TL Boehm - Writer

So here I am after an interminable hiatus and you’d think I’d come

back poignant, eloquent and gracious as my advancing age would

suggest. About that. If you ever read me you know that’s an

expectation too lofty for THIS page. Although, I do have a heart and

it’s been on said heart to post something, anything for several

months. I’m a writer. I’m never at a loss for words, but I am at a

giant deficit for time. Again, if you ever read me – specifically my

intermittent screams into the void since December 2015, you know a bit

about my situation. If you are blissfully unaware, and you return to

this humble page, you’ll learn quickly.

I started my morning at two a.m. today. I’m female, 54 and have had

two bundles of joy/terror/love and the bladder – while I believe in

her – is ornery and has been disrupting my beauty sleep (and it shows)

 for a few years but now she is engaging other parts of my digestive

tract which resulted in me rifling through my grown son’s stash of

bathroom goodies in a hunt for the Imodium. If the steadfastness of

the containment field around those blue gels is any indicator of their

ability to wrangle what’s gurgling in my gut – the bladder will be a

solo act for days.

Why the overshare? Well, at a time in my life when I and the HOH

should be falling asleep at nine whilst binging on Netflix and

Traverse City cherry Ice c ream in our empty nest – we are in fact

displaced, relegated to one bedroom and sharing the only toilet in the

house that is not ours with our offspring and a spouse, a grand

toddler and a 90+ year old who is struggling with dementia. Toilet

time is a precious commodity and those of us who can control our

innards MUST control our innards in deference to those who can’t. Yes,

we volunteered to take on the care of our matriarch. We expected

sacrifices. Toilet time though, well? It’s complicated.

And so here I am, aching to discuss the deeper things of life, the

philosophies and idiosyncrasies and all the other ies that make up

this thing called human life and I am reduced to potty talk. I just

want a moment with a bowl, without a knock on the door. Without having

to wear hazmat gear and sterilize every surface before I go. And a

burrito. I want a real burrito too. Not at the same time I’m indulging

in a bowl. I have my standards.

Anyway, I have determined that in order to preserve the last shred of

pre New Mexico expat me I must return to some form of regular writing

whether anyone reads or doesn’t. So here I am. There will be lots of

caveats and explanations over the next months and there probably won’t

be much brilliance but there will be truth. I’ve been largely silent

over the past years about dementia and what it really does to a soul –

to my detriment. Perhaps if I by my rambling help someone else – it

will ease the ache of knowing that while I’d love to be verbal elixir

– most days I’m just phlegm. Copious phlegm.

Peace.