Message in a Bottle

Happy Valentines Day, Freddie!

You will be loved forever. ❤️💔❤️

Counting on the wind, the moon and stars to bring this message to you.

Love Mom

Kind Heart Broken

He had such a kind heart

A former classmate said

How could they bully him?

His kind heart broken

Over and over again

By those he loved most

Hurtful memories

My kind hearted son.

Days pass

This morning I woke up to the sound of rain, therefore I pulled the covers way up over my ears and went back to sleep. At 8:30, I got up and said, “Good Morning, Freddie.”

Made the bed; put on the same clothes from yesterday and wantered into the kitchen. I made my honey and vinegar water; heated it for a minute and sat down to drink same. Yesterday I had decided to start my blogging habits over with a new Why I Blog post. Also, I wanted to read post from those faithful friends who have remained with me even though I never read anything they wrote, or very little. I was immersed in my own world and forgot to remember that many things were going on in their world as well. How could I have forgotten that the world did not revolve around me?  Their support was invaluable to me through these last 2 dark years and I thank them.

Then I found that I could not login from my iPhone for whatever reason. Blogs in the Reader were strange; friends blogs were not there; I do not know where they may be, perhaps there and not here.

Here is where I am most days but there is where I might be other days. There I find many people wandering around with blank stares seeing what I cannot see. I wonder if that is the same expression on my face. Some days when there, people are weeping; I do not speak to anyone there and decide to return to here.

Knowing that the phone will not ring; no one is coming and I have only the one call to make each day, I settle into the couch to think, sometimes to write, watch the birds and squirrels and wish I knew why for so many reasons.

Why are people trying to change our here? If they do not like it here, why not go back to there, wherever their there might be and stop trying to change our here? They come and wave unknown flags. Is our flag not good enough? If not, go back to wherever the flag is from and wave the flag there, not here. We have our own flag. It reminds me of when I was in Paris and the natives thought I knew their language because of my last name, but I did not know many words in French because I am from here, not there.

The above there is not my there. When I go there, it is an invisible there I have created to escape from my here. Sometimes my here hurts to much.

 

 

Why Am I Here

This blog started a long time ago. I had no idea why I wanted to write a blog. I have no idea why I continue.

I wanted to write about my life in anonymity. I thought, and still think, that no one cares about my life. However, now I also believe that perhaps by reading about my life one may gleam some nugget that may help them in their journey into old age.

Life is to be lived each nanosecond because the next nanosecond is not promised. Therefore, I hope to write about the small things in life and my “byline,” if you will, is  “Bits and Pieces of Life.”

I am a sporadic thinker and writer. I may start off one sentence or thought and then go in three different directions without ever finishing the first, second or even third thought. It can be a challenge to talk with me for this reason. I laugh at myself.

Grief may be one of the main themes but also joy and gratitude.

Please join me on my journey.

Assignment #1

 

Freddie’s Songs

When Freddie was two, he had surgery. The doctors stated he would live perhaps a year. He wore a superpubic tube to drain the urine from his bladder. The bag was strapped to his leg. Every other week, his dad and I traveled from Waveland, MS to Jackson, Ms to see his urologist to have the tube changed.

Freddie was such a happy child. Back then there were no seat belt laws, therefore, he stood between his dad and me and sang his songs. The words he made up; his angelic little voice croning words we did not understand; he stood smiling at us; looking outside the car window at the world. unaware that his life would be so short. He sang.

The words were his alone; the melody was other worldly; the joy on his face, the light in his eyes as he sang, was pure. His soul brightly shared his melodies with us. He sang his songs.

Titles are hard for unconnected thoughts

The wind came bustling though last night dropping the temperature from a very warm 78 degrees to 40 degrees. My attire started out with my favorite Tee shirt on and one blanket for cover. This morning I woke up with a gown on and three blankets, not that I remember any of this, therefore sleepwalking must be a new phase in my life. What has not changed is waking up with “Good morning, Freddie.” And thus my day begins.

The phone does not ring. I stare at the T.V. sometimes and plan to write. I do not write. Lost in a world I no longer understand.

The birds and squirrels are entertaining. They eat a lot and I find myself feeding them every other day. At this rate, I will be broke by spring.

I had two close friends to die. One on January 29 and the other on February 2. Neither was unexpected, yet the hurt came roaring in reminding me this would happen each time I shared a death with a friend or family. It seems death comes around quicker than usual these days.

No, The Town Crier did not announce their deaths. Other famous people died as well. We all know who they were. The Media now serves as the Town Crier.

I have written things on ragged sheets of paper. I do not know where those ragged sheets of paper are; nor do I know where I hid my checkbook. Some things, perhaps are meant to be hidden for a time. They will appear at the appropriate time.

Freddie’s clothes hang in his closet. I stare at them and wondered why I keep them. Yet, I am not ready to part with them, as yet. They remind me that he wore each garment; he was not much a trend setter. Bass Pro Shop shirts and boat shoes with shorts seem to suit him most days.

Space Camp has chosen the next recipient of The Frederick Joseph Bourgeois, III Memorial Scholarship. This young man will be the second recipient. I am told he is brilliant and their top applicant.

The book I am now writing is about me. Freddie’s story is one that can be found on You Tube; Google searches; Space Magazines; there will be earlier days remembered. I seriously doubt that it will ever be published. It is mostly for me.

My little book of conversations, between my dad and I, will be republished in a second edition. Perhaps I will reuse that format to write the beginning of Freddie’s life. I do not know. Perhaps nothing will ever be finished.

When my mother died I realized that all of us will die with things unfinished. There will be bits and pieces that will be thrown away…used toothpaste, soap, toothbrushes, combs, clothes….our favorite cup. This is the natural progression for those left; it becomes the task of moving forward by putting the things from the past into the past.

One day I will be able to do that.

Another Year; A Different Time

The year slipped in. The zeal for writing died with the old year. It was too difficult to read what was written without becoming deeply depressed knowing there was more to write and not knowing how to write what had to be written

Then the questions with no answers. Having always written for myself; not ever soliciting new readers, perhaps even discouraging those who did click “like”; knowing it is so easy to go down the Reader and click “like” on every blog followed without reading one word; it is my position that I would rather have a few quality readers who actually read than those who simply clicked “like” without ever reading one word. This is so unacceptable in my world. This action by some readers was when I lost it and wrote “Do not talk to me about God.” It was so obvious that the previous post had not been read. It was then I came close to making purpleborough private, yet there were those who read and they were my virtual friends. I did not want to lose them. My world had already closed in around me and they felt closer than the friends I spoke with occasionally. There were a few exceptions and those exceptions know who they are.

Yet, I write again to let you who read know, I am not getting better and intellectually know this is called clinical depression. Tomorrow I see a psychiatrist. I do not know him nor have I ever heard of him. I wanted a clean blank slate sitting across from me. Maybe I could speak to this blank slate words that I cannot even write here. This blank slate is not suppose to judge me; this blank slate is only supposed to listen to me until the words are all said and the vessel is empty and devoid of “what ifs” and “regrets”.

Will going to a psychiatrist work? not a clue. I still smile and say “I am fine” because by now folk think I should, ought, needed to have moved past such debilitating grief. I have not. Part of my heart went with Freddie and it will never come back; however, I want to remember the good memories, if only I could find them to remember.

There is too much clutter; too many “bits and pieces” not finished now nor will they ever be finished. I cannot finish them. They are not mine to finish; Freddie only talks to me in my head; is that enough to “finish” those things needed to be finished between the two of us? Will that free me from those things I regret?

Sitting here in the silence; staring out at a beautiful January day, wishing he were here to finish those conversations. What a selfish thought. He finished his life without complaint; with grace and dignity even in the face of a mom who rattled the sabre at all the Hospitalist doctors. I wish I had been a kinder gentler soul so he would not have been caught in the middle.

It is time; another year, a different time to try this psychiatrist, who perhaps will be better than those I have visited in the past.

And please do not talk to me about God. I listen to representatives of God, or ministers/priest, from three different religions on Sunday’s.