Goodbye to Mom and the Grand Marquis

We are seniors but many of us are still children of living parents.  One of our most difficult senior tasks is often saying our final goodbye to our very elderly parents.  This story is about my goodbyes to my Mom.

Grand Marquis

His Mother explained it many times. They bought the Grand Marquis because of it’s bench seats:

“Of course, honey. Only the Lincoln and Ford have the big bench seat.”

That way your father and I could fit three couples comfortably in the Car.”

The dealership never mentioned that a burned out headlight for the car would cost three hundred and fifty dollars to replace or that the beast averaged 12 miles a gallon.  Nor did they mention that the resale (salvage value) of the car would or could never equal the unpaid associated secured debt.  

All of these facts were now relevant since he owned, if not the car, the car loan. A car that drove level on the road, but to the bank was “upside down.” A car representing for him a new monetary black hole that so far even his craigslist hyperbole was not able to ameliorate.

This danced in his mind as he started the odyssey from West Palm Beach to Westin Florida; his condo to the Cleveland Clinic where his Mother now resided.  Exactly fifty seven miles and four tenths away (22 dollars in gas) unless you took the Sawgrass Expressway which added 9 more miles and two dollars to the toll but subtracted eight minutes. Timed, the trip was exactly one “This American Life” podcast and one quarter “Fresh Air podcast” away.  With traffic add a few of Bach’s English Suites.  His mother’s apartment was “Love Me Tender” away from the Hospital.

Last week the trip to the condo had been about the new microwave and oversized toaster oven he had purchased to replace it.  Since his father had died twice he was now in control of his mother’s affairs.  His older brother, his only other sibling, had died from bad doctoring and cancer about nine years earlier. 

His Dad’s first death occurred shortly after he believed he had become a lawn mower.  Al’s in Heimer can do that to you.  In the new Heimer world his normal response to any question was the lawn mower noise and then, if he felt particularly frisky, repeated pinches to your belly.  The second death, (you might say the more conventional one) involved a massive stroke that occurred within twenty-four hours of the traveler announcing to his father (who then sat locked in a highchair in an isolated floor for people who had lost their minds from any of the entire catalogue of extreme mental ailments), that he would not be coming home soon.  That was three years ago and a few other deaths away.

The four hundred dollar microwave he had purchased for his mom had many options but if you just wanted to keep it easy only three buttons at the bottom needed to be activated.  And they were all in a row.  Reset/Quick-Min/Start. 

 “Mom, you push the first one to clear it.  The second one for the cook time.  Push it once for each minute.  And then just push start.”

“But what if I only need a ½ minute?”

“Just open the door early.”

After a lot of practice, she actually got it.  He put tape over all the other controls so she would go directly to clear/reset.  For someone who lived on frozen food, the bounty could now continue, led by Stouffers Chicken Pot Pies. 

The new problem was she was not strong enough to activate the buttons.  She had become push-less.  Ever enterprising, he had bought the giant toaster oven thing because it had a simple twist on knob which was also the timer which turned the mini oven off solving the problem of the “big boy” oven which lacked this feature and consequently had almost burned the condo down.

The “I love Lucy” show could have been shot in his mother’s apartment.  All that was missing was Fred and Ethel living downstairs.  The place was frozen in 1954. The walls were painted peach to better explore the coming color- TV  phenomenon.  The drop ceilings in the kitchen and bathrooms celebrated the amazing new plastic technology.  The eclectic lamps all shared one common theme:  prodigious.  (You needed a crane to lift them). Her famous chotchkies took two forms: those that were silver plated and those that were pottery.  The silver plated items would take an army of 1954 negro maids to polish properly.  As to the pottery lets just say if you have seen one “Balloon Lady” you have seen them all.  Royal Dolton to the traveler was not regal and clearly dull. And then there was the kitchen.  She was not a baleboste.  There were no signs of a former if ever home cooked meal.

But Lucy did reign on her throne.  His mother at 91 still knew how to crack Dentyne gum and multi-task. The TV was on loud enough for the neighbors to enjoy and the “clicker” remote stood ready.  She wore her peignoir in the classic way (sans underwear) and rarely left the bed.  Vanity on display, she made sure her shapely legs remained visible at all times.  Wasn’t Lucy a dancer before she met Ricky?

So his mother in her Ruth Gordon style begins, Midwestern but more formal:

“I know you think I’m stupid. 

I Don’t.” he says

“But I am.  I can’t remember how to work anything. The truth is I don’t like food anymore except peanut butter”.

“OK Mom, so my truth is I only like pizza and black coffee and I am not even sure coffee is food”.

“But you can work a microwave”.

“You can Knit”.

“I just feel awful that you have to come over here to feed me.”

“STOP BEING SO NICE TO ME?  I was a shitty mother”.

“What are you talking about.”  He kisses her,” you were the hottest mom on our street.  “That counts too”.

Next to her bed was a hands free phone with an alarm that sounded like an Eisenhower “duck and cover” air raid with a flashing light built in.  His mother couldn’t hear that well but refused a hearing aid.  “Go ahead and get me one if you must” she’d say “ but the second you walk out the door it will be out of my ear.”

“Look Mom, get dressed and let’s go get dinner, hit the grocery store and the drug store.  And we need to talk about getting you a little more help.”

“OK but I’m fine.”

“Humor me, mother.”  He notices her smile is not “full flash” anymore.  He thinks its because she had some teeth pulled and no longer liked her smile aesthetic.  To her if it didn’t look good it wasn’t of value.  But it was probably because in truth she was not fine.  She was in heart failure.  But the doctor said it was the good kind.  Right side or left?  He couldn’t remember.  Was there really a good kind?

For now the heart problem was merely a wardrobe problem.  She had a belly for the first non-pregnant time in her life and worst of all her ankles were swollen.  Refusing to associate this with a heart issue she was now dieting as a solution.  Fortunately pork ribs were on her diet (as was Chinese and pizza.) And then there was the issue of the nasty sore on her arm which was, to even his generous grading, unsightly.  This meant long sleeves even if it was 83 outside. 

“I can’t understand why this thing won’t heal?”

“The doctor is lousy, I’ve been there three times and it just gets worse.”

He knew, as she probably also understood, that it got worse because it was not your every day sore.  At first he guessed the fair skin beauty had skin cancer.  He was wrong it was a “sea monster cancer” that had sought the surface for air.  Probably she had lung cancer.  But whatever the cancer’s name, it had now metastasized.  He’d talked to the oncologist.  After a review of all the options the plan was to do nothing.  Eat ribs.

He watched her walk down the hall aimed in the direction of the maroon monster.

“These damn shoes stick.  I can’t find comfortable shoes. Nobody has my size 7.5 quad.  My arch is supreme.”

So was her ram-rod posture.

“Mom, why not wear tennis shoes like everyone else?”

“I’m not like everyone else.”  “I will drive.  She goes for the keys.

You’re too busy on the phone or playing with the CD player.  I’m scared to death driving with you.” She says.

Like many seniors she can’t remember her last accident but many anonymous drivers have been witness to accidents her driving has caused.

“Mom, how did I possibly get here without your help.” He won’t give them up.

 “We’re just going a few blocks.  I’ll drive.  Besides your license has expired and your uninsured not that any of that would stop you.”

“Fine but go to Walgreen first.  That’s where my real business is.”

When he walked with her the whole world slowed down.  If he walked behind her she would stop and get distracted.  If you walked ahead of her you were rude. 
So it was kind of a buddy date walk into the drug store directly to the cosmetics department.  Why a woman 91 who rarely left her bed cared about anti-wrinkle was a mystery to him.  But there they were with adjectives like replenishing, restructuring, correction line repair, cellular, re-moisturizing, lift firming, interventioning all for only $150 USD per ounce.  Ouch! And of course none of them were effective and she needed one with the most sun protection although she never left the house.  Of course he got it for her.  It was called “FREEZE 24/7”.  He’d think about that name.

“Can we eat? Please.  I’m hungry and have a long ride home.

Lunch at the rib joint required parking temporarily in a wheel chair spot, without the proper credentials, while he got his mom out of the car and walked her to the door and hopefully found a place to park her while he parked the Mercury.  This had to be done quickly so he didn’t get a ticket.  His now deceased wife who had committed suicide by alcohol had once decided if she parked her small foreign car in the space between two handicapped spaces that was somehow ok and did not warrant a ticket.  The 250 dollar fine he had paid for her was not a lessen to her but kept him ever diligent about respecting the few benefits afforded to the disabled.

After he watched her very slowly eat an entire slab of ribs but no salad, potato or drink a single sip of liquid she was ready to listen.  She began:

“Ok, so what’s up”.  She smiles at him and bats her eyelashes just for fun.

Are you getting married again?  Did you knock someone up?

I should never have told you that sex was great.  Where’s your father when I need him?

Mom, your 91!  He is embarrassed.

So!

Did I ever tell you how gentle your father was with me?  You know he was very big and I was very small.

MOM…just stop now please! You need more help.  We paid for home health care so please can we use it.

Sure.  The last wonderful lady you had over for me probably stole the few valuable pieces of jewelry I still have.

We can’t prove that Mom.  I though you told me your ring just fell off.

I can tell you anything I want!  You were always a little gullible.”

Come on, you like Miss Jeannine.  I am just going to ask her to come on the weekends now as well.

Fine.  She concedes.  She is my new black daughter.

On the way out of the restaurant he gets appreciative stares from the older women. Such a good son!

Ironically the Sunday Jeannine began her first weekend Mother duty, she found his Mom on the floor with her head wedged between the nightstand and the frame of the bed.  She was breathing but not responsive. Her job began and ended with a 911 call.

It had been two weeks since she moved into the Cleveland Clinic. After the 911 call he had raced there, even paid for the valet, and found her silent and paralyzed on the left side. Now just a few days later, she could talk but sounded like she’d had a few but could still not move her left side.  This seemed to his mother a mere inconvenience.

Just get me home.

He knew that would not be possible.  Even with home health care, she would need 24/7 attention.  A few weeks ago he had taken her to the oncologist to try and learn a little more about her cancer.  He told the young doctor to waive the preliminaries and just tell him the bottom line.  Was she going to be around for Christmas. 

“We have no way of knowing.”  Actually I am not sure what kind of cancer she has.  But at 91 I can guess it will be slow growing.”

So in other words, there was not much guidance for future planning.

While he was pondering his lack of options a young Asian doctor entered.  Curiously his name tag read “Dr. Herschel Cohen”.  Noticing the reaction the young doctor began:

YUP, its my name.  Surprised?

Stammering:   Oh no.  I guess….”

Yah.  Well its worked well for me. 

Now here’s the deal rehab needs to start immediately if she is to get her functioning back. 

The doctor picks her up until she is standing next to him but supported by his arms and starts letting herself support her own weight.

Ha.  You are one hell of a dancer.  slurs Mom.

Ok, your in good hands, Mom, I’ve got to talk to someone be right back.  He leaves her with the doctor.

Racing to the front desk, he assumes that a hospital that has valet parking must have some kind of a patient ombudsman.  Finding her on the floor beneath his mother he starts:

“Help.”

“My 91 year old mom is here with a stroke and I don’t have a clue what happens next.”

Her name tag red “Ms. Rodriguez”.  Frankly he was hoping for Ms. Schwartz.

Three months later, he would stand in this same room and argue with Annette and his mother’s doctor whether his mom should be transferred to hospice.  By then he was on a first name basis with Ms. Rodriguez.

But that first meeting when she was Ms. Rodriguez proved to be a font of information.  A proper rehab place was selected aka nursing home and all the financial rules were explained including how he might cleverly qualify for Medicaid. This was followed by his mother’s transfer to the nursing home, the many interesting lessons he learned visiting her there, the experience of a completely dedicated and caring underpaid staff who seemed to love her as he did.  But then the inevitable return to the hospital.

When he got the call from the nursing home that she had taken “a turn for the worse” he asked that they take her back to The Cleveland Clinic as opposed to the hospital across the street.  They humored him and agreed. 

The Clinic staff only knew that her vitals were very bad and that she did not have too much longer.  The operative word to him was what is “longer.” A day? A few hours?

She was in room 709 looking less regal.  He knew there was grey hair hiding there somewhere and now you could see it: surprisingly little.  She felt warm to his hug and she spoke to him only with her eyes.

Mom, do you know where you are?

Almost a whisper responds:  Hospital!

Yes, but we will get you out of her soon as we can.  He lied.

His Mom seemed to be fading. Her skin was opaque almost translucent.

Wasn’t there a movie where the character started to fade if you ceased to believe?  A children’s story?  He grabbed her again and said:

I love you Mom.

Was that enough to keep her here?

Did she respond:  He wasn’t sure.

I will be right back Mom.  I have to talk to Ms. Rodriguez.

That talk began:

Look Annette, I don’t care if they want the room or not, she is too sick to move to hospice.  I’m not sure she will make it another night.

Her doctor thinks so:  Let me get her. Annette has that very concerned professional look that probably was sincere.

The floor doctor appears who is not discourteous but also not in the mood to counsel a 91 year old patient’s son.

He echoes Rodriguez: 

I’m sorry its time for hospice.  We can’t do much more now.

He responds: You might be right but she is too sick to move.  Come look at her.

As they entered 709 and he approached the bed, he knew that she died while he was briefly out of the room. The form in the bed was no longer his mother.  Her eyes were fixed open looking empty or maybe at the heaven he now wished existed.  He tries to close her eyes.  They do not close.

He stared at the empty form.   A life size doll without a battery. He hoped her soul had flown into him where he could protect it and safely pass it to his children and grand.

As she had wished he cremated her.  He placed the notice in the paper, said the appropriate prayers and then was alone with only his memories.

His brother, mother and father were now all dead. 

He was the last one standing. 

The Grand Marquis’s radio was playing an oldie station. The great songs never disappear.  He’d keep the car a while longer.

The End

Learning the New Manners

When I was a boy I lived in a very small community.  Everyone on my street knew their neighbor.   Everyone who supplied goods and services to the street, the milkman, the bread man, the policeman,  knew the residents.  If you didn’t behave someone noticed and eventually the word travelled to your parents and they noticed.

We had great freedom to run and play but we knew we were being watched and would be held accountable to the collective neighborhood as well as our parents.

My parents friends were “Mr. and Mrs.”  If one of them said “Call me Joe”, my Dad still wanted me to say “Mr. Shapiro”.

We had country club dances where you wore a coat and tie.  I even remember dances where I bought flowers for my date.  We opened the car door for our date.  And she sat still until we did so.

When we were out in public we kept our voices down.

Although none of that seems “quaint” to me, I do recognize that in 2010 there are as Bill Maher says: NEW RULES.   I’m just not sure I know what they are.

Can you talk on a cell phone anywhere you want any time of the day as if no one else existed on the planet except you and the person you are talking to?

Can you tell another adult that their child is about to destroy your property?

Can you wear a tee shirt and jeans to a five star restaurant?

Just wondering.  I am a senior now and I don’t want to seem out of step.
Don’t we all want to still be “hip.”
Is it not hip to say hip?

A Poem for this New Game

The game

Player pieces spread for inspection:
His DNA double helix; coiled for deceased players amusement:
Color the dead red (black is far too obvious):
Father, mother, brother, wife, best friend male,
Best friend female, now watch this;

Living players all painted primary colors
Careful not to attenuate;

Location pieces all grey, green or sand: 24 in all;
Label them homes ironically.

Time pieces: 66 years and a few days,
Mark them spent.
(You have to spin for more).

Vocational pieces of gold sparkle next
To play money decorated with foolish designs:

There is a love and anger piece;
(Separate the children and grand from
The latter).

Now he rolls the dice some more, just for fun;
Since he can’t make sense out of any of it.

Grandpa for a New Time

When I was eight, I could ride my Pee Wee Herman Schwinn to my grandmother’s house.  She would make me a Boston Cooler and if I asked my Mom I could stay overnight and watch the Friday shows on her big TV:  Hit Parade, the Big Story and I Remember Mama.  My grandfather was bed ridden so she loved the company.  I loved the grown up talk.  My grandmother never talked “down to me” like the little boy I was but rather (I imagined) like she talked to all her older friends.  She was the wise one who told me what happened after you died.  (You went to Heaven and if people still alive remembered you a little bell would go off and make you smile.)

My other grandparents lived in a small town in West Virginia but “bad roads and all” we managed to visit them every year.  Usually my brother and I spent spring vacation there.  In this little town we could  go anywhere we wanted without adult supervision (everyone in the town knew who we were.) I learned the West Virginia rules:  every meal was three courses that took at least two hours.  (Half the time was for eating and the rest for talking whether you wanted to or not). Chess and dancing were mandatory.  A religion was required since everyone in town worshiped in the same building and the whole town knew if you did not.

I can close my eyes today and see my grand parents faces.  Occasionally I will smell perfume on someone that opens a floodgate of memories of one or both of my grandmothers.  I have hundreds of stories about all four of them.

Things were very different in the fifties when I was a young boy.  Most of my friends had a Mom and Dad at home.  Divorce was not a common thing. You were supposed to get married and stay married, regardless of how miserable you were.  People married younger and stayed married longer. People didn't live alone.  Only around 9% of homes had a single occupant in 1950. In 1950 the median age for a first marriage was around 22 for men and 20 for women.  People lived in the same community their whole life.

So it is no surprise today that a grandpa’s relationship with his grandkids is going to be different.  Both my kids have been divorced as was I.  Both of them moved away from the city they were born.  I have lived in three states since they were born.  Kids today may have three or four sets of living grandparents; and who ever heard of “step grandparents” in my day.

But it is what it is.

I remember the first time I had an opportunity to spend some real time with my granddaughter. We were at a hotel swimming pool where my son was doing his “visit.”  My granddaughter was enjoying jumping into my arms in the pool over and over.  Finally after about the tenth jump she looked at me and asked: “What did you say your name was?”  I was saddened and delighted at the same time.

As divorces get more contentious and complicated, it is not surprising that many states have grandparent rights.  Can you imagine having to go to court just to visit your grandchildren?

On the plus side, if you are lucky enough to even get to meet your grandkids and develop any relationship with them communication potential is endless. We didn’t have Skype and essentially free telephones in the 50’s.

I remember when my Dad traveled he’d first make a person to person call to the house and ask for a code named person and then my mother would say that person was not in.  My Dad would then call back station to station knowing my mothers was home, for a reduced rate.  Today they could email one another or kiss the computer screen from dueling Starbucks.

Other things have changed as well.  My kids used to hang on for their lives sans helmet on the luggage rack of my English racer.  They would slide side to side in the back seat of our Chevy seat beltless as we speeded along.  They sat alone locked in the car as we ran into 7 eleven for milk.

They weren’t expected to know much as kids.  We were not shamed into buying expensive toys that would give them an edge in pre pre kindergarten.  My kids heard the Stones not Mozart.  Somehow they turned out just fine.

Some things are the same.  We had cloth diapers and a diaper man.  The kids have paper diapers with Velcro .  You know what is the same.  I can’t believe I still change a diaper.  I’m too old for this sh--.

Healthy and Sexy at 65?

I already mentioned that I am lucky to be healthy.  The truth is without a little modern science I would be blind.  


I have always been extremely nearsighted  and consequently a good candidate for a detached retina.  When it happened it was severe.  Not a tear but a total collapse.  All the wallpaper on the back of my eye fell down.  They fixed it with a “sclera buckle” and that was that, except that I did lose some eyesight.  I also have “low pressure” glaucoma.  Clearly an oxymoron since glaucoma is “high pressure” on the optic nerve.  (Kind of like what happens when you sit on your leg and it falls asleep).  For me almost any optic pressure is too much. There is no cure for glaucoma but the medicine is supposed to keep it from progressing to blindness. 


I also had cataract surgery.  The miracle that allowed me to throw away my glasses.  


My knee was fixed arthroscopicly (torn meniscus); my three herniated discs in my back were, I think, wisely left alone.


So its not that I think modern medicine is not miraculous just that we need to proceed with caution.  


I am in favor of any medical procedure prescribed because there is no other choice. 


But “elective” anything sends me warning signs.

When I was a kid I had bad acne.   I went to the best.  Every single thing the doctor told me, including every treatment prescribed, was just plain wrong according to what we know today.  My brother had colitis and ultimately cancer.  They thought colitis was caused by a nervous condition that could be treated by a psychiatrist.  What he needed was medicine not a “good talking to”.  He was dyslexic in the 1950’s.  Similarly, the teachers gave him detentions not reading help.

My mother got lung cancer at age 89 and her wise doctors told her to leave it alone.  Old age got her before the cancer.

Here is what I hope the most will happen to medicine in my remaining years.  If I could pick just one subject it would be the whole category we reserve for mental health.  We need to separate true physical problems that cause our brains to react abnormally and call them physical illnesses and reserve so called mental health for psychological problems which can be treated with behavior modification.

People who hear voices are not mentally ill.  They are physically ill.  Our uptight puritan society needs to change its prejudice.

So what keeps me up at night about my health.   Alzheimer’s.

I moved to Florida to help out when my Dad first started the symptoms.  At the end he could not talk and was violent.  The road from Dad to the other Guy was painful.  It’s not just about losing your memory it’s about losing your brain.

Am I candidate? Would you want to know if you could?  I would not.

I am at my fighting weight and in decent shape.  So like it or not, you are now going to hear my unsolicited suggestions for developing a more healthy lifestyle.  I am sure these rules are probably worthless for most people but they have worked for me.  I am not good at rules and often mess up but I never let that deter me from getting back to my program.

1. Don’t go to bars unless the bar is in a restaurant where you are having dinner.
2. Get help from someone you trust to teach you the basics about healthy eating.  Someone needs to walk you through the grocery store. I think its complicated and if you have to pay someone to teach you the basics do it.  I don’t think they still do the pyramid thing. I got help.
3. Pay attention to stuff like “Eat this Not that” because realistically you are going to fast food feed yourself.  If there are less horrible choices to eat there, it’s good to know what they are.
4. Ignore people who tell you that as you age you need less sleep.  Get a lot and nap.  Take sleeping pills as a last resort and make sure the doctor knows what she is talking about before being prescribed.  Not everyone responds the same way.  If you used to be a drug addict (I probably was) don’t take sleeping pills.   Do enough exercise so you’re are exhausted.
5. Exercise.  I could do a whole blog on this one.  I go to the club and workout everyday.  That is a little nuts.  But my best advice is set your goals low.  Find something that you will actually do and do it.  If you use weights use light ones with lots of reps.  Get one of those rubber band things that allows you to work out at home and do it while you watch the tube if you must watch the tube.
6. Don’t diet.  None of them work.  EAT LESS.  It’s all about calories.
7. Vanity is good for you.

OK What about Sex for Seniors?

There is certainly a great deal of fear of sexual dysfunction.

My advice learned late in age is:

Having sex with someone you love goes a long way to solve most sexual dysfunction problems.


A little touching along the way also doesn't hurt.

When you were dating you wouldn’t consider not hugging or touching your date all night if you expected to get lucky later. Couples who no longer share any physical intimacy out of bed probably never share any in bed.  We can touch each other at 65 without the necessary expectation of a completed sex act.  It sure takes the pressure off the guy who, after all, has to “get it up”.

I don’t think sex should be a performance.  The older we are the more we need to communicate what our expectations and abilities are. And then guys there are meds to help.  For most what they really do is put back the confidence.  No shame there.

Seniors are clearly still “doing it”.   Check out the University of Chicago study:  http://www.healthnews.com/family-health/sexual-health/seniors-can-enjoy-sex-into-their-80s-2965.html

My mom met my dad when she was 18 and he was her first and last and only sexual partner.  She was open and honest about her love and how she also enjoyed expressing it sexually.  She was not a child of the sixties.  She remained sexually active until my Dad could no longer remember his name.  NICE.

Death and Dying: Revisiting God

THE FIRST POST, is going to start what I hope is an extended dialogue about death and religion: I want to know your thoughts and am guessing that the more candid I am the better chance that will happen.

Most of my friends who never talk about death and dying seem now to want to discuss the topic. Could it be because they have reached retirement age and the Medicare application forces them to admit senior status even if they are not retired. Most of us have either faced or are facing our parents mortality and possibly even a contemporary has died. (I never say “passed”). So here we are back to the basics. What happens when we die? Is there a better place? Do we go to a better place if we believe in religion? Can we believe in God if we don’t believe in religion? Can we believe in religion if we don’t believe in God? Is there a good death and a bad one?


First some facts:


How soon is the death event. Well at age 65 according to the US Department of Health and Human Services men have 12 to 17 years. Women 12 to 20. Does that seem like a long time to you?


We live in a basically unknown environment.


SCIENTIST TELLS US THAT THE BULK OF THE UNIVERSE CONSISTS OF DARK ENERGY (71.5%) AND DARK MATTER (24%) NEITHER OF WHICH HAS BEEN IDENTIFIED. ALL THE STARS AND PLANETS ARE ONLY O.5%.


So if you are skeptical about what’s out there, you certainly have reason to be. Some scientist believe dark energy will continue to cause cosmic expansion and there will be a burn out. All I know is that its not comfortable for my small brain to consider that if I could hop a 747 to the edge of just our solar system, the Oort Cloud (and there are other suns and other solar systems) it would take 3.6 million years. That’s a lot of bad in flight movies.


Can our soul survive outside our body? Is there some kind of a collective consciousness?

It certainly would be nice to know that I could still be around and outside my dead body without having to reside in dark matter. Maybe you could still see a play or a movie. No kidding people have tried to weigh the body before and immediately after death to see if the soul could be calibrated. No one knows the answer for sure.


So is there a God or Not. Isn’t it all in how we define the argument.

Ok so I am going to die. Am I afraid I am going to HELL? Do I hope to go to HEAVEN? Will I be chanting OM near the end? Do I get buried or cremated. If buried should I wear my best suit. And if so why?

My wife was cremated and her ashes scattered in the ocean near a restaurant we both loved. My uncle who was a mortician was buried with a bottle of single malt.

My great uncle had a provision in his will that he be buried in the family plot in Philadelphia. Instead his wife cremated him and put him in an urn which she kept on the bar in the living room.

My wife didn’t want a funeral. She was sure it would be a bad time for everyone that bothered to come and she only liked good times.

To me there is denial in burial. Why keep that body around. Your dead.

I saw my mother exactly five minutes before she died and immediately afterwards. The difference was striking and indescribable. Without that thing that is life, the body is just a piece of flesh. Dispose of it as you will.

But will God be angry. My God will hardly notice.

Isn’t religion really all about fear of death. I’m not yet afraid. Maybe I will get religion the closer that day arrives.

I confess, without even acknowledging the existence of God, I like religion. I don’t like it stuffed down my throat but I like ritual. I like a little of all of the religions. Most people forget there are many.

Christianity has 33% of the market; Islam 21%; Judaism only .22%; Buddhism 6%. To me its like asking what kind of music do you like. Can’t you like it all. They all have similar themes.

They all ask you to shut up for a minute and contemplate something other than yourself. For most of us our favorite word is our own name, not Jesus.

Some of the religions were based on the seasons. The summer and winter solstice. They were afraid of crop failure almost as much as we fear death. Those not farmers that had to move with their livestock also had to leave their dead behind. They needed a portable God. Not an idol. Way too heavy to carry.

And then I guess that brings me to God. I think the books preaching the death of God by Dawkins and Hitchens or those arguing for atheism are ridiculous. They argue against a God that only the most traditional Christians accept. He is an angry guy that looks like Charlton Heston after he discovered the restaurant wouldn't let him in if he didn't leave his gun in the car. They never pick on the god who is the conductor of this fabulous mysterious universe.

One of the things that fascinated me about Jewish prayers that mention God is that they never say the Hebrew word for God but instead use a code word. The idea is that the mere word itself is too holy to be spoken. And maybe too mysterious.

My God is that mysterious. So beyond explanation that we have not yet made a religion to warrant his mystery or complexity.