first jaunt, in some ways
Soren is sleeping. I can hear his steady breathing, a deep rhythm underneath my typing and clicking of the trackball keys.
I left work early yesterday, went over to Atlantis, and shaved his head and face while he talked with his speech therapist, then picked up his meds, and called a car service. Because of timing, I did not dress fierce and femme, or anything special; instead, I was in brown and grey, a shapeless jumper over a button-down shirt, not even bothering with any makeup.
We went over to Patrick and Teresa's, and caught up a bit on life, ate a wonderful dinner with them, and then took a car to Banjo Jim's, where Whisperado had a gig. Soren caught his bad foot in the stairs leading up to the club, but was helped up by the bartender (who'd stepped out for a smoke, I think); still, it strained his leg a bit, which is another reason he's sleeping so late.
Gig was fun, though once again, the vocals were lost in the mix. We said goodnight to people, then went over to The Duplex. As luck would have it, Michael Dion was coming down the stairs as Soren walked in, and the pure delight on his face as he recognized Soren was wonderful. Michael found us seats by Jack and Susie, and we got greeted by all the staff, and a number of the regulars.
It's... hard. Soren's speech is not up for singing solo right now/any more, and, if he wants to, he's going to have to relearn the tambourine with his non-dominant hand, and it hurts, both of us, to recognize that. It all takes time, and we're still in the first year of finding out what he can do, what he can't do yet, and what he can't do ever again. And the possibilities of some of the losses are heartbreaking.
I sang two songs with Michael Isaacs ("Hello, It's Me" and "Time After Time"), then we went upstairs for the Mostly Sondheim session. Marty was in rare raunchy form, telling us about the gay cruise in East Asia that he'd just returned from, and the sex shows he'd seen. (Why don't they offer bottles of brain bleach for nights like that?) I sang one song, probably the least professional singer of the night, but I did a respectable performance, and, as usual, had several people ask me what show the song was from. (I sing "Stop and See Me," from Weird Romance, a show which Brian, Kate, and I adore, and which very few people know. It's a good Alan Mencken song, and shows off some of my vocal and performing strengths.*)
We stayed out much much later than I'd planned, getting home about 3:15 this morning. We've been jarred out of bed twice by the front doorbell: the first time by evangelists (I said, "No thank you," and shut the door on them); and the second time by the mailman (the people who were in this apartment before us didn't file a COA, so their mail is piling up in the box). In a few minutes, I'll take my morning medications, and then wake Soren up; I think I'll take him out to brunch, and perhaps wander around the neighborhood for a bit, while it's warm and sunny.
I left work early yesterday, went over to Atlantis, and shaved his head and face while he talked with his speech therapist, then picked up his meds, and called a car service. Because of timing, I did not dress fierce and femme, or anything special; instead, I was in brown and grey, a shapeless jumper over a button-down shirt, not even bothering with any makeup.
We went over to Patrick and Teresa's, and caught up a bit on life, ate a wonderful dinner with them, and then took a car to Banjo Jim's, where Whisperado had a gig. Soren caught his bad foot in the stairs leading up to the club, but was helped up by the bartender (who'd stepped out for a smoke, I think); still, it strained his leg a bit, which is another reason he's sleeping so late.
Gig was fun, though once again, the vocals were lost in the mix. We said goodnight to people, then went over to The Duplex. As luck would have it, Michael Dion was coming down the stairs as Soren walked in, and the pure delight on his face as he recognized Soren was wonderful. Michael found us seats by Jack and Susie, and we got greeted by all the staff, and a number of the regulars.
It's... hard. Soren's speech is not up for singing solo right now/any more, and, if he wants to, he's going to have to relearn the tambourine with his non-dominant hand, and it hurts, both of us, to recognize that. It all takes time, and we're still in the first year of finding out what he can do, what he can't do yet, and what he can't do ever again. And the possibilities of some of the losses are heartbreaking.
I sang two songs with Michael Isaacs ("Hello, It's Me" and "Time After Time"), then we went upstairs for the Mostly Sondheim session. Marty was in rare raunchy form, telling us about the gay cruise in East Asia that he'd just returned from, and the sex shows he'd seen. (Why don't they offer bottles of brain bleach for nights like that?) I sang one song, probably the least professional singer of the night, but I did a respectable performance, and, as usual, had several people ask me what show the song was from. (I sing "Stop and See Me," from Weird Romance, a show which Brian, Kate, and I adore, and which very few people know. It's a good Alan Mencken song, and shows off some of my vocal and performing strengths.*)
We stayed out much much later than I'd planned, getting home about 3:15 this morning. We've been jarred out of bed twice by the front doorbell: the first time by evangelists (I said, "No thank you," and shut the door on them); and the second time by the mailman (the people who were in this apartment before us didn't file a COA, so their mail is piling up in the box). In a few minutes, I'll take my morning medications, and then wake Soren up; I think I'll take him out to brunch, and perhaps wander around the neighborhood for a bit, while it's warm and sunny.