A Slice of Orange

By Diane Pershing

Two and a half weeks ago, my mother was dying. We were together in her hospital room, where she was coughing and feverish, a ninety-year-old with severe pneumonia and a high temperature. We all know what happens to someone with that set of problems, right? We both had tears in our eyes. Hands shaking, she removed a beautiful square cut diamond ring from her hand and gave it to me. “It was my mother’s ring,” she said, her voice croaking with inflammation and exhaustion. “I want you to have it.”

I didn’t argue-first of all, it was a dying woman’s wish. Secondly, it’s beautiful and I’ve never had a diamond ring in my life. I took it, put it on the ring finger of my right hand (so no one would think that Ken had finally popped the question), and it was done. Together, we looked at how it sparkled and shared a moment that both of us sensed was one of the last.

Cut to: A week later. While the pneumonia was still pretty bad, her fever was down, her white blood cell count was down, and it seemed she wasn’t going to die after all. I looked at the ring, looked at her and said with mock distress, “Ma, do I have to give it back now?”

She tilted her head to one side, enjoying the face I made, and said, “Nah. It’s yours anyway. Keep it.”

And I have. It’s here, sparkling still on my hand.

At present, Mom is out of the hospital and in a convalescent facility. She is still ninety and is weak and frail, but she coughs less, sits up more, walks a little with the aid of her walker. She is oh-so-slowly getting better.

As for me, I am a wreck. Caring for an elderly woman one loves unconditionally is not for weaklings. There is the necessity to be with her for hours and hours, because she needs reassurance and love and comfort, not to mention attention she does not get from nurses who are overworked and overstressed. There is her mail, her phone, her home, her bills. Running around getting the bedside table, contacting doctors and getting her meds right, and buying books light enough for her to hold but with large enough and dark enough print to read, Depends, looking for her favorite chocolate because she eats practically nothing at meals, making phone calls to be sure her care is attended to. This is not me whining, this is me stating a fact: I am past middle age and caring for an elderly parent and I am not an uncommon statistic. With the help of modern medicine, they’re living longer and we’re in charge. Fact, indisputable fact.

What does this have to with the blog offered by a writer of romances? A lot. Ask me where I am on the book I was deeply involved with two and a half weeks ago. The answer is: not any further along. I cannot write, I cannot concentrate, I cannot sit still and stare off into space and find the right phrase, the right image, for the scene I am creating. I CANNOT WRITE.

I think about the perfect writer I have in my head—the one who can compartmentalize, who creates to escape, who, in face, finds solace and peace by writing . . . and it’s not me. Mom is in my head, not my book. The next chore to take care of for mom is all I can really think about. Plus getting enough sleep, eating properly, avoiding getting sick myself. Exercise? Fuggedaboudit. Life is about mom. For now. For the near future.

Because there will be a future without her in it. I want to enjoy the time the two of us have left, lap it up like a cat with a saucer of milk. She gave me life and loved me until I could exist apart from her. I salute my mother, and the book will have to wait.

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Diane Pershing wears many hats. She is a multi-published award-winning romance novelist, voice-over actress for commercials and animation, and the President-Elect of Romance Writers of America. Her latest Silhouette Romantic Suspense, ONE TOUGH AVENGER, third in a trilogy, was released January 2008.

Religion. Every society has some kind of beliefs. Those beliefs fall into two categories: monotheistic and polytheistic. When developing a world, you have to decide which way to go. When I write historicals, it is no problem. The Irish Countess was Catholic. After all she was Irish. In The Kilted Governess, they were Protestants. In Augeas, it’s still up for grabs.

After consulting my plot group, my youngest son, and my critique partner, Debra, I came up with a few ideas. The Ancient Ones and the humans would probably not have the same religion since they are different species that developed at different times. The Ancient Ones, when they die, turn into light and disappear. That came about because my sister told me I couldn’t leave Grandmother dead in the rocking chair on the porch. She had to be buried, but, geez, that’s a lot of work for one person. I didn’t like the thought of Rayna dragging Grandmother through the dirt, digging a hole and putting her in. It all seemed rather undignified. So, I had her turn to light and poof, no body to bury. It’s amazing what one can set up by accident.

If the Ancient Ones turn into light, then they must want to reach the light at the end of their journey through life. So they have a philosophy more than a religion. They follow the Path of Enlightenment and at the end, they join the light and become whole with those who went before them.

As with any religion or philosophy, there has to be the evil side. (My son threatened me if I said the Dark Side.) There is always good vs. evil. So what happens if they fall from the Path of Enlightenment? There has to be a penalty. They don’t get to join the light. Then someone has to bury them. Hopefully someone strong enough so they won’t be dragged through the dirt.

The humans? I still don’t know what they believe in. They have a polytheistic religion, but no one is on a religious quest at the moment, so I have more time to figure it out.

Above is a picture of Andra from the second set of Augeas stories arriving in April.

Art work by Jasmine Tanner – http://veildandy.deviantart.com