I Just Can't Process My Own Death

Today, Gini and I watched UP.  And when that heartbreaking first seven minutes were over, where we see a relationship bloom and literally die before our eyes, Gini was weepier than usual.  I cleared off the couch next to me, and she came over and held me tight, weeping.
“I’m glad that wasn’t me,” she said.
And yeah.  It’s been about six months since the triple-bypass, and I’m still not conversant with death.  I know it’ll happen, of course; I didn’t used to.  Oh, if you’d asked me, I would have said, “Sure, I know I’ll die!”  And in some dimly teenaged fashion I did comprehend it intellectually.
But there I was, living with Gini, disinfecting a beer-brewing kit in the tub, and I suddenly thought: you don’t think they’re really going to develop immortality in your lifetime, do you?  And sure enough, I didn’t. Which led to the thought that if they weren’t going to perfect it, at some point, death was on the menu for me, and I felt that mortality all the way to the root of my heart. These muscles would fail, these thoughts all gone, this unique spot disappeared.
I started blogging not soon after. I think it’s my way of leaving a record for somebody.
Yet there I was, facing death, and it didn’t bother me all that much.  I was scared, sure, but the end would be soon for me.  Either I’d be proven right about an afterlife, or I would never know, and I had a lot of things I wanted to do, but I’m pretty good at coping with non-negotiables.  If that wasn’t an option, well, it’s not like I could argue.  And so I went into surgery, not knowing if I’d wake up.
I dunno.  My friend Lady said that my recovery from the surgery was brave.  “Some people freeze,” she said.  “They give in.  You fought.”  And I guess, but I don’t know how else to be.  I was on the brink, and it doesn’t scare me.
Maybe because there’s another layer to go.  Maybe there’s yet some other layer where you process death even more tangibly, and that’s what PTSD is.  I don’t think we as humans can really process our own mortality this far away from it; Jay Lake can, but then again he’s in a situation where he has to, being terminal and all.  And you can see it corroding him, even from a distance.  Me?  I’m skipping over the surface like a stone hurled over a lake, and I’m just fine with that.
I think daily of Gini’s loss, though.  That’s how I process death; not the emptiness, but loss.  Sometimes I have nightmares of losing her, the greatest love of a damned lucky life, and I wonder what I’d do if that happened.
I’m still blessed, in a way.  If one of us had to have a brush with death, I got the easy end.  She gets to envision that life much clearer.
My job is to make that not happen.

Exciting Kickstarter Things! I Am Even In Some Of Them.

So if you haven’t been paying attention to the What Fates Impose Kickstarter – the one with my “a woman reads the future through Facebook posts” tale Black Swan Oracle in it – it’s about two-thirds of the way funded.  But two-thirds is not all the way, so they’ve been ramping up the rewards – there are new prizes with beautiful art from the exceptionally talented editor Nayad Monroe, and free paperbacks.  They’re kicking out the jams, here.
In addition, Nayad interviewed me for her blog, and so if you’ll click this link you can hear me tell you how my robotic vaccuum cleaner Opposite Cat directly inspired this tale.  It’s a weirdie origin story for a short story, even by my standards.  (There’s also a very good interview with Nayad herself over here.)
Don’t forget, for a mere $15, you can not only get the book, but get an MP3 of me doing a dramatic reading of the tale.  I intend to do A Performance.  So hey, a cheap deal to hear a Ferrett flail about.
And if you’re sick about hearing of me, then listen to Mike Allen.  Mike’s a very talented editor as well, having assembled the well-reviewed Clockwork Phoenix series, which have some beautiful tales contained therein.  Now he’s rebirthing his old poetry magazine Mythic Delirium (which, okay also has fiction), and he’s got his usual killer lineups of some of the best poets in spec fic on the chopping block for your entertainment.  Mike has exceptional tastes (oh, how I burn to one day get into one of his collections!), so if you’re at all interested in good poetry and lyrical stories, donate the moolah.

New Story! By Me! "Shadow Transit," At Buzzy Mag

I wrote this story because I do not know how to play with children.
I was, however, spending time with my um-daughter Carolyn, so named because her parents are Jewish and don’t have a tradition of Godchildren, but we’re pretty much her Godparents.  And she was playing “Teacher” with me.
Carolyn is creative at the best of times, but at this stage in her life she was very big on broken bones and operations.  Every time we played, someone shattered a femur or was in a cast.  And Carolyn, like all children, gets a bit tyrannical when handed the power of teachers, and was barking orders at me of what I was to do, and the awful injuries that might occur if I didn’t obey.  And I wondered: is her school like this at all?  Is she making all of this up, or is this some weird reflection of a hideously overprotective class? 
Then: what would it be like if her school really was full of terror? 
And so I wrote Shadow Transit, a story devoted to how impenetrable the inner lives of children are… especially when they’re special children, tasked with saving the world from otherworldly forces.  Here’s your obligatory sample:

Last night’s blizzard had choked the roads, leaving the cabinet factory short-handed for the Friday shift. So Michelle’s boss had called to give her a choice: she could come in for an emergency shift today and keep her job, or she could keep the day off she’d requested to visit her daughter at Shadow Transit, in which case she’d get her ass fired.
“Thank you,” Michelle whispered, glad beyond belief. “I’ll come in. Just…call them for me? Please? I’ll give you the number; they won’t listen to me. Make sure they tell Elizabeth that Mommy’s sorry.”
Jackson made his apologies, saying how he was sure Lizzie was needed wherever she was, but he had quotas to meet. Michelle barely heard him. She felt the giddy relief of a kid hearing that school was cancelled. Her boss had made the choice for her; she didn’t have to play with Lizzie this month and pretend that everything was okay. No three-hour drive out to the Colander. No watching teenaged guards struggling to remember how to pronounce English words. No worrying about what Lizzie had meant for days afterwards. She was free for another month and hated herself only a little for it….

But I should warn you: this is one of those stories that builds.  It’s one of my best finishes, I think.  I’d get all the way to the end if I were you, and make sure your children aren’t too close when you’re done.

The Awesome Thing That Happened On My Birthday

This first test was HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL. More needs to be done, but this?  Abut 80% of what I wanted.

What You Can Get Me For My Birthday

LO IT IS THE DAY OF MY BIRTH.  Which is, of course, the most important day of the year!  And naturally, the world is ablaze with the inevitable question: “What, what, can I get Ferrett for his birthday?”
Fortunately for you, I ask the same two things of my audience every year.  If you’d like to get me an inexpensive gift that will nevertheless make me do little happydances of joy, you can:
1)  If you are so consensually inclined, feel free to post cheesecake pictures of yourself in the comments here. (Alternatively, if they’re spicy or you’re shy, mail ‘em to me at theferrett@theferrett.com.  Or text them to me at 216-965-3895.)
2)  Failing photographic revelation, here’s my real gift: Go out and do something you enjoy today that you wouldn’t normally have done.  Doesn’t have to be big; a walk around the block, a call to an old friend, a poem you tossed off, a special treat at dinner.  Then let me know what it was, and how you liked it.  You can best make me happy by being happy yourself, and then sharing the joy.
Also, a pony.  Thank you.

Last Time Counts For All

I’ve sent flowers to my Grammy for years now, ever since she moved into the nursing home and didn’t need more knickknacks to clutter a small apartment.  Her birthday, Christmas, Mother’s Day; always a bouquet, always love from me.
But last night was my last order. She’s dying.
Oh, let’s be honest; she’s been dying for years.  She’s ninety-six, and in amazing spirits for all of that.  When I saw her last month, she asked about my heart, urged me to exercise, was happy to hear I was going on a cruise with my family, asked about my Mom.  Maybe she repeated herself a bit, and you had to speak louder so she’d hear you, but I doubt you could have a better conversation with someone in their nineties.
But with age comes the ravages thereof, and she has been fighting a failing body for decades now.  And now she’s refused to fight.  Never in a mean way; that’s not her style.  But she doesn’t eat unless prompted heavily by the many loving family members who come to visit, and she keeps asking whether this is really necessary.  And so, after realizing the next set of treatments would destroy her quality of life, my family has put her on hospice.  She’ll eat when she sees fit, and take only the barest of medications.
I don’t know how long she’ll last.  No one does.  But none of us thought she’d make it this far, so she may surprise us.
And I thought oh, well, she’s in her mid-nineties, she’s literally had the best life I can imagine, that’s sad but it’s inevitable. When my Dad told me, I heard and then went out to lunch.  I’d been braced for this for years, no biggie.
Then I realized: this will be my last chance, ever, to send her flowers.  So in a panic last night I went to 1-800-flowers and ordered her a nice big bouquet of daisies, her favorite, and clicked the “Finalize Order!” button and then had to go for a very long drive with the windows down.
I hope the florist sends her the right flowers.  I know from long experience that whatever you order online often has very little resemblance to what you get, and they may decide to replace it with tulips, or daffodils, or whatever.  Will she know that I meant daisies?  She will not.  She can’t even talk on the phone any more, not really.
And I could, I suppose, get on the phone to emergency change the order, to tell the florist how terribly important this all is, but…. I don’t know that it’ll matter.  I don’t know how she is today.  Maybe she’s already in bed, sleeping her days away.  Maybe she’ll never know, not really, now that she’s off the big medications.  I know my temptation is to make a big deal, send flowers every day until she’s gone, but… that’s not her way.  She hates having a fuss made, hates being reminded of bad times.  She’d want to steal out of life quietly, like slipping out of a lovely party, which for her it has been.  A family that adores her.  Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, all summoned to her side effortlessly for endless parties, a house by the seashore, a husband who doted on her, a bond of Steinmetzes brought together by mutual worship.
Dear florist, I hope you know that my Grammy has a magic power: she makes people better by only seeing the best in them.  Anything unworthy or shabby about you is discarded in her eyes, only the good reflected back, and when criminals are in her presence they straighten their backs and live better.  She quietly sees you as so wonderful, clapping her hands in joy, that you vow to be wonderful, and walk out of her presence a better person.
You don’t know that.  You can’t know that.  And yet, inexplicably, your flowers will be my last, clumsy message of love to her.  Whatever you decide today will be my last gift to her, my last way of telling her that I care, this random bouquet of flowers on her windowsill.
I hope you give her daisies.
I hope she knows just how much she means to me.
I hope.

If You're Going To Channel Orwell, Don't Be Stupid

At 6:00 a.m. this morning, my iPhone buzzed for long enough to wake Gini up.  It was, as it turns out, an Amber Alert to let us know that a child had been kidnapped in our area.
We had not signed up for anything remotely like an Amber Alert, but apparently everyone around us got one anyway.  Which is a little distressing.  I’m all for saving kidnapped children, but I’m also all for not having my phone hijacked against my will.  I like the illusion that I control my phone – I know it’s not true (HELLO RSA), but I cling to it anyway.  A random police department call being able to bug me at a moment’s notice without my consent or opt-out notice is a little terrifying.  (And if you had your phone noises on, which we never do because people text me at all hours, apparently it made a terrifying alert noise.)
But fine.  I’m all for helping children.  How do I do this?
I don’t know, because there’s no record of the alert.  Didn’t show up on texts, no history, nothing.  If you were not lucky enough to be awake when the alert was sounded, or slow to answer your phone, the information vanished.  So if you were, say, checking your phone twenty minutes later because you were in the shower, well, I guess the kid’s gone, too late, let ’em go.
I hope that child is okay.  I really do.  But if you were going to commandeer my phone sans notice, I’d prefer you do it in a way I could know what to be on the lookout for all day, and maybe a second notice to let me know how it turned out.