Found Musings: On Death and Dying

I’m in the process of cleaning out notes and wrapping up loose ends for my current job and stumbled across this from sometime in 2008 or 2009 – need to slap a datemark on things I jot down… (I’ve included the original text in addition to the scan):

“The day her skirt fell around her ankles in the baking aisle of Arnie’s craft shop in Houghton Lake, she chose not to cry. She would not cry to me for three more years, on the Sunday afternoon she told me she was dying. My sobbing drowned out only by hers. And five weeks later, I could only howl when the news came that she’d died 20 minutes earlier.
She laughed – a lot. With her whole body, her head thrown back in sheer enjoyment of who and where she was.”

Thought I’d share it – wish I could get the inspiration to write like that again from time to time. Just haven’t had the time to get inspired lately.

Anyway, thought I’d share.


Just Write…

I’ve come across some really GREAT blogs by women writers. Or, rather, women. Who happen to write.

Like here at The Big Piece of Cake.

Or, here at the Extraordinary Ordinary. (This is where I found the “Just Write” concept and fell in love with the momentum of it immediately).

And this aggregate site of blogs and info is TOO COOL.

And with that, I just used the word aggregate in a non-academic, not work-related way.

The thing is, I’m finding all these other women writers so empowering. I like knowing they’re out there, and that I’m ‘out there’ with them.

They make me want to write the blog post about the conversations Molly and I have had since she’s had her baby 13 days ago and I’m about 13 days from having my own Minnie.

Molly asked me the other day, sitting in her house as she pumped and breastfed for the umpteenth time in the day, after ANOTHER 23 minute conversation with the lactation consultant. She asked “Why does no one ever tell you what labor is really like?”

And the conversation ensued.

Mainly, she wanted to know how anyone describes the pain of childbirth as indescribable. She says she’s pretty sure she could describe it. (I’ll let it slide for now that she hasn’t, since I don’t really need the nitty gritty details of it anyway).

Then she asked if any of the books I’d read said that when you are pushing your child out it feels like you’re pooping. And why doesn’t it, she wondered. Because, that’s what it feels like, she says.

So, I’ve re-told this story to all the women I’ve come across in the meantime.


They all agree.

So what the heck? Why don’t the damn books just SAY that? That that is the sensation you’re going to have?

Molly texted me today, chalking yet another one up to things no one ever tells you about having a baby.

Evidently the umbilical cord smells like garbage as its getting ready to fall off.

Again, not something they tell you in the books. Like, if you smell garbage and you’ve changed the baby’s clothes and diaper and given the baby a bath…it’s a sure bet the umbilical cord is rotting off of your brand new, clean baby.


But, good to know.



I think we’ve settled on a name for our Minnie.

And no, it’s not Minnie.

But I’m also not putting it out there yet.

I like that we’ve agreed on it and yet, we’re keeping it to us. I’ve thrown it out there a few different times to different people…but Jon and I are in agreement.


The neighbor, Michael, has mowed his lawn again today. I swear that’s twice in the last three days.

Keeping up with the neighbors in lawn-mowing efficiency is tough stuff when Michael makes a habit of mowing his lawn incessantly.

It makes me feel guilty, our long grass standing at attention next to his.

I’m sure it wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t also live on a golf course, so that the grass is always mowed right up to your property line on all sides. And then, there you are, the nine-months-pregnant gal bribing her brother to mow the lawn so that the neighbors don’t talk. Or talk anymore than they already are.