The ACA - It is worth being patient

The Affordable Care Act is an excellent concept which pools most Americans into the health care system.  Yet, only if it follows basic insurance theory will it be successful (theories and rules which republicans do not mention).  The primary theory is that it is best to pool risk amongst the largest group available.  Secondarily, you must make sure that pool is not encouraged through "adverse risk", the idea that those who may persevere are those most likely to be "at risk".  This secondary theory now threatens Obama's implementation of the ACA.

Bureaucrats, in the rush to meet the ACA deadlines, along with delayed pursuit by States, Insurance Companies, funding from Congress, debating in Congress and amongst bureaucrats, and delaying tactics employed elsewhere likely has impacted backend testing of the highly complex system proposed in the "Website" and "Back End" systems necessary to include Health Insurance Companies with various premium rates X the number of states X gender X Age X Income X premium support X various other values in a complicated matrix. 

I would urge everyone to take a breath.  Few people, initially, could ever correctly answer a complex mathematical question the first time around.  Certainly, rushing to market was not a wise choice, however it was necessitated by those who would prefer the ACA never see the light of day.  Yet, it is important that those who believe Affordable Access to Health Care is important to encourage others that without the ACA, health premium increases would be growing substantially faster than it currently is.

Without ACA, we would have not have a solution for 45 million uninsured Americans except emergency room visits at 300% of the regular costs. 

In the next few years, without the ACA, internationally, American companies would be at an increasingly distinct disadvantage in economic competitiveness due to rapidly rising health care costs from those 45 million uninsured.  Hospitals simply spread that cost to the paying public.  America is the only country in the developed world where companies bear significant health care costs for their employees.  In every other country, it is borne across the breadth of its citizenry. 
The ACA provides a framework of inclusion, a method of managing rising health care costs, it assists to mitigate disease through normative care programs, it saves jobs, helps our companies remain competitive in the global economy, while helping those who did not have access to health care. 

All in all, a very good law.  The technology just has to catch up to the concepts.

It's been two months, Carleton. I'm adjusting but it is not fun.

Carleton,

I went to the LGBT Center Gala last night.  The one you and I had hoped to attend together.  It was a festive night.  Everyone asked how I was doing.  I told them I was okay.  Yet, every now and again, I noticed someone watching me to make sure I was.  There are pictures from it.  You would have said I was handsome.  I wish you had been there.  I helped sponsor a table and promised Delores that I was still raising money in your name to assist other young men with support services.  The Carleton Cannon Memorial Fund has raised over $1,500 for services to men like you. 

It has been two months since the day when you and I made the decision that you would surrender and depart this world.  I did get angry I didn't get more time that day just to hug you, but you took me at my word and worked so hard to encourage others that day.  While angry I did not get more time, I was proud of how you faced your end.  I can only hope that I will be so brave.

Your brother reached out to me last week, your mother a couple weeks before that.  I have checked in with Sean and with your Aunt.  My office watches me.  Rene stops by nearly every day.  The first two weeks were debilitating.  The weeks following were frustratingly hindered with shadows of regret, loneliness, frustration, and the pain.

 The GSDBA board is just relieved my brain started functioning two weeks back after the grief hiatus.  At least I can function in leadership capacities again for my volunteer work and for my clients as well.

You know I am not incapacitated, but every day there is always something that reminds me that you are not here, that you died, that I must face that reality.  I returned a few weeks ago from Palm Springs.  It was shocking to realize that I expected to see you as I opened the door to the apartment, as I have done so many other times.  I simply was stunned as it seemed voices in my head were in shock and just then realized you were gone, for good.  Even a trip to the grocery store impacted the loss.  Small and big thing cause me to pause, think of you, grieve, tear up, stop a moment, before I push forward.  Whether it is forgetting the mail you always picked up, the notes left different place, your hand writing, or the last two voice mails on my phone I cannot erase yet.

While it has been two months, at times it seems so much longer.  Perhaps that is how it feels to be tortured.  It is daily, yet the moments stand still as we become stuck in those individual seconds in that moment.  And, with each of those seconds, it takes energy and strength to move past them to return to the present.

At times, it feels like it was just yesterday that we sat around and laughed, walked, and worried.  I just changed the sheets on the bed.  I have only your things in the wallet to go through.  It lies on the table in the bedroom.  Truly, I am unable to go through it.  I wonder how long it will be before I address it.  I have photos for your Dad and Mom to deliver.  I still need to shut off your phone number.  I can't bring myself to use your phone for some reason even though it performs way better than mine.  I can't even bring myself to watch Elementary or NCIS Los Angeles, because we always promised to watch it together.  Silly, I know.  But, we did keep our promises.

The last two months have been easier and harder than I ever imagined.  Thank you for communicating to others that you worried I would not do well without you.  It made me laugh, but made them respond.  Both reactions I welcomed and it has been helpful.

I wish you were still here.  But, with the amount of pain you had, the struggles we had in the last 6 months, I would continue to make the same decision we made together August 20th.  And, I am glad your mom, Linda, made it with us.

Peace, my love, enjoy the new time you can spend with your grandpa.  I know he was the first face you saw after God.  Though, I fear my Dad may have been the second.

I miss you and so do your friends and family.  We will not fill the space you created in our hearts.  So we do what we can to live with that space, stirring those memories so that the space in that emptiness does not become stale.

Peace,
Eric

The Muse of Music and My Visit to the Dark Area of My Mind

Today, as most days, songs occupy the inner region of my mind.  A chorus will spring up, a trio, a soloist, a rythmn.  Numerous times it can be one song repeated over again until it is sung.  Other times, it is a thematic display represented by many forms of our diverse musical repetoire.

Tonight, at the crux of reliving some recent memories, Peter Paul and Mary started to sing.  Yet, instead of the usual movement of poignant love, somehow the tune threw me into a swirling mix of emotion as Mary and I changed perspective, Carleton came face to face with me, and sang one verse, then I another.  Quickly, reality met loved loss, with my barriers of responsibility crumbling and those pang of hurt and disorder being held back joined with the fragments of regret and anger.

The discordant music clashed, causing poised cords to clash in calamity, jarring my control and eliciting anguish as memories accused me and begged me to connect.

Usually, I find the depths of my memory and the vast music repetoire ensconced in my soul assists me to cope with the vagaries of others and the circumstances life can throw my way.   Usually music is capable of moving me past hurts, quickly through terrors, and rescues me from that area, that prison where pain, loneliness, worry and depression are confined in my being.  Those dark thoughts are restrained and left starved in that small space.  Those feelings, the dark history is banished there along with past harmful thoughts. 

Yet, when I am at my weariest, or when I venture too close to that restricted prison where regret reigns, or an event throws me near to the lair of mistakes and the morose, the Muse of Music acknowledges their presence.  While they speak, Music stirs the survivors of those imprisoned terrorists of my inner strength and peace into a chorus of morose communication, a choir of terrible consequence, which can rob me of my pride and my strength, bending my knees into a sobbing grief.  The Muse can communicate a wealth of emotion through any songs which once brought joy to clearly communicate the true costs of those dalliances with darkness. 

These dark forces, while contained, still are empowered to remind me of realities most in humanity would prefer to ignore are no on their own, evil.  Their whispers do not lie, they simply confirm the worst imaginable, test our sanity, prepare us for possibilities, and balance our fantasies.  They can freeze us in our failures, force us to live out our rejection, even examine our resulting pain.  Music reluctantly submits to their cries, providing a complex harmony sometimes in minor keys to focus their intent to subject me to their intensity and invasion.

Fortunately, while the examination of past crimes is in full swing, the Muse changes the key, moves minor to major, and with a complexity of chorus, can rescue my very Soul, at its darkest, most overwhelmed, and rush me back to the joy of life for me to recover from the taste of Death itself.  The cost may be the loss temporarily of strength, yet Hope quickly responds bringing powerful cords of communion to reenergize the husk.  And, while the horror of grief recedes once more, the last of drying tears are wiped from my cheek, the cathartic release of that visit resonates with the memories of Loves.  I can rest as I have not rested in nights after a nightmarish hour or two of reliving lost contacts, having greeted their specters without appropriate supervision.  Music, having been subject to reality, rescued me once more, after an awful wrong turn had cast me at the doorstep of Darkness.

Tonight, as the song list of my mind played, some of those songs and the words therein touched the dark areas of my mind.  Be careful what you carve into your memory.  You might identify with me if you have an area of your memory where the morose and the painful are imprisoned.  Music takes you where you must go.  Fortunately, for me, it continues to rescue me from the places where I find myself lost, bringing me back to safety.

Happy National Coming Out Day

Happy National Coming Out Day!

For those who have always wondered, yes, I am gay.  If you need to seek therapy, call a therapist.  If you just feel the beginnings of a heart attack, please dial 911.   If you weren't shocked, well, welcome to my world.

In the spirit of Coming Out, I thought I would share other tidbits that might provide more inclusion, more insight, and more entertaining fodder for future discussions and judgments.

1. I played violin since I was in fourth grade.  I haven’t touched it for three years.  Carleton asked weekly for me to play.  I did once.  I regret that I didn’t do it since.  I opened it today.
2. I enjoy ballroom dancing.  I can waltz, two step, fox trot, cha-cha.  I can lead and follow.  Yet, I have only been on the floor once since moving to San Diego.
3. I believe Cheetos is its own food group.
4. I am a Vodka snob.
5. I only drink Coke when offered soda.
6. I yearn for an electric car with the power of BMW and the comfort of Cadillac.
7. I love lesbians.
8. I coined the phrase “flannel wearing ninja lesbians”.  It makes lesbians laugh and straight people worry that they exist.  It is a concept like Santa.  I haven’t met one, but I love the ideal.
9. I once led republican organizations.
10. I consider a great fantasy or sci-fi novel a vacation.
11. I was a competitive swimmer growing up in La Grande.
12. I have had 71 friends die of AIDS related diseases.  I miss at least one of them daily.
13. I have a committee of voices in my head.  Most of what they say is entertaining, wise, or insightful.  Usually the comments are one liners.  Yet, fortunately, it is rare that they take control of my vocal cords.  One, I am certain, is a drag queen  (It just may be Lady Elaine Peacock).  My family is well represented on the committee (Dad, Cindy, Mom, Marc, Grandpa).  Fortunately, they normally sing in harmony, allowing me to assign tasks, enjoy the chorus.  During major grief, the committee adjourns.  They have recently came back into session.   No, I'm not crazy.  I think its ADHD and my ability to manage the competing
14. The time I spent as a pastor for 3 1/2 years to an LGBT congregation was a time of great learning and growth.
15. I am a professional worrier.  Yet, in my private life I merely enjoy the individual moments I have when I am with friends.
16. I believe that all my business rules were developed by watching Disney animated movies.
17. Of course, I love musicals.  Didn't you know I'm gay?
18. My first gay date was in Missoula, MT.
19. I fought my first bully when I was in third grade.  A friend, James Hawthorne, came to my defense.
20. I fought my second bully in 7th grade.  My third in 8th grade. 
21. The most humorous comment that I ever heard was that due to rumors that I partied while I was an exchange student in Brazil as a junior in High School, students who had harrassed me for years in La Grande, Oregon, determined I wasn't gay.  Apparently, gays don't know how to party, right?
22. The first board of directors I joined was the Gay Pride Board in Portland, 1991.
23. I considered I was gay at 8 years of age.  That was either shortly before or shortly after some classmates either informed or confirmed it by harrassing me.
24. I love blankets.
25. I really want the next President of the US to be a woman.

A Note Written by Eric August 13th to a few of his closest of friends a week before Carleton died.

A Personal Note to Readers:  I share this note to help those who do not have an appreciation nor have been involved in the care giving process.  I share it with those who need to know more about Carleton’s last days.   I share it to provide a clear picture of the horror one might face when not given enough support and when watches their most loved partner in the last days of their own demise.  It is a message that I could not share publicly for fear Carleton would read it and give up what hope he had left.  So, be warned, it is an intimate letter, from the deepest part of a person’s life, during a terrible tragedy being shared so that others might learn how to respond when these tragedies face someone they love.  

The words at times are harsh, but in life, the perception of others is harsh.  At times, care from family is not to be had, even after repeated requests.  Does the letter contain judgment of family, quite possibly.  Do I stand by them, most certainly.  Do I accuse, no.  I simply place the reality of the situation at your feet, from the individual, the care giver, who could not find support.  The government had refused to assist. There was no financial ability to access care.  No family support at the time except phone calls.  It came to this letter to some dear friends, the only plea ever made by me to those few around who I would beg, hoping they would save me, and Carleton, too.  Pride and Privacy had kept me going this far, but I could no longer access those assets to sustain me.

It begins:

Some of you have been wondering how Carleton and I have been doing.  There are good days and bad days.  There are moments of hope and fear.  And, fortunately for me, I simply walk in hope and faith regularly.  But, I am human.

Yesterday, Carleton was sitting next the kitchen while I was working on client information, running laundry, and addressing e-mails for GSDBA.  At around 3pm, as he was walking, his legs simply stopped working to support him.  I had to run and help carry him back to his chair. 

It was then, out of his mouth, with his face wrinkling in abject despair, that I heard the sobbing that I feel only comes from recognition of what feels inevitable, especially to one who is not a fighter, yet has fought for two years valiantly.  I heard a high pitched, coming from deep within, despair cleaving the heart sob.  It was like he was attempting to hold it in so desperately, but that the pain he suffers, the reality of his increasing immobility, and the fact that he is 29 and wearing a diaper to address his body’s destruction caused him pause.  It is horrible to hear in the movies the cry of that person who screams that they don’t want to die.  It is an entirely higher and excruciatingly terrible level to hear it from someone sobbing, so frustrated, so fearful, and so unimaginably tortured with the very real prospect that his treatment strategy is losing and he faces a very real death. 

There I was, a person who, though positive in nature, unable to lie about reality.  I wanted to call up my mother and yell at her that her insistence on her children always telling the truth was horrible.  Ultimately, all I could do yesterday for a time was let him cry, as I held him, before another load of laundry needed to be started, a phone call and e-mail from GSDBA Board members had to be answered, and oh yes, I still occasionally work on client related material that continues to stack up, or clean a section of one of the bathrooms for the second time that day.

Last night, I had to help Carleton in and out of the shower because his legs are so frozen in a particular bent position that they are not bending enough to lift him, alone to take a shower, or to leave the shower.  I had to physically lift and move his feet, one of them having been covered in urine, so that he could rewash and clean himself after having awakened from a dream, been startled, and I had rushed into the room, and scared him so badly that his body voided.  Imagine that he constantly has to strain to get these things out of him, yet the direction is unable to be determined due to the swelling, strain, and possible direction, much less the constipation.  In the last 6 days, I have cleaned two bathrooms twice a day, simply based on fear that someone might visit and think I live in filth because I am lazy.

I completed 5 loads of laundry yesterday.  Today I did four.  Why?  Because Carleton soils his clothes four times a day due to the cancer impacting his lymphatic system, the morphine causing constipation, and some cancer tumors in his gluteus area which means he must strain for 30 minutes (at a time) with extraordinary effort merely to void a few drops.  I consider it straining in his attempts to give birth to a child, but few of the muscles in that area respond well.  Yet when he is walking up stairs, using the same muscles or he is startled, the very adrenalin his body expresses at those times, betray him to cause those accidents.  His body is rebelling and is unable to execute what his brain has for decades easily accomplished.

There has been few outside visits from others in the last weeks, save five dear ones.  Carleton has refused to seek support from my friends without my insistence.  And, after a dark patch with his family, it is up to him to determine and encourage their participation.  From what I can see, I see little support for my predicament save from his mothers.  Since I have returned from Palm Springs, his friend Michiyo has been wonderful to visit, no drama, and do what I can’t keep up with doing.  She even insisted on doing a grocery run, cleaned the kitchen, and helped fold several loads of clothes.  Fortunate for me, one person personally came to check on me and I have my Mom to call when I am overwhelmed.

I think no one realizes that it is not just that you have to care for someone; but that the causes for the care may quadruple the amount of basic activities we might normally do in a week, just to maintain their dignity.

I think you should assume that each day there are hugs and moments of comfort for Carleton.  But, whether he is in the room or not, nearly every two hours or so, you might see tears run down my face because I dread his demise and worry about his recognition of it.  Yet, Carleton would tell you I keep my emotions held behind the wall.  I have had to harden my heart to the frequent (every few minutes) moans and wailing in pain, whether he walks or sits, or lies down.  Only when he sleeps, if it’s deep enough, does it stop for a while.

For me, it may be the most tortuous thing I can hear.  For the only thing that keeps me sane is the understanding that for a person who so passionately believes he has the creative ability to create solutions, that he can fix find answers, I know, in this case, there is nothing I am able to do but be present, be supportive, attempt to be comforting, be available, be a caregiver.  No matter how much I want to be able to bring a solution that I find satisfactory, I have not one.  I regularly grade myself with a failing grade on being present, being supportive, successfully comforting, being available, and being Carleton’s caregiver.  Being a perfectionist does not help in this situation and being creative does not either.  It is a terrible assessment to bring on yourself.  It is one I believe everyone faces when they are only allowed to stand by, not stand against, Death.

And, being someone who works with people on what to expect in their futures, well, I will be as prepared as anyone to walk with Carleton on that score.  Having been a pastor, being a financial advisor, serving the old and the dying, having had friends and loved ones pass on, sometimes the last few months, the darkest moments of bitterness I have are the ones where I realize, it seems, I am the one who helps the person to face dying.  And, today, I simply hate having that skill more than anything else in the world.  I hate being the Community Crypt Keeper.  Once it was a bitter joke.  Today, the experiences of 20 years in the Gay Community rest harshly on me.

Thank you for letting me share.  I needed to tell this to someone rather than bottle it up or have Carleton suffer through a momentary breakdown.  I fear that should his health deteriorate further, we will be forced to consider institutional care.  His parents will not even communicate a strategic plan when I have urged consideration less it create a reality of its own.  I clearly will be left to make those plans, alone.  I fear that within days, I will have to share this insight with Carleton, because I am only able to sleep in short respites due to his pain, his bathroom visits, his rapid deterioration of his transportation controls, and the many things he can no longer do himself.  He cannot walk under his own power from the living room to the bedroom nor reach the cupboards due to the limitations of his ability to stretch extending muscles.

I guess, when you want to know what thoughts to bring to bear, consider mercy is what I hope we find soon.  Luck, I fear, is not anywhere in the room.

I have to rush off to a client meeting.  I am better having simply written this down and shared it with some which I feel might find it valuable or understand that for me, my most intimate thoughts are rarely shared.  And, you have been given an insight into me few beyond my Mom and Celia, will ever know. 

Grief recruits for Zombie Army

Grief is one of the harshest masters in the human experience.  It brings the mighty low, the organized chaos, the challenger questioned, the loved despair, the hopeful discouraged, the defender defenseless, the thoughtful silence, the overwhelming overwhelmed, and the visionary sightlessness.  Every association with the loss is reviewed, catalogued, questioned, responsibility assigned and regularly judged at time quite harshly.  Grief, by many, is considered something we must go through.  Personally, I feel she is a witch, a dispassionate warrior, testing who will join her army of the unfeeling, the disengaged, and the unemotional.  She regularly is seen following Death.  She visits each person, sometimes multiple times, investigating, recruiting, rewarding, in hopes of growing her armies.

Death visits when someone must be escorted from this World.  Those spared must live with the aftermath.  Some will deny the visit, others will ignore it.  Still others face the consequences of connectedness and emotions, willingly or unwillingly.  Others will justify their role in Death’s visit and others will condemn themselves.  Death does not judge.  It simply is the last power that holds sway over our human condition.  It does not direct us to heaven or hell.  It merely brings peace to the suffering, uncaring for those it has not been called to collect, but delivers the gift of grief in the visits final moments.  No one ever questions its gender, likely because it never has discriminated in its inclusion.

Grief, on the other hand, is not as dispassionate as Death.  Grief and Reflection walk hand in hand staggering those loved with memories which ceaselessly repeat, disabling drive, raising concerns, causing frustration.  Few escape willingly this morass of review for these are the last of the connections.  Overwhelming quiet keeps rapt attention while sleep inescapably flees.  Regrets and understanding collide while mechanisms for coping are considered, abandoned or tried, with little success.  Questions that never were asked will remain unanswered.  Priority lies scattered as leaves in the wind.  Distraction is no match for despondence.  Peace is fleeting while Escape is unattainable.   Rage is only an episode away.  Stiffness in inertia slows every response scaring others, concerning others, perplexing others. 

Grief’s complexity magnifies her power in matrixes of malice.  No two events the same, no responses similar, grief throws the most experienced a new round of emotions to manage.  The matrix of reaction creates results differing in each victim each time, a chess board of emotions unpredictable in each event.  Intensity of the love experienced is multiplied by the interpersonal health of the relationship.  Add the sum of the processes and dependence of the victims while exponentially include the length of the tragedy but divide the moments of resolution.  Then add the years of interconnectedness and memories and multiply the previous sums of loss.  The recipe results mathematically conspiring to disable, disown, distract, destroy and deter the one remaining from the future.  No one can prepare for her challenges, her tests, or the results.  They simply experience it.

Others may rally to defend against Grief’s assaults out of concern to no avail.  The war Grief stirs is inside.  The eyes of the wounded turn inward to watch as heaven and earth war for their host’s sanity.  A new normal will emerge though what it looks like who can say.  Memories will regularly emerge to challenge, coerce, cajole. They will not have the power they have today.  The rush of the world will force movement, though Time holds sway today.  The battle for focus continues.  The strategies of coping create choices daily, postponing responsibility, enabling habits of management, disengaging the connections of life.

New Normal is the work of Grief.  Grief bears results regularly testing each person.  Many have met regret, remorse, and bitterness.  Others have become overwhelmed with Grief’s abilities to exacerbate emotions, charring connections between others, straining the receptors in one’s mind to manage the feedback from longing, abandonment, or loneliness.  In attempts to manage grief, the new normal strategies can have someone turn to outward management over inward mechanisms with short term or longer term impacts.  Ultimately, Grief has no clear result.  No time limit.  No dependence on the type of individual.  Grief individually assigns it best and worst cases to each individual, on a personal level.  And, with it, the emotions the individual least likely may expect.

Grief, in her process to test each person, has few questions.  She is merely recruiting and encouraging people to join her.  She visits each person to invite them to join her.  She requires that you go through her process, but at every chance suggests strategies that will keep them with her.  The process is tortuous; the question comes frequently to join her Army of Avoidance.  She suggests that the process will not bring healing, hope, and reconnection.  She hopes the victims of Life will cling to her, surviving only on memories of the past.  Her goal is to prune Life’s impact, the interconnection, and the energy from the human experience in weeks and years to come. 

Grief culls the barely living from those who want to return to Life.  Her results for recruitment are basic in this matrix of mourning.  It determines whether we return from Grief’s visit with a new appreciation of Life and an appreciation for the depth of the human experience and the impact of the person we loved.  The gift from Grief for making this decision is invigorated by a New Normal.  She is as wise as she is cruel.  This gift is one she provides because she knows that with it, she may return again to test, to torture, to seek our wish to escape the next loss, to avoid being overwhelmed by circumstances, emotions, and Death’s visits.  She may yet enroll us in her Zombie army, a growing host willing to avoid emotion and community.  Overwhelmed by Grief’s invitation proves too wonderful to resist.  Her only requirement is giving her their future.

It is the little things in life that create balance and annoyance

Grief makes the tiny things big for a time.  In my case, since my return from visiting Mom, I am finding some things that were, aren't.  And, some things are that weren't.  Let me explain.

Whenever I would leave on a trip, I always made sure that Carleton had a full refrigerator of food.  His soda selections, milk, orange juice, meals, etc.  I know that I would be eating with my Mom, clients or friends.  I wanted him to have what he wanted.

Yet, this last trip, I unconciously realized that everything in would perish and present a terrible odor upon my return if it were left to develop.  I simply didn't plan for the result.  Yes, I have been busy, and three days later, there has been nothing placed magically into the fridge.  Do you know why?  Because I would need to do it.  Well, except a friend realized the dillema this morning and delivered a carton of milk to make sure I could have cereal.  Of course, I have frozen things in the freezer, just nothing fresh. Ugh.

As I begin my process back to singleness, I become annoyed at little things.  Things Carleton promised to do, but didn't get around to it.  The closet project.  Helping me with organizing some files.  Assist me in reviewing every one of those strange boxes that go with you in every move, but you aren't sure any more what is in it.

I become annoyed at the things Carleton did do, but won't be doing them any longer.  Today, I realized I have to do things I hate but that Carleton didn't mind.  I hate folding clothes.  Hate it!   We shared kitchen duties, now I have to do all of the duties.  He helped me with chores around the house, usually vacuuming.  Even putting sentences into past tense as it relates to Carleton is annoying.

Yesterday morning, as I reached for the vacuum, the special filters he said he would order 6 months ago were, surprise!, not in the apartment.  Yep, I was peeved.  I look in the vacuum and there is the six months of dirt he vacuumed up.  Carleton had simply ignored using the vacuum with the filter.  I soon learned why.  There was no special website where he could order the filter.  He would have had to talk to someone on the phone!  His phonephobia continues to pester me!

Yet, I will admit that Carleton had a certain ying to my yang.  Normally his yang annoyed me.  Though, now, it bothers me less.  See, Carleton was fiercely protective of where he lived, of who he loved, what information people would or should know about him or me, and whether someone or anyone should have any knowledge, access, or ability to enter our home. 

On the other hand, I have always been a person who advertised in newspapers for the promotion of my career as a financial advisor while serving the LGBT Community as an advocate and volunteer.  I have been as welcoming to others as Carleton has been at being fiercely private.  I have always volunteered for decades and he was happy to be my personal hermit. 

I generally welcome any person to visit me at my home.  I didn't attempt to hide things of personal worth or value. The thought would never crossed my mind that it might be stolen.  But, it would drive Carleton into a frenzy whether someone was scheduled to visit or stopped by unnanounced or undeclared by me.

I saw my home as a refuge for those who might need refuge, a place of peace where I lived and obviously people could knock to find me.  He saw it as his safe place to be protected from those who would press or take advantage.  

To my surprise, mild surprise, several friends have repeated similar phrases that Carleton used to express in exasperation regarding my laissez faire, generally trusting policy.  Dare I say that a few have taken it upon themselves personally to not so subtely monitor and evaluate my home life, bringing their own penchants for defending against my rather hopeful attitude of seeing the good in others and believing easily trusting demeanors.  Dare I admit having a pollyanna complex?

My mom has regularly said that I'm really, really smart, but sometimes have no common sense.  Rene, today, would agree.  An issue arose where I was patiently waiting for someone to follow through on their word.  He was ready to involve the police.  He nicely said I was the smartest person he knows but he is frustrated at my complete lack of street smarts.  He said it with the same rolled eyes look I sometimes give friends when they just frustrate me with their lack of basic knowledge in budgeting or strategic engagement or basic political consequences of decision making.  As far as Rene is concerned, my year long adventure in Sao Paulo, Brazil taught me nothing.

Clearly, Carelton has pointedly assured that my lack of concern in some areas is balanced by those who share his, and my mom's, irritation at the very thing that makes me who I am.  And, that does not make me annoyed.  .

Now, if I can only figure out what to do with his shot glass collection and determine where to give his remaining FloVorIce he enjoyed.  Then, I will face the more daunting of Widower/Widow questions...  How to cook for one.  Dinner plans anyone?