Monday, March 26, 2007

Leftover Cedar?

Day 1




















Day 2

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Sasha Becomes Eclectic

She speakes in tongues.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

On a lighter note

Charlie, Sara, Sasha and me decided on a picnic at Sequoia Park. Big trees, sandwiches from Hole in the Wall, sunshine and nature.


We pulled up, popped out the stroller, and followed the path into the trees. From the valley below, where the duckpond is, heavy-metal music wafted up from the trees. Hmm.

We walk over to the picnic tables and mack on the sandwiches. A guy in homemade body armor walks by. Then another. They've got home-made soft-boffer weapons: scimitars, battle axes, clubs, bludgeons. All the sharp parts are padded and duct-taped. Then there's a whole crew of them. "I don't know, who's going to be forward guard?" says one.

So far, not an idyllic picnic.

I ask shirtless kid with a boffer weapon how one team wins. "After everyone else has been knocked down."

I found this at foamcombat.com:

"I are sorry but due to issues with a national foam fighting organization which resulted in my children being banned and not being allowed to attend events in a game/sport they love very much I see no other choice but to bring down FoamCombat.com at this time until these issues can be resolved. It is sad that a group of people that run a game for kids would hold children responsible for the actions of there father, in no way have I tried to do anything other then promote the sport/game of foam fighting and to help it grow, but at this time I see no other option but to take down the site for the best interest of my children I hope everyone can understand this.

Yours Truly, Lord Talon"

Ok, so I guess that says enough. The speed metal is still emanating from the valley below. Sasha in the stroller, we follow the sound. It gets louder. It's a live band.

At the old hearth site by the duck pond, a handful of hesher/stoner kids were headbanging self-consciously to the band. They reminded me of Jay (as in Silent Bob) from Clerks. Skinny, black beanies, baggy shorts, sharing cigarettes. The band was called Cycle of Violence, and they actually looked really friendly. The music, however out of place, was pretty good.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

No really, it's ok.

Sara, Sasha, Charlie and me had to take work off and go say goodbye to my grandma Oma.

The picture is from six weeks ago (on baby tour), and I shot a bunch of video of her telling stories about Holland during WWII. Three days after we left, they found the tumor.

So, they operated. The doctor failed to get all of it, and the recovery never happened. Cutting open an octagnerian can do that. In and out of the hospital. Then back in again. My aunt's been living there since.

She said Oma was really weak and disoriented when they admitted her.

"Do you know your name?"
"Nonky Dronkers."

"Do you know where you are?"
"No."

"Do you know the date?"
"No."

"Do you know who the president is?"
"That idiot, Bush."

***

My mom is taking a class about care for the dying. Physiological needs, mental preperation, various cultural/familial norms, pain management, etc.

Dying people rub their hands a lot. Not against skin, but against the bed sheets or their shirt. Something about the tactile feel of it. It's just something dying people do.

The body refuses water and food. Sometimes the family wants to force-hydrate terminal patients. But the body just doesn't want food or water because it can't handle it.

The hands and feet get cold as the heart starts to triage all the non-vital gear. The brain goes in and out of delusions. There's a lot of mental work that gets done right before you die. Dying people hallucinate; they see people who aren't in the room. Let them see who they want to see, says my mom's textbook.

As the death approaches, breathing starts to really skip around. A lot of tiny, rapid breaths for a minute. Then, maybe nothing for a minute. When this starts, the end is near. Less than two days, for sure.

***

When we got to Kaiser on Tuesday, the doctors had already given her between two and seven days left. Her heart and lungs are really strong, but her kidneys had shut down. She was barely urinating, and her ankles were softball-swollen. Her hands were cold. She'd lost a lot of weight.

Everybody wanted to to be in the room when we brought the baby in.

As soon as she saw Sasha, she lit up. Full sentences, sitting upright, she kept saying how she was "...so stunning. So stunning. Such a beautiful girl."

We perched Sasha on Oma's lap. Four generations between them, looking at each other from opposite ends of life. They smiled at each other. You could almost see the energy flowing between them. They really look like each other, too.

They both got tired quickly, so we sat out in the hallway. One guy down the hall cried out periodically. An IV machine's alarm chirped for a half hour. There were not a lot of families present.

We went in and out of her room for several hours. Her conversations were not longer than a few sentences. I told her that Libby got indicted, and she mumbled out something like "Cheney's toast."

***

The Plan for the next day was to get her home so she could die.

The move itself was pretty dangerous, and there was some debate whether or not she'd survive it. But getting her home was critical. She'd already specified where she wanted her bed to face ("So I can see the Golden Gate.") It was a 200-degree view of the Bay Area.

Before she was moved, we went up to the house to make sure everything looked presentable. We swept the leaves out of the pool and watered the plants. Her bed was made up and pictures were put on nearby tables. "That's her dying bed," I had to point out. I'm a moron.

The medical transport showed up. They got her off the yellow travel gurney into the carrying chair and up the stairs into bed. The oxygen tanks were hooked up, and her stomach-drip was working. Mission accomplished. She slept, we ate lunch.

We had to leave soon, which meant goodbye. What do you say?

***

Her life, while not always easy, was epic.

Born in post-WWI Holland, survived WWII, got arrested on her wedding night by Nazis, her new husband was in the Dutch resistance (as a radio operator), immigrated to America. Philadelphia was humid and Delaware was boring, so they packed up for LA. Got a flat in Berkeley and they were too poor to fix it, so Berkeley it was. They got their English skills going and worked their way up. My grandfather died (Cancer twenty years ago at 69 and she still misses him. That's the story.

But being in her house and seeing photos from the 20's, 50's, and 70's, was different this time. For the first time, I could see her as an amazing individual who hated crooked politicians and loved Mozart, who had a weakness for Euro-crap and a crisp sense of style. As a mom who probably shouldn't have sent her kids to school in Dutch outfits. As a young daughter of a nurse who looked a lot like Sasha.

I've told folks that she's dying, and everbody says "Oh, I'm so sorry." I know they mean it. But I can't really agree. I know it's been hard on her since Opa died, but the big picture was amazingly sunny.

I know that I'm going to die, and I should be so lucky to have it all happen the way it's happening for her. Great life, family all around, no months of languishing, no "maybe she'll pull through...". It's all been simple.

***

I sat with her for a bit, just her and me looking at the Golden Gate. Then some more family trickled back in. My mom and I cried.

She woke up a little. I told her that I had to leave, and that maybe I'd see her later. She said "goodbye". I told her I loved her, thanked her for everything, and told her to enjoy the view.

***

My mom called this morning to say that yesterday afternoon she really started to decline. She'll text me if things change.

Sunday, March 11, 2007

March 11, 2007


March 11, 2007 021
Originally uploaded by mikedronkers.
Guess where we went today.

"I lost 6lbs overnight, ask me how!"

By puking. I left the AFI show not feeling too well. Got home, went to bed. Wound up waking at 12:30, 2:30, and 5:30 for some hefty vomiting. Somewhere during the night I wound up almost passing out in the shower. Sare found me on the shower floor, still awake but not really. Maybe it was food poisoning, maybe a flu bug.

You know how puking can be really bad sometimes? Hacking, coughing, burning throat, sweaty brow, all that? I got off easy in that department, but it's 24 hours later and I still feel not-so-hot.

Lesson learned: Drinking electrolyte-laden sports drink after vomiting really helped.

-MD

Monday, March 5, 2007

Mt. Shasta Trip






Can't say enough good things about getting away from email.

Ski clothes + warm weather = sweating in the lift lines. It was a sweet little getaway before Sara goes back to work on Wednesday.

Sasha was measured, weighed, and otherwise examined by the doctor today. She's rockin' 14 lbs, 24 inches. 100th percentile. Her height is literally off the chart, which means there's money to be made in tall-chart sales.

Sara talked to her G-Units today, who've offered to help out in some way. Not sure yet how, but I think it might come in the form of someone cleaning the house. How weird and sweet would that be? We're dirty.

The Huck Flint album will be mixed and mastered by the end of the week, and it's sounding great. Then it's back to fat beats and alt-country covers.