Well, today's adventure was going to see Mike, my Qigong instructor. After the last two (eventually successful) trips that were seriously scary—I may like to watch gory movies, especially if the F/X (special effects) are humorously bad, but being frightened in Real Life is no fun at all—today's wheelchair-assisted journey was a piece of cake. (I'm officially allowed to use the "piece of cake" expression, because I don't like cake—too fluffy for me.)
But the session itself was difficult. The hardest thing I have to do these days is to go from sitting to standing, and Mike made me stand up about a dozen times! Not only is he not fazed by a wheelchair patient (client? I prefer patient) moaning in agony each time she gets to her feet, he taught me some really useful tips for getting that Qi flowing and ignoring the pain. And he asked a lot of questions about details, which I really appreciate—like does the pain move around, and if so, when. When a medical practitioner—or, in this case, a nonmedical practitioner—is intensely curious about your individual version of a body in crisis mode, you know he or she is going to try their best to fix you. Sometimes Mike gets on my nerves because he doesn't want to chit-chat about anything but Chinese medicine, but he's the real deal: a man whose calling is to be a healer.
In the rest of my life:
• Bob's being very dutiful about visiting his Mom and fine-tuning the set-up in her assisted-living facility, solving problems like getting MSNBC included on her cable so she can watch her beloved Rachel Maddow show. He's out there right now, having dinner with her. Her dementia is exasperating to most of the family, but my anxious, irritable husband turns into a paragon of patience every time he talks to her on the phone. He lost his dad before he really had a chance to have an adult-adult relationship with him, so I can see what he's doing with his mom: he refuses to feel guilty when she does go.
• The kittens are starting to act like cats—jockeying for position when there are sunny spots in the living room, and actually turning down play opportunities in favor of curling up in a ball and conking out. I love kittens, but I love cats more. They're more subtle, more self-aware, more finely attuned to my own rhythms.
• Bob's sister out in California is slowly dying of lung cancer plus COPD, but she's got a sense of humor about it. She knows she did it to herself with the millions of cigarettes, so she doesn't expect people to be all hushed and reverent at her bed side. She's the sort of person who likes to gab so much she manages to have long, involved conversations even when her oxygen dependence is way high, so when the Reaper comes by to take her, he's going to have a hard time prying her away from all this. In shorter words, she'll be late to her own funeral.
• No new collages!

I can't climb the stairs to my studio! When Grace comes over on Friday, I'm sure she'll be able to lure me up there. I do have three collages all mapped out and put together in my mind. Meanwhile I'm reading books like Austin Kleon's "Steall Like an Artist" and "Show Your Work!", trying to decide whether I want to have an artist's career, which is a different thing entirely from being an artist. Do I really crave feedback so much I'd ditch some of my hours of making art in order to promote myself? Bleah. And money gets involved in the process, of course. I don't like money at all. I could survive at a much lower standard of living than we have right now, which I'm sure I'll have to do, when my private disability insurance stops at age 65.
Well, that's enough thinking about Death for one day. =guffaw= At least our cats are feisty, stubborn, even sullen at times, adolescents. lLike the Rush song goes, "We're only immortal for a limited time."