daughter, just box up the book and send it to her.

            My wife and I arrived plenty early, but so did many others. We claimed one of the last parking spaces in the large lot. The back area behind the store was blocked off by many security guards. The front lot was spattered with marching protesters, a necessity at any political function. We checked in and were assigned a number, somewhere in the early second half. The plan was to permit 5o people at a time in a single file line inside the store.

            It was controlled chaos, but I enjoyed myself. Not one for crowds, this was an unusual reaction for me. The pageantry involved, I expected even tighter security for one of the most powerful people in our world. We lined up as our number was called. We slowly paraded into the store, past shelf after shelf of books towards the back sitting area. I didn’t know what to expect, but marveled at the simplicity of the event.

            There was a long table with Hillary seated right there, with 6 or so security agents in close proximity. One agent was opening the books one at a time to a certain page and placing it in front of Mrs. Clinton, who would sign and just as quick another agent on the other side would close the book and hand it to you. Hillary was radiant, autographing, smiling and chatting away, it was a very impressive scenario. With this assembly line procedure, she would be able to sign her 500 copies and make it to her Biltmore Estates dinner function in a timely fashion.

            I was a little nervous as I approached the table. We had decided I would go first. Now in defense of myself, I was raised a gentleman. It was finally my turn. When I approached, the security lady who was responsible for stacking the already autographed copies knocked some off the table onto the floor. I walked over and bent down to retrieve them just as Hillary turned to speak to me, leaving my ass for her to talk to. How embarrassing, the former first lady, current New York senator, and possible future most powerful person in the world and I am facing the wrong way. I sheepishly scoop up my two books and move along, pausing slightly to let my wife catch up with her copy. It’s all in the timing, and mine was not in sync for this unique opportunity.

“There is a giant hawk in our backyard”, Diana excitedly related to me over the phone. “What, are you sure?” I stammered as I attempted to digest this information. “I heard a rustling noise in the bushes and went out to investigate, and out flew this magnificent hawk. He landed on that tree stump and watched me as I went about my chores.” Having spent the bulk of my life in a big concrete city where wildlife was left to the humans, I was a little skeptical. My wife had spent more of her existence in the country and was more accustomed to what Mother Nature had to offer. “Did you snap a picture?” I queried as if visual proof would satisfy my curiosity.

The hawk reappeared two days later and spent quite a bit of time sitting on the bowl of our birdbath before deciding to indulge. Diana was able to focus in for a very comfy and close up photo to memorialize this event. After a thorough soaking the majestic bird flew up to its tree stump perch to preen itself and dry off in the sun. I marveled at the spectacular picture and became envious that my wife was able to see this spectacular creature in action.

I took Friday off to get a few things done around the home, and was pleasantly surprised when the hawk flew in for bathing privileges. The photo did not do the bird justice. I was awestruck to observe this bird in all its power and beauty. As long as we stayed inside the hawk seemed comfortable with our boundaries. I went looking in our bird books to identify the species, and to the best of my ability, decided he was a Goshawk. My house and my naming privileges, so Gus was the moniker of our new guest. His picture circulated the internet among our family and friends.

My in-laws came to visit for a couple days. My father-in-law Jack and I were outside enjoying the nice weather when I commented I heard a young cat’s cry. He heard nothing and we went inside. A little while later Diana asked me if I heard a cat. By now it was dark outside and she went out back to investigate. Sure enough, in the shadows of our swing was a cat meowing. You could call to the kitty, which would make it answer back louder, but come no closer. Diana poured a saucer of milk and placed it on the porch to attract the cat and entice it to come closer.

I have seen Jack in action with cats. He is a dog lover, but has a soft spot for cats, and they respond to him. The kitty stayed in the shadows, not willing to come closer. You could tell it was hungry, but not trusting. Jack brought out a strip of bacon and went to work, breaking off tiny pieces and tossing them near the starving animal, gaining its confidence. Diana brought out another bowl with a little food and laid down a towel near the door for a bed. The cat responded, and although would not get close to any of us, would drink the milk, eat the food and sleep on the towel bed.

In the morning the cat let me know the milk was empty and backed off a comfortable distance while I refilled it, then as long as I went back inside would come over to its place of refuge we had helped create. When the others got up for the day, Jack observed the cat disappear into a sink hole in our side yard. With my In-laws moving on, Diana informed me over the phone of the location of the cat. I stopped at the store on the way home and purchased three more bags of dirt with the intention of filling in the hole once the cat was out next time.

When I got home the cat was in the huge bushes in our side yard and meowed its disapproval as I worked to fill in its underground sanctuary. All I could really observe was two large green eyes and a pink mouth as it protested. In the evening it came over to our back porch and started the ritual over again. The cat would remain quiet until we disturbed it, then let out loud protesting moans well past our backing off. I was watching and old game show and the contestant was named Elvis, which quickly became the cat’s name, with me retaining those home naming rites. I even used the front door to leave for work in the morning to avoid the confrontation with Elvis.

Later that morning, after Elvis had disappeared, Diana observed Gus come calling. Many more photos ensued, some truly incredible shots as Gus put on a tremendous show posing on the birdbath, patio umbrella and favorite tree stump. Diana heard Elvis’ cry in the bushes and quickly chased off Gus fearing an ugly episode. Gus was a trained hunter credited with running off the rabbits which had invaded our gardens. A young inexperienced Elvis would be no match.

Reality began to set in. We were leaving town for a few days and could not control this situation from afar. Diana chose to call the local animal control to capture Elvis. He was a long black haired cat and was shedding quite a bit of hair making Diana concerned about his health. The officer set a humane bait trap up that would snap the cage door closed as the critter chowed down. She mentioned a house across the street had been abandoned the week before and many cats had been left behind. A mother cat resembled the description of Elvis Diana had provided.

When I arrived home later that afternoon I saw the still empty cage near our well pump house. I poked my head into the structure and spoke to the cat softly. Elvis answered back, and slowly followed me out. As he passed the trap, a whiff of the food caught his attention. I became very sad and felt like telling Elvis to run the other direction, but had agreed with Diana this was the best course. I watched as he entered the cage, waiting for the door to spring shut. I poked my head into the house and asked Diana for reassurance, then went over to the cage and kicked the trap door closed on the cat. Elvis protested a little, but not very much.

Animal control had gone home for the day so the police came over to apprehend this dangerous critter and take him to the county facility. As I picked up the cage to give it to Officer Valenzuela, Elvis began to moan, cry louder than any cat I have ever heard. What a voice! We all agreed that cat was the loudest we had ever heard, all that noise coming from this little tiny creature. I felt sad, was surprised at how attached I had become in such a short time. Maybe when we get back in town I should check in with animal control…

My first thought was why burden me with this? As I sifted through my feelings, I realized it was a gift, the greatest gift my mother could ever have given to me. I felt honored she would select me.We all knew Mom was terminal. The cancer had comeback, and remission was no longer a viable option. The chemotherapy treatments that had taken so much of her the first go-around were an afterthought. The last step was to roll a hospital bed into her family room and permit her to die with dignity. This way she would be surrounded by her family and cherished friends. A hospice nursing team was employed to monitor and help keep Mom as comfortable as possible.

Dad had recently retired and was home with Mom all the time. My three brothers, I, and our significant others including her grandchildren would all gather at their home as our work shifts ended or after school and remain into the night. We would slowly retreat back to our own houses and repeat the routine the next day. Mom was in and out of it, sometimes lucid enough to hold a serious conversation, but the administered intra-venous pain medication kept her sleeping or resting a good portion of the time.

She remained steady, no better no worse for the better part of a week. The hospice nurse pleaded with us to talk to her, to soothe her, to convince Mom we would be alright and she could let go. One of the promises she requested of me at this time was to help my Dad adjust, keep him active and busy, assist him in moving on.

Mom had gone the better part of the next day without awakening. The whole family was present, socializing in another room, along with the nurse. Dad was sitting in a chair beyond the head of the bed, watching television. I was sitting bedside with my Mom’s hand in mine, stroking, tenderly rubbing up her arm with my free hand. I observed her facial expression change ever so slightly, then the most amazing experience I have ever witness occurred.

I saw, I felt her essence, her spirit leave her body. Time slowed. Her skin turned an ashen grey, then quickly returned back to normal color. I informed my Dad, “She’s gone, Mom just died.” He asked me not to say anything to the others just yet. He approached the bed, broke down very briefly and said his final goodbye. I then went to the other room to inform everyone else. The nurse tried to take over; she would check and verify that Mom had indeed passed on. I answered “Don’t bother, I already know.”

While everyone else flooded into the makeshift hospital room, Dad suggested he and I take a walk. I got the impression, as we walked and talked, of relief. Relief of any and all suffering was now over, and lives since put on hold, could now move forward. He even asked my opinion on how long to grieve, as my Mom had suggested a date partner for him. Even in death, Mom still controlled our universe.

No one ever questioned me how I knew, asked me without benefit of any educational expertise, how I could possibly have pinpointed the exact moment of Mom passing on. I guess it really didn’t matter, except to me, the recipient of this miraculous moment. There is a movie made in 1993 called My Life, where Michael Keaton passes on in a very eerie scene. I get the chills every time I watch it. This gift, this memory will be with me my entire life, etched in my mind. Thank you Mom for this, the greatest gift.

            The 747 landed on time and Paul deplaned, watching as family members hugged and kissed, many tearful reunions. He resented them some, not having anyone to greet him. Heck, he wasn’t even sure where he was going, for sure. He left this town, his mother and sister with a vengeance eight years ago, never looking back. He wasn’t even sure if they were still here, or alive for that matter. But he had nowhere else to go.

            He took his time, stopping at Starbucks for a strong black coffee before making his way to the luggage carousel for his duffel. He stepped out front, hailing a taxi. “50th street and Cambridge” he snapped as he stepped into the back seat of the cab. His mind took him back to his childhood at this residence as the cabbie drove in silence.

            They never quite fit in. Their house always looked shabbier than the others, forever in need of a paint job. The grass was dead. There driveway was full of multiple cars in various stages of disrepair. The swimming pool leaked and they couldn’t afford to repair it, so it sat empty for years. When Paul was four, his father left for greener pastures and was never heard from again. His mom was overworked and underappreciated, as she bore the responsibilities of breadwinner for the three of them, with no financial help from her slacker ex.

            Paul grew up with no expectations. He went to school when he felt like it, which wasn’t very often. With no one home to follow up, the administration stopped calling. He filled his time with hate. It wasn’t a gene pool issue. His sister was friendly, smart and kind of pretty, while Paul was none of these. What he was, was mean. Being a few years older than the other kids gave him the size to dominate. His features were dark as a starless night. He had cold, hateful, vacant eyes with a half-moon shaped scar under the left one from a num-chuck accident.

            He learned early on he could intimidate others. He would curse, demean, and taunt the other kids as they passed by. Out back in the alley where others couldn’t observe he was known to toss eggs, rocks and one time a tail pipe at passerby’s. During the summers he would charge people to cross the bridge over the canal from the neighborhood to the mall, a safe haven. He would laugh and throw rocks at the kids who tried to jump the canal, often causing a disastrous result.

 Pets were not immune to his escapades. He liked to burn the whiskers off the dogs and tie two cats together by their tails and toss them over the clothesline. Firecrackers were one of his calling cards. Many things like pets, bikes and other toys ended up in the empty backyard pool. With no one to reel him in, he stayed out of control and terrorized anyone younger than him.

            Although he had this reputation and lashed out at everyone and everything, what he really would have preferred is to belong. His anger took him a long way- to Viet Nam. He served his country well for eight years, coming home a hero, but there was no one to share, to acknowledge him. He was coming back to the only home he had ever known. They weren’t good memories, but they’re all he had.