It has taken a while. But it is a step taken and done (I think). To those of you who responded to my requests, thank you so much! This one had the most votes. I think it does represent Dennis and I in partnership through this journey.
The cover was handed over to me last week for the purpose of asking for beta readers. I need three to five volunteers who will be given an advance copy of the manuscript to read. I hope to get feedback from beta readers about their experience with the book, feedback of all kinds. The goal is to make the book as good as possible, so help me make it better.
There are still many steps to be taken before publication. I am getting help from a developmental editor now. We are working on the manuscript, but it is not in shape to give out yet. This step may go quickly, but my experience so far is that things go slower than one would expect. But it is exciting, even at its slow pace!
So, I need readers, with opinions. If you would like to be one of my beta readers, please respond by emailing me at shirleyjdietz@gmail.com. When it is ready, the manuscript will be emailed to you to read online. I will get back to the first five. Thank you so much!
Supposedly, 80% of people say that they would like to write a book. Only a much smaller percentage actually do write one. I have never been sure that I would be in that small number of people called authors. But I know I’ve been in the 80% of writers who dream. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.
A few weeks ago, Mom asked me if I was writing on my blog. She hadn’t seen anything for a while. No, I told her. Journal entries have been sparse. Both of my blogs have rarely been attended to, and readership has dropped off. I’m not proud of that. My life since Dennis has been a whole new experience, and I haven’t decided how to write about it.
But I have decided what my first book will be about. It will be about our experience with Lewy Body Dementia. My husband Dennis and I walked that difficult road for five years. I want to have the historical record for family and friends. Dennis has a granddaughter who will never get to meet him, and will someday wonder who he was. For both Dennis and I, that time period was intense and rich in many ways. I want to preserve my own memories of it.
I haven’t felt much like writing anything at all since Dennis died. That’s why using my journal entries and blog posts during that time was an easy choice. Most of the writing was already done. I put money down with a publisher and have been working toward a finished book for several months now. It’s a frustrating, time consuming project in many ways but also an interesting process. It has given me new stories to tell.
One of the tasks of making a book is to choose a cover. Today, I am asking for help with that. Designers have already submitted cover designs and I have chosen a few. This week a poll is being taken to see which cover has the most appeal. You can help by following the link at the end of this post and voting. Based on the cover, which book would you be most likely to buy and read? I thank you in advance for your input.
And in case you are also part of the 80% that want to write a book someday, I will be telling some of those stories about publishing for you. And check in next week for the results of the poll. By the way, winter is a good time to stay indoors and write… just sayin’.
This year has brought a lot of new situations into my life. And, of course, changes have come with them. I have had to change many things, especially the expectations I have about myself, my work, and my purpose. It’s been a bit of a free fall. When I first started feeling restless, unmotivated, stuck, apprehensive, and frustrated, those adjectives were just on the edges of life. In the center there was always a lot of routine activity. There were distractions of all kinds. There were people to help, events to attend, all of it pointing to getting back to being my former self. Until things got quiet.
I think it was easy to divide life into before and after the death of my husband, and to think that I would get back to being my usual self, whoever that was. Now that some time has passed, I’m starting to view it differently. My life is more like an ever changing timeline. Dennis’s death was a significant event on the timeline, that is true, but there were other events as well, and change came with each of them.
Getting right to the freedom part, I made a decision this week that started this whole chain of thought. Here is what happened.
I like to call myself a writer, but who am I kidding if I don’t write? For over ten years now I have managed to do a blogging challenge, the April A to Z. At first I filled the 26 days of the month with random posts. Later I started picking themes because it was easier and more interesting. The last couple of years I’ve struggled to find new themes that sparked creativity, but still managed come up with something. Last year I did character sketches, based on real people I’ve known but fictionalized. This year I thought I might work on putting those people in plots. I told myself that doing this challenge was important to me and made me a better writer.
I got a few stories done, and then I hit a wall. Nothing was coming together. I was avoiding writing any way I could, and feeling ashamed about it at the same time. I felt like I had to do it, because I had done it for so many years. This self imposed mandate was sucking all the fun out of my days. So I set myself free. What a relief.
I don’t have to join the challenge. I don’t have to follow a theme. I can forget about the alphabet if I want to. I don’t even have to write anything this coming month at all. It feels pretty good to rebel against some kinds of restrictions. So much so, that I’ve been looking around for other things that I don’t need to do, things that I have bound myself to that might be up for re-evaluation.
What will my summer be like if I don’t put in a garden? What will my files look like if I clean out some of the trivia? Is it time to let go of my high school and college cheerleading letters? How will it change my relationship with my mom if I’m more of a friend and less of a caregiver? How might it feel if life is simpler, less burdened?
This thought train has just started to pick up steam. At this stage in my life there are compelling reasons to think about lightening the load, letting go of things, and throwing off chains. Of finding new freedom.
And what things would God have me do with the new freedoms that have come my way?
What have you been freed from recently? Join the conversation – I would love to hear your thoughts.
Still have them, but their days are numbered. Go team, go!
A series of memories around a fascinating subject – fire
Two days of hiking in the rain, with temps in the 30’s, just above freezing. We had spent the previous night in a small shelter with 20 other hikers and about that many mice, so there hadn’t been much actual sleep. We were tired, and tired of being cold.
We crawled into camp in the last few minutes of daylight. Tents were going up. I could hear people thinking how nice it would be to sit around a nice, blazing campfire for a while. Some kind trail angel had left large pieces of dry wood in the shelter and it had been arranged in the fire pit, There were obvious signs of attempts to get it burning, but there had been no success. Now it was getting damp.
You can’t hold a match to a large piece of wood and set it on fire. It’s too big of a jump. You must start small, with kindling, and add progressively larger pieces of fuel until the heat load is enough to start the burn in the large piece. It’s a simple principle. But there is a major deficit when any available kindling has been rained on for two days.
I admit to being prideful when it comes to starting fires – one of my many faults. That was part of why I decided I would have a fire that night. The other reason was that I knew people could die of hypothermia and I didn’t want to be one of them. I was hoping this potential blaze would feel my affinity for fire and respond.
Looking in sheltered places, I did locate some less damp sticks and leaves and took my stash to the fire pit. My hope was that a small flame would dry out more of the kindling, if I could keep it alive. It takes getting close and intimate, and it takes patience. I knelt and started tending “the baby”. That’s exactly what it is, a baby fire. It must be given another leaf, another twig, another blast of oxygen, and never allowed to die.
No one wanted to help with this and some probably thought I was crazy to waste time trying to burn wet wood. I was too cold to do anything else. My daughter was setting up our tent, leaving me free to be crazy. I put my face close to the flame and blew gently until I had no more breath, then turned and got a gulp of fresh air, over and over. The dampness was creating a lot of smoke, but that gave me hope that things were drying out a little.
The end of this story is, of course, that the fire progressed as I had hoped. As the larger pieces of dry wood caught and turned into a healthy blaze. It was lovely and it was regarded as near miraculous, which added to my pride, but I knew. It was no miracle but rather persistence, motivated by need. We all enjoyed getting warm again before getting in our sleeping bags for the night.
And my personal attraction to a small, useful fire grew. An intriguing, mysterious gift is what it is… just sayin’.
A series of memories around a fascinating subject – fire.
The cook stove sits in my dining room now. It isn’t hooked to a chimney and never holds a fire. Instead it serves as a bookcase for cookbooks and a plant holder for the pot of ivy.
Old, and out to rest
It was the center of life in my grandmother’s kitchen and it was most probably the start of my attraction to small, useful fires. My young self found it irresistible and I would watch when Grandma put the iron handle in the round cover and lifted it off the firebox. The wood had to be split small, and only three or four pieces would fit in at a time, but it burned hot when asked. It cooked Sunday dinner for us most every week while we went to church.
I remember the kitchen as it was then, half of a larger room where the meal was served. Imagining a clock face, the cook stove would have been at 1.
A long counter with cupboards above and below took up the whole north wall to the right of the stove. The double sink was somewhere near the middle of the counter underneath a wide window looking out on the driveway. This wall would be numbers 2, 3, and 4 on the clock.
Number 5 would begin the east wall and it started with the wash basin, a single porcelain piece with rust water stains and a “swill pail” underneath. It was where working hands were washed, where Grandpa shaved as he looked at himself in the metal cabinet hanging on the wall. On a hook to the right of the sink hung things like a towel, a fly scatter, an apron and a razor strap. That is all I know of razor straps because I never saw it being used for shaving, although I might have heard that one could be used for whipping naughty children. I probably read that somewhere.
Number 6 on the clock face would be the front door leading out to the porch that ran part way along the east side of the house. The wall next to the door held the refrigerator, and a long wooden raised box. It was a curious piece of furniture that might have been a planter, but was always filled with magazines, newspapers and “stuff”. It was a little less than waist high and may have had a shelf below. I am surprised that I don’t remember more about it because I know I helped Grandma dust and clean it in later years. Above this box was the east window and the phone, fastened to the wall near the corner.
Number 7 was the door to Grandma’s bedroom, which was almost always open, probably to keep it as warm as possible. The door began the south wall and next to it was the china cupboard, and then a freezer, numbers 8 and 9.
Turning the corner, numbers 10 and 11 on the west wall contained a long “bureau” as Grandma would have called it. There were pictures, stacks of letters, small china knick knacks holding collection of buttons and curiosities adorning the top of this piece. It had drawers storing tablecloths and pretty, useless things Grandma was saving. I was curious about their contents and I know I looked in them from time to time, but don’t remember what I saw. At the ends of the bureau were doors hiding more things I desired to look into, but didn’t. Back then, there was a sense of privacy, even in Grandma’s house.
The last number on the clock face, 12, was near the middle of the west wall. It was the door into the living room. To the right of it stood the cook stove. We have gone full circle. In the south half of the room was the dining table. We all sat there to eat no matter how many of us there were. It was also the table where Grandma wrote countless letters to her daughters, her friends and to me. The center of the table always held the salt and pepper, butter, perhaps a vial of vinegar, napkins. And it was covered with a small cloth. Grandma had a special spoon that she liked, and a favorite cup that she made sure was always set at her place on the table.
Whatever this is, I have it.
And this. A small plate-like piece of china. It was not named, but was always there where it belonged, without question. It held a hot cup, like a coaster, or a wet spoon, or tea bag.
The cook stove baked bread, cookies and cakes, roasted meat and fried potatoes and kept the kitchen warm, when the warmth was needed, and when it wasn’t. When the firebox was full of embers and ash, Grandma would jiggle a lever at the back and the ashes would fall into metal box below. The cooled ashes were taken out periodically and thrown on the lawn or garden. When the fire went out overnight, as happened often, Grandma would be up early to get it going again. She had an old can that held corncobs, soaking in some kind of flammable liquid. That and some newspaper would be her firestarters. Soon there would be heat enough to warm the room and begin cooking. I remember looking at and touching a bird wing, kept on the upper warming shelf of the stove. The feathers were spread and it fit neatly into the hand of the person sweeping off the smooth iron cook surface.
Yes, the cook stove was definitely where it began, my affinity with small, useful fire.
He had ridden his bike for 20 minutes in the sweltering heat so his dark skin was wet with tiny droplets, which he quickly dispatched with the bottom of his T-shirt.
“How ya doin?” he said with an enthusiasm she could hardly imagine him having. She noticed he was sniffing in the direction of the kitchen. “Cookin’ up somethin good tonight?”
He was a pretty good cook himself, an expert actually, at the kind of food he liked best. When he was given free reign in the kitchen there was usually a lot of tasty fried chicken, and a lot of greasy pans to wash.
But he wasn’t there for the kitchen. The piano was where he was headed. He slid to the middle of the bench and started chording and doing small riffs with a rhythm right out of a black church choir. That’s where he had taken a job, at the St. Stephen’s African Methodist Episcopal Church. Too many names to even fit on the sign.
He had started experimenting with the keyboard after coming to a small hymn sing in the park near his home. His name was Chance, and that’s what she had offered him, a chance to learn. He was short for his 13 years of growing, and there was one hand that hadn’t grown normal fingers, not that it kept him from learning the chords he was taught. He loved playing on the black keys – his fingers had no trouble landing on those.
“You going to teach me to read notes today. We got to work on that. They want me to be able to play printed music and I’m fakin’ it now.”
He could listen to a tune and play it accurately after one go. With soul. But he wasn’t familiar with a lot of church music and had to hear it played first. That’s what she did for him. “Wish I could do like that Miss Allie. Let me hear that verse part again.” But no matter what the lesson was, he would end up playing his favorites, quickly tiring of practicing notes on lines and spaces.
He would make it look so easy, going up and down the keyboard with chord progressions that were not the usual, but so compelling. She had told him that the piano was in the percussion family of instruments – hammers hitting strings inside a box – but his brand of percussion was foot on the pedal. It felt like the room was moving, and more than once she had to remind him to go easy. He had broken the inner workings of the sustain pedal once already.
He sang too. Quite well.
It was the beginning of a long acquaintance that branched out into lots more than music. Not all of it was easy or pleasant, but his optimism and bravado rarely failed him. Well, there was that one time…
Character sketches that are fictional but based on real characters, like us.
She knew she tended to overthink things. What a contrast now that she had trouble thinking at all. She watched the cat eat leaves off her favorite house plant, again. She wasn’t jumping up and chasing it away anymore. It hadn’t died yet and was possibly getting some nutrient it needed. Have to like a proactive cat.
And then there was her husband, who lay nearly comatose 90% of the time, making no decisions, proactive or otherwise. She had been deciding everything for him for the last four months since he had come home from the hospital and into Hospice care, in their living room. They weren’t all hard decisions. Medication schedules, toileting, when to give tube feedings – all that could be evaluated and changed if it needed to be and she had practice making those decision for previous patients. Sometimes the combined weight of them did make a difference in her energy level or kept her from sleeping well at night. But they were, after all, the easier things to decide.
What she struggled with was the fact that they had decided, after the stroke, to intervene. By “they”, she meant “he”, because it was still his choice. Ever since his earlier diagnosis of Lewy Body dementia, he had been waiting for God to heal him. He didn’t want to take himself out of the game before God got around to it. She was pretty sure he had made the decisions for the ventilator, the feeding tube, and rehab, even though it had already begun to feel like she was making them.
But now, it was pretty clear that decisions were on her. She was deciding to take really good care of him, and thereby prolonging considerable misery. The misery was more hers than his. Watching his decline was not fun, but he seemed unaware of his condition. Just that morning she had been orienting him to where he was, where he had been and how long he had been ill.
“Can I spit on the ground?” he asked.
“You better not because we’re in the house. You don’t want to spit on the floor.”
“But I can open the car door and spit on the ground, can’t I?”
“Yes, if we were ever in the car. But that hasn’t been happening for months. The only way you’ve gone anywhere lately is by ambulance. We stay home all the time now. You haven’t been in the car for nearly a year.”
“What a boring lifestyle”, he said in his weak, barely intelligible voice. He was grinning and looking at her for approval, like he had done all their married life. This time, instead of rolling her eyes, she laughed with him and wondered if it would be the last time he tried to tell her a joke.
She believed there was a kind way to explain to him that he might actually be dying. So far, her attempts had not been successful.
There were times when she felt she wasn’t taking good care of him too. She would get lost in a jigsaw puzzle and forget his feeding time. She would turn down the noise in the monitor in order to get another hour of much needed sleep. All those guilt producing moments. But, she was sensible enough to know that she had to take care of herself in order to take care of him. Everybody told her that, and it helped to hear it from others, even though they didn’t really know how that worked out.
Was she depressed? Not really. Sad, for sure, and tired. Tired enough to pray that it be over soon. And even though she had all kinds of questions about God’s timing, she was, ultimately, content with him calling the shots.
Most every year, during the month of December, I carry two planners around with me. One is for the present year, and one is for the year to come because I am often planning ahead. That’s what planners are for. The last day of December often finds me closing out one and looking back over the fading year. I am doing that today.
The first half of the year was filled with quiet routine. The husband was housebound except for a few rides in the car and a restaurant meal now and then. We had a regular habit of reading in the mornings and sharing thoughts on what we’d read. Evenings often included him getting a wheelchair ride around the community.
I enjoyed the seasons – skiing in the winter, gardening in the spring and, most of all, planning for our August family reunion.
While family was arriving in late July, the husband had a stroke. Before that time I often wondered how his diagnosis of Lewy Body dementia would play out. He was obviously experiencing symptom progression but so slowly. I thought he was dependent on me in some ways, but little did I realize that being able to walk at all, and being able to eat are very independent activities. He was still doing those things at will, and amusing himself during the day with tv, phone calls, and books.
The stroke took all of that away. What followed was 25 days in ICU, 5 days in a step down unit, 49 days in acute care rehab hospital, 26 days in skilled care rehab, and 24 days in a nursing home. I’ve been sitting here with my planner counting up the days and marking the events. Most of these places were 90 minutes away from home. The last was only half an hour away. I’ve put thousands of miles on the car. I was weary of traveling and welcomed bringing him home. This is his 29th day at home, the 17th day under hospice care.
I am the primary caregiver, although we do have around 15 hours of care each week from CNAs hired privately. That is the summary of the second half of 2022 for the husband and me. It’s been a year to remember.
I can’t say that I have felt like writing much during this time. Occasionally it has been an emotional release. I might also like to have record of what we have gone through, at some later date when memory fails me. But much of it I would like to forget. Ten years ago I would not have imagined living the life I have now.
Should I say something about God and his part in the road we’re on? I see him as having been very patient and understanding of my fatigue, my not want to think deeply, or pray consistently, or immerse myself in scripture every day. In some ways I am numb to those disciplines in much the same way as a young mother with a house full of toddlers. God sees what overwhelms his humans. He sends me out on a “walk and talk” and I will tell you that the natural world has been my lifeline this year.
Lots of privacy out here and a real sense of who I am praying to as I walk. No denying he has a sense of beauty.
He sits with me when I cry. He gives me words for the husband when calming and encouragement is needed. When action is called for he has given me the thought of what must be done and the energy to do it. He has given me assurance about all the confusing and uncertain things – that I can trust him and decide not to fear, not to blame.
Many friends have said they are praying for us, and have reminded me of that often. That has weight with me. This is not the first time that prayer has been important to me, but still it is a mystery how God uses it. I want to be involved in that mystery, not necessarily to understand it, but just to have a part in it. Somehow God attaches great power to prayer and I love to see him be powerful , up close and personal.
I think it was good that we asked God for healing for Dennis. Why would we not? But it is also okay that he has not been healed because perfect health is not the only blessing God can bring with a hard experience. And we have always known that we will die at some time – it’s just the end part of being human. We will not waste the experience by becoming bitter or turning away from the most exciting relationship humanity has ever been offered. No, neither Dennis nor I feel any disappointment with God, or the way he has exhibited his friendship with us.
He has been “with” us. Sometimes he has been a peaceful presence on my walks. Sometimes he has sent others to us to spend time or offer help. I’m often told that I’m not alone and have felt like saying “Well, I feel pretty alone in spite of what you say.” But now I receive that differently. God puts that sentiment on the lips of others to remind me that he is with me, even when people are not. That’s enough. He is not named “Immanuel” for no reason.
It’s February. I’m sitting next to the window watching winter storm Nancy and the air is white and swirling with the snow. For the last day I’ve gone out periodically to shovel the walk between my house and Mom’s. It doesn’t do a lot of good because of the drifting, but perhaps it won’t be quite as deep when it finally stops falling.
Thank you God, for kitchen windows, for entertaining squirrels.
I’m also making bread. It’s in a warm place rising right now. I have a kitchen counter where I can look out a window at my bird feeders. I should say animal feeders because the squirrels and rabbits are there too. There is much about this time that is very nice.
I’m to consider the following questions today, in preparation for a guided group zoom tomorrow. A bunch of writers, including me, are trying to think deeply about who they are writing for and what their message is.
1. What do I know about my ideal reader and message? Answer: Not much. The people who give me the most feedback are personal friends, and a few others who seem to be around my age. Baby Boomers are starting to be introspective as they think of themselves as elderly. The messages they tend to like are along the lines of “you’re not dead yet. What you do will probably look different from when you did it at 20, and it may kill you, but you can still do stuff if you try.”
2. Is there anything about exploring this that makes me nervous or uncomfortable? Answer: Yes. I wonder about all the readers that I don’t ever hear from. I think there are a lot of different kinds of people reading that don’t say anything and I wish I could be more engaging. I wish I could know that I’m striking a chord or answering a need for encouragement.
3. What do I like to write about or talk about? I like to talk about the natural world because the bottom line is WONDER. I always arrive at the point of looking for God in what he has created, and that includes humans and their stories. The list of what I consider the “natural world” is pretty long. That is why my blog subjects are so eclectic. It might be snowflakes one day, a walk in the forest the next, a conversation with my mom, and today it might be making bread. To me, everything has a connection to the Creator.
4. How would I describe myself? I am outwardly calm, quiet, attentive, and resourceful. Inwardly, I often feel “less than” and insignificant, and in need of being reminded that I am unique, valued and loved. I think a lot of people feel that way. I would love it if my writing could give people the reassurance they need in those areas.
5. What do I know about my personality and how does that affect my writing? I am primarily an introvert, but I can step outside that when I need to, on a good day. I don’t mind being around a lot of people but my love is having good conversation with one at a time. I’m a helper type, always picking up on people’s needs and wanting to assist. It’s actually easier for me to decide to help someone else than it is to do my own hard work – that definitely affects my writing. Writing is hard work.
6. How do people describe me? Ask! Answer: I have asked but it’s hard to get responses to that question. It’s work to think about someone else and give an honest, serious assessment. I tested myself on that and find it difficult to describe others. So, I get it. No judgment. I always appreciate feedback and wish there were more of it. See question 2.
Have you ever tried to describe yourself, to yourself or others? How did that seem to you?
Yes, I’m actually learning something new. I am on a launch team for a new book coming called Raising Prayerful Kids.
I chose to help with this particular launch because it deals with two of my primary interests – prayer and children. What a great pairing! I will get a sneak peek at the book which doesn’t come out until 3/8/22. I can think of so many good places to promote this topic and will be working hard to do just that.
I’ve learned that getting a book out in the world is a real job, and it goes better if you have something called a launch team. Who knew? I didn’t. This is the first time I’ve ever helped with something like this. I’m finding it quite interesting. You can apply and join too, if you feel like helping this book get known. The application to join is here https://forms.gle/1Ky3kpUUY6KXDtKJ6
Launch team is closing soon so check it out if you want to know more.
I Just Have to Say... 