New Mexico: Not really new and not really Mexico

It's been so long, I don't know if this blog is still ready to rock and roll. If you see this, please check in with me. Either text me or comment or shoot me an email, Thanks, fans.

An email to the Chief of Police (where Jake worked his last day, August 12 of 2016, before he died on Sunday, two days later)

Dear Chief,

Every now and then I'm compelled to look for clues as to why Jake killed himself. Today was one of those days. I've just spent the past 1.5 hours scouring the Internet for information I might stumble upon to help make sense of his last days. Always a waste of time; never find anything. 

The phone calls that harassed our household for 18 months after his death have finally stopped (replaced now by myriad political calls of course). It seems his creditors have all finally given up -- and are not  interested in starting probate procedures. (When I dare to picture in my mind his home in Albany, I have to assume the KIA still sits in the garage and his belongings are scattered or pillaged from the house. Last I heard, the City of Albany was mowing the lawn from time to time.) His mail, thanks to the sweet young lady who delivers our mail, is being marked "Moved; left no forwarding address" and I would assume is being shredded somewhere.

I still have not been able to look at the thumb drive you graciously sent me last year when I asked you for it. For some reason I think it holds your announcement to the MPD family on August 15, 2016.

I'm still in touch with Christopher Brozek, but I'm not sure if that friendship can sustain itself much longer. 

Today I called Jake's cell phone for the first time. (It was never found, I'm told.) It rings for one minute, then goes to "busy." I sent him a text today, too. And I "locked" our texts to one another so they'd never disappear. Oh yes, the grieving love to torture themselves.

I posted a 37-stanza poem on my blog earlier this year (a verse for each year he managed to stay alive). The version I'm going to attach has only 36 stanzas; I removed one that refers to a love relationship he had for 6 years with a woman you undoubtedly know. I'd rather that not get back around to her. I've had a few brief conversations/texts with her this past year and she is very, very kind to me. 

I don't know why I'm writing you. You called and left a message last week. You were one of only 3 people I know of who remembered the date. My husband and I cried listening to you, of course. I feel you've done your job now, Chief. Two anniversaries you've reached out; no need to keep it on your calendar henceforth. But thanks . . . from the bottom of my heart.

The blog post is attached.

Jake Skibba 1979-2016

Only the Memories

Oh, how tiny you were.

You couldn't latch on,

refused to perform

for gentle neo-natal nurses.

   Warm soy milk.

How mottled you were.

When at last I brought you home

your grandmother wondered

how I could care for one so small.

   Transparent skin.

How I'd walk with you, wide-eyed

in your yellow umbrella stroller.

I showed you the new bridge and

the Sugar Bowl cafe coming down.

   Dust and noise.

How you were mistaken for a girl.

It was my fault, of course.

I couldn't bear to cut your hair

after the spot they shaved grew back.

   Blonde silk.

How we visited the library

and borrowed puzzles,

but all you wanted to do

was put the pieces in a frying pan.

   Wooden spoon.

How you had to be coaxed into

eating breakfast before school.

I'd make a “happy plate,”

arranging your food like a picture.

   Edible art.

How you loved those stories

about a badger named Frances

(with her smug disposition)

and a mischievous child named Hattie.

   Giggle time.

“Hattie be quiet. Hattie be good”

you'd pretend to read aloud,

enunciating the double T's,

and exhaling with your H's.

   No baby talk.

How you beamed in first grade,

darting from your room that day,

exclaiming “I can read! I can read!

Mom, I can read!”

   Think light bulb.

How you loved my sticky notes.

You put one on the ironing board

that said “I need a hog.” When discovered,

I indulged you with a loving hug instead.

   Mistakes don't matter.

How you loved collecting things.

Erasers of every shape and color

appeared at our feet, arranged like careful mosaics,

blocking doorways, gracing halls.

   Fine art, I said.

How you never fussed about wearing

glasses at the ripe old age of eight.

“They emphasize your intellect,” I said,

and you never took them off.

   Smug little nerd.

How you ran to me with a tiny cut

I'd cover with a band-aid, careful not

to touch the sticky part until affixed to you.

“Only moms do it that way,” you said.

   When Band-aids did the job.

How you found yourself in Catholic school –

new town, new school, new 8-year olds.

You sat quietly for morning mass

when all the others knelt or stood.

   The non-Catholic.

How, on the last day of fifth grade,

you taped a note to my bedroom door.

“I really want to move back home,”

you begged, “I want to live with Dad.”

   Wicked step-dad.

How you cooperated with my need

to see you every weekend then,

traveling half the way with Dad

and half the way with me.

   Parking lot exchange.

How you saved your money all year long

to light the sky and blow things up

on the fourth day of July –

an annual show for friends, for family.

   Your own tradition.

How you delivered the news on roller blades,

so swift, so sure – self-satisfied.

Newsprint photo on page one. It's you,

with a story to make a mom proud.

   Below the fold.

How we loved to try to catch the other

with some crazy made-up story.

Like the night I told you stop signs

weren't meant to be obeyed after midnight.

   Gotcha.

How you memorized your favorite lines

from movies that you loved,

and delivered them with perfect timing.

Someone else's words to fill the void between us.

   Borrowed lines.

How you moved across the stage,

the class of '97.

I watched you, in slow motion,

as you took that turning point with honors.

   4.0 gold tassel.

How you insisted on a private room

in the freshman dorm that fall,

your need for solitude no mystery.

And when we left, you quickly closed the door.

   Keep out.

How, that first semester, you met the devil

whose name was Calculus.

His vulgar voice inside your head played on and on,

“You're not so smart, this pond is large, young man.”

     Not like high school.

How you let that devil ruin you.

How quickly you gave up.

“How's it feel in that big pond, little fish?”

The only voice you heard, the only one that mattered.

   Big fish abound.

How then you turned to music, with

classical guitar, your major.

And next you thought “a pastry chef, the culinary arts.”

Or architectural landscape since you liked to mow the lawn.

   Out of focus.

How you took a job, short-order cook.

Who could know the sway of kitchen staff,

the drugs, the alcohol,

would take you on that dangerous ride?

   Over-easy ecstasy.

How you floundered that next decade.

In school, out of school, this job, that –

Nothing ever satisfied

that drive you had to be the best.

At something.

(deleted lines)

How you pulled yourself together then –

Good job, a mortgage, your best-friend dog.

You fenced your yard and

in the spring your neighbors loved your rhubarb.

   A house, not home.

How the house you bought was old,

rundown, and needed everything.

You thought you'd fix it up,

but all you did was tear up every room.

   Not a fix-it-yourself kinda' guy.

How we took a spade along

to walk your dog on public trails

and stole the tiny maple trees

still standing, alone now, in your yard.

   Marking time.

How you loved all manner of music

and copied library CDs.

The perfect illegal hobby for a single guy

with student loans, car payments, and a long commute.

   Always broke.

How the more you regretted buying

your humble property,

the higher grew the weeds

and your tools, left out, now rusted.

   Who cares?

How the lack of garbage pick-up

meant you hauled your own detritus, paid a fee.

So your car gave up the garage

to bags and bags of that which wouldn't burn.

   Trailer trash.

How you had less, and less, and less to say --

to me . . . or anyone.

The times we spent together, all the empty space

you'd try to fill by showing me your best-loved tv shows.

   Stilted repartee.

How you kept your problems from me.

Addictions, loneliness, regrets.

I thought it meant you felt more settled,

and perhaps with age, you'd mellowed.

   Little did I know.

How you took the future into your own hands,

choosing to leave us all bewildered.

With an email note apologizing

for any inconvenience you may have caused.

   Braided, yellow rope.

He takes his life . . . and most of mine.

Jake Skibba 1979-2016

Only the Memories

Oh, how tiny you were.

You couldn't latch on,

refused to perform

for gentle neo-natal nurses.

   Warm soy milk.

How mottled you were.

When at last I brought you home

your grandmother wondered

how I could care for one so small.

   Transparent skin.

How I'd walk with you, wide-eyed

in your yellow umbrella stroller.

I showed you the new bridge and

the Sugar Bowl cafe coming down.

   Dust and noise.

How you were mistaken for a girl.

It was my fault, of course.

I couldn't bear to cut your hair

after the spot they shaved grew back.

   Blonde silk.

How we visited the library

and borrowed puzzles,

but all you wanted to do

was put the pieces in a frying pan.

   Wooden spoon.

How you had to be coaxed into

eating breakfast before school.

I'd make a “happy plate,”

arranging your food like a picture.

   Edible art.

How you loved those stories

about a badger named Frances

(with her smug disposition)

and a mischievous child named Hattie.

   Giggle time.

“Hattie be quiet. Hattie be good”

you'd pretend to read aloud,

enunciating the double T's,

and exhaling with your H's.

   No baby talk.

How you beamed in first grade,

darting from your room that day,

exclaiming “I can read! I can read!

Mom, I can read!”

   Think light bulb.

How you loved my sticky notes.

You put one on the ironing board

that said “I need a hog.” When discovered,

I indulged you with a loving hug instead.

   Mistakes don't matter.

How you loved collecting things.

Erasers of every shape and color

appeared at our feet, arranged like careful mosaics,

blocking doorways, gracing halls.

   Fine art, I said.

How you never fussed about wearing

glasses at the ripe old age of eight.

“They emphasize your intellect,” I said,

and you never took them off.

   Smug little nerd.

How you ran to me with a tiny cut

I'd cover with a band-aid, careful not

to touch the sticky part until affixed to you.

“Only moms do it that way,” you said.

   When Band-aids did the job.

How you found yourself in Catholic school –

new town, new school, new 8-year olds.

You sat quietly for morning mass

when all the others knelt or stood.

   The non-Catholic.

How, on the last day of fifth grade,

you taped a note to my bedroom door.

“I really want to move back home,”

you begged, “I want to live with Dad.”

   Wicked step-dad.

How you cooperated with my need

to see you every weekend then,

traveling half the way with Dad

and half the way with me.

   Parking lot exchange.

How you saved your money all year long

to light the sky and blow things up

on the fourth day of July –

an annual show for friends, for family.

   Your own tradition.

How you delivered the news on roller blades,

so swift, so sure – self-satisfied.

Newsprint photo on page one. It's you,

with a story to make a mom proud.

   Below the fold.

How we loved to try to catch the other

with some crazy made-up story.

Like the night I told you stop signs

weren't meant to be obeyed after midnight.

   Gotcha.

How you memorized your favorite lines

from movies that you loved,

and delivered them with perfect timing.

Someone else's words to fill the void between us.

   Borrowed lines.

How you moved across the stage,

the class of '97.

I watched you, in slow motion,

as you took that turning point with honors.

   4.0 gold tassel.

How you insisted on a private room

in the freshman dorm that fall,

your need for solitude no mystery.

And when we left, you quickly closed the door.

   Keep out.

How, that first semester, you met the devil

whose name was Calculus.

His vulgar voice inside your head played on and on,

“You're not so smart, this pond is large, young man.”

     Not like high school.

How you let that devil ruin you.

How quickly you gave up.

“How's it feel in that big pond, little fish?”

The only voice you heard, the only one that mattered.

   Big fish abound.

How then you turned to music, with

classical guitar, your major.

And next you thought “a pastry chef, the culinary arts.”

Or architectural landscape since you liked to mow the lawn.

   Out of focus.

How you took a job, short-order cook.

Who could know the sway of kitchen staff,

the drugs, the alcohol,

would take you on that dangerous ride?

   Over-easy ecstasy.

How you floundered that next decade.

In school, out of school, this job, that –

Nothing ever satisfied

that drive you had to be the best.

At something.

How you lived with a woman who cheated

on you – six long tumultuous years.

Then three more years would come and go

before I learned that secret and the pain it put you through.

   Afraid to try again.

How you pulled yourself together then –

Good job, a mortgage, your best-friend dog.

You fenced your yard and

in the spring your neighbors loved your rhubarb.

   A house not home.

How the house you bought was old,

rundown, and needed everything.

You thought you'd fix it up,

but all you did was tear up every room.

   Not a fix-it-yourself kinda' guy.

How we took a spade along

to walk your dog on public trails

and stole the tiny maple trees

still standing, alone now, in your yard.

   Marking time.

How you loved all manner of music

and copied library CDs.

The perfect illegal hobby for a single guy

with student loans, car payments, and a long commute.

   Always broke.

How the more you regretted buying

your humble property,

the higher grew the weeds

and your tools, left out, now rusted.

   Who cares?

How the lack of garbage pick-up

meant you hauled your own detritus, paid a fee.

So your car gave up the garage

to bags and bags of that which wouldn't burn.

   Trailer trash.

How you had less, and less, and less to say --

to me . . . or anyone.

The times we spent together, all the empty space

you'd try to fill by showing me your best-loved tv shows.

   Stilted repartee.

How you kept your problems from me.

Addictions, loneliness, regrets.

I thought it meant you felt more settled,

and perhaps with age, you'd mellowed.

   Little did I know.

How you took the future into your own hands,

choosing to leave us all bewildered.

With an email note apologizing

for any inconvenience you may have caused.

   Braided, yellow rope.

5 Years ago . . .

A burden that hovered over me the past four years ended a few months back. My new freedom was a joyful event, but it has taken me many weeks to find myself (again).


Today I find myself in a small city in Virginia, where Greg and I are staying at a lovely Hampton Inn. This was to be a work trip for Greg, but when I expressed a desire to tag along, we added stops in Philly to visit his daughter and a two-day romp around D.C. before arriving at Greg's work destination yesterday.


Being on my own, away from home, brings back memories of the way life felt to me six years ago, before cancer took over the second time.


I stumbled across my blog this morning, quite by accident, after abandoning it in 2012. I'm considering taking it up again. It's been visited an average of 23 times a week during my absense. My software claims those 23 visits are after the spam was scooped into a folder of its own.That amazes me. I wonder what search words brought people here.


And what would bring people back if I started publishing again?

Aquarium stones rock my world

(The following won’t make any sense to you unless you know this about me:  I’ve had breast cancer – twice. Total of four surgeries to remove tumors and breasts, with extremely little tissue left in that area.)

“You know what I wish I had? One of those lead vests – the kind they put on you at the dental office when you’re having x-rays.”

That was me, a few months ago, while shopping with my friend Lori at our favorite thrift store, the Goodwill Outlet we lovingly call "Bin World."

“What in the world . . . ?!” she says, though not entirely surprised. After all, both of us like crazy-talk and are, on occasion, really quite silly.

I ignore her and go right on shopping as if wanting your very own lead vest were high on everyone’s list.

“Seriously?,” she says, “What would you do with a lead vest?”

I lower my voice* and begin explaining how, in the evening when I’m tired and want to relax in my recliner, the scars across my chest are like an over-tired child. “The nerves kick and scream and make a fuss; it’s like I just woke up from surgery and the pain meds haven’t kicked in.”  I tell her it feels like an electrical storm in my nervous system. “I fold my arms across my chest to keep my nerves from jumping out of my skin.”

Without pause, she says “Well! have I got a remedy for that!”  Her tone suggests I might have known she could fix something as simple as an electrical storm in my nervous system. She offers no more, and I don’t ask. That’s just the way we play the game, Lori and I.

A few days later she is at my door with a goofy grin and a tissue-topped gift bag.

“Don’t let the tissue paper fool you,” she says as she offers me the gift – one hand holding the handles, the other supporting the bottom of the bag.

I take the bag by the handles. It is surprisingly dense. (By this time, of course, I have completely forgotten our conversation about the lead vest.)

“It’s a Chest Crusher,” she says excitedly. “It’s Model 1.0, awaiting evaluation!” Of course I knew, then, it was her invention and handiwork, knowing how innovative and creative she has always been with a sewing machine.

Indeed. Chest Crusher 1.0, that evening, turned out to be quite the comfort. (Shown below with its eight pockets of aquarium stones, separated for even distribution, and its sporty slipcover.) It is the best, most repeatable, long-lasting hug money couldn’t buy.

Not only does Chest Crusher 1.0 bring relief in my recliner, it goes to bed with me as well, offering all-night comfort for messed up nerves.

'Next day I naturally express sincere gratitude, and just as naturally, she asks if there are any improvements that might be made to Chest Crusher Model 2.0.

I tell her 1.0 is the essential bed partner because its ample length means I can drape it over my back and around the front of me when side-sleeping. “If I had a slightly shorter version for use in the recliner,” I tell her, “it would just reach across the scars and not create bulk under my armpits.”

And, of course, she is happy to indulge me with Model 2.0 – the ultimate Chest Crusher for daytime and evening relaxation.

I love my Chest Crushers! One lives in the bedroom upstairs. The other stays on the first floor. What a privilege it is to have thoughtful friends who enjoy being creative with a sewing machine (and also knitting needles). You know who you are, all four of you.

Should this story reach others who might be comforted in this manner, please email Mary.the.booklady@gmail.com. I’m sure Lori would be tickled to provide DIY instructions for either model.

*I’m pretty sure I didn’t have the good sense to actually lower my voice, but can only wish I had that kind of tact and presence of mind in public places.

Half a year later, an update!

Front yard from our bedroom window. You can almost see things grow this time of year.

Now and then I check the Feedjit gadget showing how many people are still looking at this blog. It amazes me, since my last entry was half a year ago.

The least I can do is give you an update on the cancer thing.

March, April and May will remain in memory as a time that went from darkness to light.

What appeared on a CT scan in March to be a torso dotted with cancer turned out to be cracked and broken ribs -- both front and back -- all on the left side where they zapped me with radiation in 2007 and again in 2011.

During the ensuing week of clinic visits and various added scans, someone (finally) suggested I see the Wound Care Clinic about the open sore (by then 18 months old) in my scar line. This, too, remained as part of the aftermath of second-degree burns from 2011's radiation.

Seven weeks of special potions and dressing improved the open sore -- and by the time I was allowed audience with a plastic surgeon, I knew I wasn't about to let anyone cut me. Good enough is good enough. The plastics guy agreed I wasn't a candidate for a skin graft.

Before I learned about my fragile ribs, I'd been going to the Y five or six times a week. Not only was I trying to regain upper-body strength, I was trying to lose the 15 pounds still hanging around after my last treatment and hoping to improve my energy and level of happiness.

When Oncology diagnosed the fragile ribs, Dr. G. expected I'd be thrilled. Not cancer, after all. Instead, I pouted. I'd been ready to hear I was riddled with cancer, but not ready to hear I'd have to stop my upper-body workouts and attempts to lose the weight.  Dr. G. lightheartedly told me not to hug anyone, use any of the muscles attached to my left rib cage, and "certainly, don't fall or have any kind of accident."  This wasn't the first time I'd wanted to slap his smiling face.

Eventually I stopped pouting. At the Y, I concentrated only on aerobics on the elliptical trainer. I began counting calories (MyFitnessPal.com really helped). I solved the energy/depression problem as best I could with more drugs. I abandoned my hope of being able to go bra-less and instead began wearing tight binding over my scars 24/7 as a means to achieve comfort around my torso from too many surgeries and not enough skin.

The darkness started to fade about a month ago when I came to a place of finally accepting what is (again).

Coincidentally (?), perennial gardening started around the same time.

I've lost about half the weight I so abhorred.

For the past few days, I haven't had to take what Greg calls my "speed" in order to get through the day.

All's well that ends well. I wish I knew for certain that this is the end of cancer treatment for me. In the meantime, most days it doesn't occur to me that there might be a third time and I find moments of bliss returning.

There's always hope.

Thanks for checking in!

"Is your cancer in remission?"

I don't really know what remission means and I'm not about to research it. All I know is that I show up for my surgeon's and oncologist's suggested follow-up visits. (I rather flatly refuse to follow up with Radiation- Oncology. I want them to know how pissed I am. And yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds.)

The surgeon regularly gives me a no-breast exam. The oncologist looks at my blood for whatever possible signs of recurrence might show up there. He also sends me to periodic PET scans to look for more advanced signs of cancer that might not show up in the blood. Overall, it's anyone's guess whether cancer cells are still skulking about. We'll know when a tumor appears, just like the other times.

Meanwhile, I've come to use each day for doing things I love and taking the best care of my body and mind that I can. (After all, they are my oldest and dearest companions, as we say in Mindfulness Practice.)  Unfortunately taking care includes juggling a host of meds. And I dole out social energy with great care -- balancing relationships with appointments, exercise, and household duties (as few as I can get by with without threat of divorce). I hoard a large share of my time for taking it easy. Fatigue and residual nerve pain from last year's wicked treatments are ever-present reminders that 1) the medical people are sometimes clueless and 2) I need to revel in the good times as they present themselves. I join the ranks of those who have dealt with difficult stuff on a daily basis far longer than I. I have a new understanding of how strong you are.

I sometimes feel as though I lead a double life. There's the pouty-angry me and the revels-in-small-pleasures me. Fortunately, the reveler is still in the lead.

Merry Christmas to all -- and especially those who continue to keep us on their Christmas-card mailing list year after year even though we don't reciprocate. Your greetings and life updates are very much appreciated here.

(Here's the last portrait completed, grandson Simon. My friend Susan is up next.)

Three More Pencil Portraits . . . getting the hang of this.