It's been almost a year. Almost a year since I've heard her voice. Almost a year since she hugged me. Almost a year since we've fought. Almost a year since we went to the movies. Almost a year since I helped her with her homework. Almost a year since we went on a shopping spree at Wal-Mart. Almost a year since I was really, truly happy.
I miss her silly voices. I miss the British accent where she called everyone "George". I miss her saying "Ello Gov'nah." I miss her faces. I miss her obsession with Doug. I miss her love of Ariel. I miss her hatred of Tinkerbell. I miss the way she sang in the shower. I miss the way she loved to eat tortellini with me on Wednesday nights. I miss the way she still slept with me when Kevin was away on business. I miss the way she made me feel like I mattered.
I hate what the world has done to us. I hate that she doesn't know we moved. I hate that I had to sell her car. I hate that I ate at Chili's tonight and I had queso just for her. I hate that Doug is going off to college without her. I hate that the tears catch in the back of my throat when I see her friends. I hate that it's American Idol time and she's not here to tell me she hates American Idol and still watch it from the corner of the kitchen. I hate that I don't have a daughter anymore. I hate that she isn't here to be so proud of me for quitting my stinky job. I hate that I had to fight cancer without her. I hate that no one brushes Berk's teeth anymore. I hate missing her to the point of exhaustion.
I wish I could get a massive do-over. I wish I didn't have to have a benefit fundraiser for my daughter. I wish smart, pretty, considerate, audacious little girls didn't have to die. I wish for one more vacation. I wish for one more lazy Saturday by the pool. I wish for that graduation trip to New York. I wish she had gotten to go to her prom. I wish she had gotten to go to college....or to get married.....or to have a baby girl of her own. I wish I could travel back in time. I wish I could take her picture in a field of bluebonnets again. I wish I could just see her chubby little fingers once more. I wish my boys still had a little sister.
Why is it that we can only figure out how to do things better when we've run out of time? Why is it that the precious things are so difficult to appreciate? Why is it that the things we think are important are really so nauseatingly superficial? Why is it that it takes losing a child to see the ridiculous un-importance of a Coach purse? Why is it so hard to sit down in the floor in your child's room when they ask you for 5 minutes of your attention? Why is it that I haven't slept in 3 days and it is still impossible for me to close my eyes and turn off my brain? Why is it that going to Chili's and seeing an outpouring of love from so many people would make me this inconsolably sad? Why is it so hard to go to the cemetery? Why is it so hard to move on?
These are just a few of the things I think about everyday. When you lose someone, it never gets any easier. I see that now. The tears don't come as often, but each time they do come, they are doubly painful and last twice as long. The questions are never answered, but they are always coming at you from every direction of your mind. There is no peace. There is no silence. There are just beautiful, achingly sweet memories. There are friends. There is Chili's. There is queso. And, there is the knowledge that something really, really great has exited your life. But, at least it was there for a moment.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Pink Rooms
At first, I thought I was dreaming. You know how sometimes in a dream you're standing in a strange house - strange to you but not to the you that's in the dream? You've never seen this place before, but in your dream it's your home and the dream you seems completely at ease in this pseudo home. That's how it was here at first. The grass is so green that it looks fake. It's St. Augustine, I think. I was never good with botany or horticulture or whatever you call plant stuff. My Dad would know. He loves St. Augustine grass. He tried to grow it at every house we ever lived in. It feels good on the bottom of my feet. I can go barefooted here all the time. It's beautiful here. The sun is always out. It feels so good on my skin. The water is clear. I tell everyone it looks like Lake Fork. I think it might be Lake Fork. Maybe....
Hey, I have a dog now! That's how it happens here. I could see the dog coming toward me for days. I thought he would never get here. It happens the same way with people. They walk toward you for eternity. Just when you decide they will never get any closer, you turn around and they're right in front of your face! It's hilarious...and tough, too. It's hard to tell who anyone is! You get to be whichever "you" you want to be. Right now I'm 5 year old me. I'm wearing my "Miss Otis" costume from my dance recital. It's a blue dress with polka-dots and an amazing petticoat. I will probably wear something else tomorrow, though. Most of the time I like wearing pj's. I guess some things never change! Anyway, it took me forever to figure out that the lady in the horn-rimmed glasses was Maw-Maw! My memory was fuzzy for the longest time. Plus, she chose a suit from the 30's or 40's, sort of like something that Lucy and Ethel would wear to go play bridge! It's adorable, especially when she wears the gloves and the little hat. I think she chose that because her baby is here....her baby Shirley. Babies have trouble recognizing people. They didn't get enough time to soak things in down there. It happened to me a little, too. Anyway, my dog's name is Shelby. He was Dillan's dog. I could change his name. I could even call him Berk if I wanted. I don't want to, though. I think about Dillan all the time. And Daniel. And Doug. And everyone. I think Shelby misses my Mom. I miss my Mom. I miss Daddy & Penney. I even miss Kevin, in spite of the fact that he drove me crazy!
They tell me that you can see all the way down after a while. It happened to me for the first time the other day. I say "the other day" cause I don't know how else to explain it. There really isn't a day or a time passage or anything like that. It always just is. Anyhow, I had gotten to the point where I could see rooftops. It's so difficult to master. We don't get headaches, but if we could, they'd be migraines! You have to concentrate so hard to see the roofs. Finally, the roof moved and I could see people! I was so busy doing my celebration dance that I didn't realize it was someone else's roof! I don't even think I was in the right country. But, then I found her. She was in the wrong house. I guess they moved. We can't see faces, just their auras or their energies or something. I don't really understand everything yet. But, I definitely saw her. She was crying, I think. I don't really feel sad anymore, but I didn't feel as "me" as I normally feel here. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to tell her not to cry. I wanted to explain to her that I know how much she wants me back, but we can't come back. At first I wanted to, but now I don't. I wouldn't come back even if I could. I like it here. I have an amazing house. I have Shelbs. I have a family here, with all my grandparents and even Doug's grandpa. I hope she knows that I will always love her. I'm here because of her and my Dad. I'm saving my Mom a room in my house. I painted it pink. I'll be here when you get here, Momma. Look for my petticoat and just keep walking.
Hey, I have a dog now! That's how it happens here. I could see the dog coming toward me for days. I thought he would never get here. It happens the same way with people. They walk toward you for eternity. Just when you decide they will never get any closer, you turn around and they're right in front of your face! It's hilarious...and tough, too. It's hard to tell who anyone is! You get to be whichever "you" you want to be. Right now I'm 5 year old me. I'm wearing my "Miss Otis" costume from my dance recital. It's a blue dress with polka-dots and an amazing petticoat. I will probably wear something else tomorrow, though. Most of the time I like wearing pj's. I guess some things never change! Anyway, it took me forever to figure out that the lady in the horn-rimmed glasses was Maw-Maw! My memory was fuzzy for the longest time. Plus, she chose a suit from the 30's or 40's, sort of like something that Lucy and Ethel would wear to go play bridge! It's adorable, especially when she wears the gloves and the little hat. I think she chose that because her baby is here....her baby Shirley. Babies have trouble recognizing people. They didn't get enough time to soak things in down there. It happened to me a little, too. Anyway, my dog's name is Shelby. He was Dillan's dog. I could change his name. I could even call him Berk if I wanted. I don't want to, though. I think about Dillan all the time. And Daniel. And Doug. And everyone. I think Shelby misses my Mom. I miss my Mom. I miss Daddy & Penney. I even miss Kevin, in spite of the fact that he drove me crazy!
They tell me that you can see all the way down after a while. It happened to me for the first time the other day. I say "the other day" cause I don't know how else to explain it. There really isn't a day or a time passage or anything like that. It always just is. Anyhow, I had gotten to the point where I could see rooftops. It's so difficult to master. We don't get headaches, but if we could, they'd be migraines! You have to concentrate so hard to see the roofs. Finally, the roof moved and I could see people! I was so busy doing my celebration dance that I didn't realize it was someone else's roof! I don't even think I was in the right country. But, then I found her. She was in the wrong house. I guess they moved. We can't see faces, just their auras or their energies or something. I don't really understand everything yet. But, I definitely saw her. She was crying, I think. I don't really feel sad anymore, but I didn't feel as "me" as I normally feel here. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to tell her not to cry. I wanted to explain to her that I know how much she wants me back, but we can't come back. At first I wanted to, but now I don't. I wouldn't come back even if I could. I like it here. I have an amazing house. I have Shelbs. I have a family here, with all my grandparents and even Doug's grandpa. I hope she knows that I will always love her. I'm here because of her and my Dad. I'm saving my Mom a room in my house. I painted it pink. I'll be here when you get here, Momma. Look for my petticoat and just keep walking.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
An Old, Decrepit High School Musical
We took her groceries to the checkout stand
The food was totalled up and bagged
We stood there lost in our embarrassment
As the conversation dragged.
We went to have ourselves a drink or two
But couldn't find an open bar
We bought a six-pack at the liquor store
And we drank it in her car.
We drank a toast to innocence
We drank a toast to now
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness
But neither one knew how.
"Another Auld Lang Syne" -Dan Fogelberg
I saw an old friend at Wal-Mart yesterday. Is there anyone we don't see when we go to Wal-Mart? I hate the way I was dressed! I should know by now that the day I choose not to dress to the nines will be the day I see someone who I would actually want to impress. This was, after all, the girl I lost "Most Beautiful" to during our Senior year in high school. She looked great, too. Her hair was shorter and blonder, and she still has the prettiest teeth I've ever seen....a smile exactly like Farrah Fawcett. If you understand that sentence, then you, too, are old! Anyway, I had just tanned (EASY! I have to have at least one vice. I don't drink or smoke. I workout almost every day. I rarely eat meat. I count every calorie that goes in my body. I drink almost a gallon of water a day. I get to do something bad, so get over it!) I was wearing sweats and a zip up jacket with my zebra flip-flops. The pants are too big. The jacket is 10 years old. I was rockin' the faux-hawk that day, too. At least the shoes are nice! I did not look my best......and I smelled like singed hair.
I saw her from a distance. I smiled at her, but she hung a left into the office supplies. I pushed my buggy right on past her and ducked onto the luggage aisle. I could've let it go right there. I could've cut right through the baby clothes into the dairy section and forgotten all about it.....but I didn't. I chose to track her down.
As I approached her, she was looking at the Uniball pens. She glanced up and I said, "Hi." I expected a smile. I expected maybe a fake happy shriek. Maybe even an air kiss? What I got was a complete and total vacant expression. The lights weren't on and nobody was home. She had absolutely no idea who I was. Wow. Now what do I do? Do I keep on going? No, I was full on committed, so I had to tell her who I was....."Bobby Sue, it's me.....Dina.....remember? Dina from high school, Bobby Sue? Remember? Member me? Huh?" She did, thank goodness! What would I have done if she didn't own up to knowing me? So, do you want to know where all this is headed? I saw her last year at Wal-Mart, too. Same month. Same week. Except, last year I was with Chynna and we sat in the Wal-Mart Subway and talked about the years gone by, how her daughter was sick on Spring break, and how Chynna was the new FHS mascot.
OK, so here is an awkward situation that I tend to run into quite often. Bobby Sue: "Why, Dina, I just love what you've done with your hair! I bet it's so easy to take care of." Me: "Bobby Sue, you know I just had breast cancer, right?" BS: "No, I did not know that - bless your heart. Are you ok now?" Me: "Yes, I'm all cancerless now. Yep. Yessiree Bob. Fresh outa cancer now." BS: "Oh, well good......Kay, well it was nice seein' you. I'll see you around." Me: "Bobby Sue, will you do something for me? Will you come to the fundraiser I'm hosting at the high school for my daughter who passed away last year?" BS: "What? Your daughter? Not the one that was with you last time? Not the one that was the mascot?" Me: "Yeah, that's the one. She was the only one I had....and she's gone."
And there we stood, me 'n Bobby Sue from high school who beat me out of the Most Beautiful title, hugging each other and crying for my losses.....my hair, my health, and my baby girl. And, even though I the tears I swallowed were jagged and sharp, I watched her walk away with her beautiful daughter and thought that Chynna must be happy with me right now. After all, I'm not hiding in the dairy section for once.
The food was totalled up and bagged
We stood there lost in our embarrassment
As the conversation dragged.
We went to have ourselves a drink or two
But couldn't find an open bar
We bought a six-pack at the liquor store
And we drank it in her car.
We drank a toast to innocence
We drank a toast to now
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness
But neither one knew how.
"Another Auld Lang Syne" -Dan Fogelberg
I saw an old friend at Wal-Mart yesterday. Is there anyone we don't see when we go to Wal-Mart? I hate the way I was dressed! I should know by now that the day I choose not to dress to the nines will be the day I see someone who I would actually want to impress. This was, after all, the girl I lost "Most Beautiful" to during our Senior year in high school. She looked great, too. Her hair was shorter and blonder, and she still has the prettiest teeth I've ever seen....a smile exactly like Farrah Fawcett. If you understand that sentence, then you, too, are old! Anyway, I had just tanned (EASY! I have to have at least one vice. I don't drink or smoke. I workout almost every day. I rarely eat meat. I count every calorie that goes in my body. I drink almost a gallon of water a day. I get to do something bad, so get over it!) I was wearing sweats and a zip up jacket with my zebra flip-flops. The pants are too big. The jacket is 10 years old. I was rockin' the faux-hawk that day, too. At least the shoes are nice! I did not look my best......and I smelled like singed hair.
I saw her from a distance. I smiled at her, but she hung a left into the office supplies. I pushed my buggy right on past her and ducked onto the luggage aisle. I could've let it go right there. I could've cut right through the baby clothes into the dairy section and forgotten all about it.....but I didn't. I chose to track her down.
As I approached her, she was looking at the Uniball pens. She glanced up and I said, "Hi." I expected a smile. I expected maybe a fake happy shriek. Maybe even an air kiss? What I got was a complete and total vacant expression. The lights weren't on and nobody was home. She had absolutely no idea who I was. Wow. Now what do I do? Do I keep on going? No, I was full on committed, so I had to tell her who I was....."Bobby Sue, it's me.....Dina.....remember? Dina from high school, Bobby Sue? Remember? Member me? Huh?" She did, thank goodness! What would I have done if she didn't own up to knowing me? So, do you want to know where all this is headed? I saw her last year at Wal-Mart, too. Same month. Same week. Except, last year I was with Chynna and we sat in the Wal-Mart Subway and talked about the years gone by, how her daughter was sick on Spring break, and how Chynna was the new FHS mascot.
OK, so here is an awkward situation that I tend to run into quite often. Bobby Sue: "Why, Dina, I just love what you've done with your hair! I bet it's so easy to take care of." Me: "Bobby Sue, you know I just had breast cancer, right?" BS: "No, I did not know that - bless your heart. Are you ok now?" Me: "Yes, I'm all cancerless now. Yep. Yessiree Bob. Fresh outa cancer now." BS: "Oh, well good......Kay, well it was nice seein' you. I'll see you around." Me: "Bobby Sue, will you do something for me? Will you come to the fundraiser I'm hosting at the high school for my daughter who passed away last year?" BS: "What? Your daughter? Not the one that was with you last time? Not the one that was the mascot?" Me: "Yeah, that's the one. She was the only one I had....and she's gone."
And there we stood, me 'n Bobby Sue from high school who beat me out of the Most Beautiful title, hugging each other and crying for my losses.....my hair, my health, and my baby girl. And, even though I the tears I swallowed were jagged and sharp, I watched her walk away with her beautiful daughter and thought that Chynna must be happy with me right now. After all, I'm not hiding in the dairy section for once.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Worst Case Scenario Woman - Cape Not Included
I believe in fate. I say that now, but this statement is a lifetime in the making. I’m a pessimist. I’m a realist. There is a logical explanation for everything, you see, and I won’t jump on your “can’t prove it but if you say so then I’m on board” bandwagon. My glass is perpetually half-empty, sorry. I took my rose colored glasses off the year the kids in 5th grade started calling me “Dino” – as in Fred Flintstone’s pet dinosaur. I run my life by Murphy’s Law. If it’s bad, it’s gonna happen to me. Just wait and see. My daughter told me once, “Mom, seriously, if you were a super-hero, your name would be ‘Worst Case Scenario Woman’.” I will be the one who knows exactly where the exits on the plane are located. It’s gonna crash if I’m on it. I will take notes when they make you do the lifeboat drill on the cruise ship. Remember the Titanic? If you’re ever held hostage, stand by me. Chances are I have an energy bar, a drink, some floss, lotion, and some flip flops in my purse. We could use it all to overtake the bad guys, MacGyver style. My theory on decision making: this might be the last decision you ever get to make, so make it count, think it through, obsess a little…knock yourself out. My motto: prepare for the worst – anything better will be a nice surprise.
So, why didn’t I know that Chynna was headed for impending disaster? Why didn’t I prepare for this tragedy, my own personal apocalypse of the past year? Shouldn’t I have been ready with a solution? Shouldn’t I have had some magic bean in my purse that I could throw into the operating room? Shouldn’t I have known not to get too attached 17 years ago when she entered my life? Shouldn’t I have sensed that tragedy was lurking behind every corner? So, I start thinking that something went horribly wrong. I start thinking that she wasn’t always meant to just disappear one day. I start realizing that this whole thing was really, really weird – really, really sudden – really, really spookily, eerily strange. It begins to feel like the course of her life, of all our lives, was changed with one abrupt swish of an other-worldly paintbrush. My Mona Lisa had a brilliant smile, but one day I woke up and it wasn’t there anymore. In a textbook worst case scenario situation, I somehow failed to brace for this fall. Perhaps, this was not her destiny after all.
Then, what happened? This is the part where my belief in fate surfaced. This is where I start thinking that maybe I can’t see the future. This is where I realize that CBS is not going to call me to replace Patricia Arquette in “Medium” anytime soon. I can’t talk to pets. The whole Magic 8 Ball thing doesn’t really work. I’m not whispering in Jennifer Love-Hewitt’s ear. I really don’t know anything! I’ve been sitting here scolding and tsk-ing everyone for over 40 years (odd, when I’ve told everyone I’m turning 37 this year??) when life has been passing me by! In preparation for whatever cataclysmic event was on my horizon, I’ve missed the proverbial rose garden….I may have even squandered the best season of my most precious rose…Chynna. I know now. I get it. This was not an accident. I don’t know how it’s going to all pan out yet, but something much bigger is coming. I hope she knows I never intended to waste our best years. I hope she knows that I will turn over a new leaf, start taking some deep breaths, brace for the good instead of the bad, and practice just letting go. I hope she understands that I never meant to suppress her eternal optimism. I hope she sees that, when I look back now, I realize that I learned everything I really, truly needed to know from her. There was a reason for all of this. I hope she is smiling now, knowing that she has restored my belief in fate.
And so, this week we commemorate 11 months without Chynna, our most beautiful rose.
So, why didn’t I know that Chynna was headed for impending disaster? Why didn’t I prepare for this tragedy, my own personal apocalypse of the past year? Shouldn’t I have been ready with a solution? Shouldn’t I have had some magic bean in my purse that I could throw into the operating room? Shouldn’t I have known not to get too attached 17 years ago when she entered my life? Shouldn’t I have sensed that tragedy was lurking behind every corner? So, I start thinking that something went horribly wrong. I start thinking that she wasn’t always meant to just disappear one day. I start realizing that this whole thing was really, really weird – really, really sudden – really, really spookily, eerily strange. It begins to feel like the course of her life, of all our lives, was changed with one abrupt swish of an other-worldly paintbrush. My Mona Lisa had a brilliant smile, but one day I woke up and it wasn’t there anymore. In a textbook worst case scenario situation, I somehow failed to brace for this fall. Perhaps, this was not her destiny after all.
Then, what happened? This is the part where my belief in fate surfaced. This is where I start thinking that maybe I can’t see the future. This is where I realize that CBS is not going to call me to replace Patricia Arquette in “Medium” anytime soon. I can’t talk to pets. The whole Magic 8 Ball thing doesn’t really work. I’m not whispering in Jennifer Love-Hewitt’s ear. I really don’t know anything! I’ve been sitting here scolding and tsk-ing everyone for over 40 years (odd, when I’ve told everyone I’m turning 37 this year??) when life has been passing me by! In preparation for whatever cataclysmic event was on my horizon, I’ve missed the proverbial rose garden….I may have even squandered the best season of my most precious rose…Chynna. I know now. I get it. This was not an accident. I don’t know how it’s going to all pan out yet, but something much bigger is coming. I hope she knows I never intended to waste our best years. I hope she knows that I will turn over a new leaf, start taking some deep breaths, brace for the good instead of the bad, and practice just letting go. I hope she understands that I never meant to suppress her eternal optimism. I hope she sees that, when I look back now, I realize that I learned everything I really, truly needed to know from her. There was a reason for all of this. I hope she is smiling now, knowing that she has restored my belief in fate.
And so, this week we commemorate 11 months without Chynna, our most beautiful rose.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Requiem for the Insane
I have always been on the edge of a nervous breakdown. That is the answer. What is the question? It's something like, "What is the self-fulfilling prophecy of an only child?" It's a question chock full of innuendo and ridiculousness, especially when you consider that I'm technically not an only child. I do have two brothers, half-brothers, courtesy of my Dad. While I love them both dearly and would be the first person to scream from a rooftop that they are both great guys, they were always more father-figure (and not in the George Michael way, thank you) than sibling. The youngest of the two was 17 when I was born, I think. Thus I was raised very much as an only child...in a small town...out in the country...in the 70's. Can we just all close our eyes and envision me, on the front porch of my house in the country (which really wasn't actually used as a front porch. In fact, the front door usually didn't want to open without a days worth of WD40 and much coaxing on the part of my mother - we were most certainly back door type folks!). Still, there I am sitting behind my pseudo news desk with an audience of stuffed animals watching me tell the horrors of the day. Let's say that I'm 8 years old. Iola Johnson did the news for Channel 8 back in the day. I more than loved Iola Johnson. I wanted to be Iola Johnson, suffice it to say. At the tender age of 8, I could do me some news, too! After all, I'd already read the autobiographies of both Orville and Wilbur Right and my FAVORITE book (I still have this one - it's on top of my fireplace at this very moment) was the unauthorized biography of Elizabeth Taylor. Still, I was forever rearranging my audience. Neither Chatty Cathy or Suntan Tuesday would ever look me in the eye when I was doing the weather, and that stupid big green frog I named Roy Clark was forever tumbling off his concrete block into the bed of morning glories. I found it all bothersome. So, after much thought, I changed hobbies and began digging for rocks.
For the next several years, I amassed an impressive collection of rocks, so much so that the gentleman who owned the pharmacy where both my mother and grandmother worked betrothed me a phenomenal velvet lined case for displaying watches just so I could carry the most precious of my finds with me wherever I would go. And I would go! I would go everyday in the summer to work at the public library so I could be at peace with my idol, the town librarian. I felt we were equals - that was the kind of person she was! She taught me macrame, puppetry, how to work a card catalog like no body's business, and how to always, always have a prophetic respect for the written word. What she was not able to do was to mold me into any less of a strange child! Honestly, now I'm a 9 year old child who wears a brown crocheted poncho, carries a case full of rocks everywhere she goes, and works at the public library instead of hanging out at the public pool. I was always at odds with my persona. I was always trying to reinvent myself. Madonna ain't got nothin' on me! And it didn't get much better....
Fast forward exactly one decade. I was living in a small, incredibly cute, frame house in Kaufman. Dillan was about 9 months old - it was in September, I think. I had made some very adult decisions concerning some very adult issues. I was married. I lived where I knew no one. I was trying to work, trying to go to school full time, and trying to be a mom for the first time in my life. I was watching The Cosby Show. Denise Huxtable was trying to decide whether or not to go to Hillman, where both of her parents had gone to college. It was a difficult decision for this fictional character. I wanted that to be my biggest decision. Suddenly, the past came flooding out to me and I wondered how I'd managed to trivialize my life in this manner. What happened to being a news anchor? Why had I allowed myself to be turned into another statistic? I was 19...and married...and a mother. What had I done? I wanted to buck the system and do something that was very unexpected and real and organic, but here I was just looking like another local yokel who didn't know any better. I remember how hard and for how long I cried. I remember looking at my beautiful child with more guilt than I'd every known it was possible to feel - I wanted all eyes on him, and no eyes on me. I also remembered how I felt I was on the edge of something much bigger than me and that I dare not look over and try to see what was at the bottom for fear it would suck me down. That was the last time I felt that feeling, though, unfortunately I've never been able to look at Lisa Bonet in the same way!
That was until April. That was until I lost Chynna and I found myself overlooking that exact same precipice. I was back on the edge. I knew it was the same edge because even the smell was the same. You know the smell of the rain in Autumn? There's a storm about to burst at the seams and you can smell that earthy smell of cut grass and leaves that have been raked up for some time but never bagged. It almost smells good for a minute, but then the undercurrent of sweet, sticky mildew hits you upside the head. That's the smell. I think it's the smell of fear. I think it may also be the smell of God. It was definitely the smell that took Chynna away from me. That smell is a calling card of something that is bigger than me. I don't know if it's good, bad, indifferent, glorious, disgusting...or what. I just know that it means business - the business of showing me that I'm not crazy. Or maybe I am. Or maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe I'm still just odd enough to be able to accept the tragedies of life that some people never have to experience and others get to experience over, and over, and over again. Maybe I've been groomed for this. Maybe only children that do the news on their front porches and choose an old pasture outside of Seagoville, TX to dig for archaeological treasures and later obsess over their mistakes crossing the bridge into adulthood grow up into the perfect candidates to lose their children and then get really sick. Maybe this will bring me full circle. Maybe this will make me not crazy anymore. Or more crazy. Maybe, just maybe, I'm finally having my nervous breakdown. If so, it's not as scary as I thought. I might even like it. Maybe I'll just crawl out to the edge and go on over. Maybe, just maybe, I already did.
For the next several years, I amassed an impressive collection of rocks, so much so that the gentleman who owned the pharmacy where both my mother and grandmother worked betrothed me a phenomenal velvet lined case for displaying watches just so I could carry the most precious of my finds with me wherever I would go. And I would go! I would go everyday in the summer to work at the public library so I could be at peace with my idol, the town librarian. I felt we were equals - that was the kind of person she was! She taught me macrame, puppetry, how to work a card catalog like no body's business, and how to always, always have a prophetic respect for the written word. What she was not able to do was to mold me into any less of a strange child! Honestly, now I'm a 9 year old child who wears a brown crocheted poncho, carries a case full of rocks everywhere she goes, and works at the public library instead of hanging out at the public pool. I was always at odds with my persona. I was always trying to reinvent myself. Madonna ain't got nothin' on me! And it didn't get much better....
Fast forward exactly one decade. I was living in a small, incredibly cute, frame house in Kaufman. Dillan was about 9 months old - it was in September, I think. I had made some very adult decisions concerning some very adult issues. I was married. I lived where I knew no one. I was trying to work, trying to go to school full time, and trying to be a mom for the first time in my life. I was watching The Cosby Show. Denise Huxtable was trying to decide whether or not to go to Hillman, where both of her parents had gone to college. It was a difficult decision for this fictional character. I wanted that to be my biggest decision. Suddenly, the past came flooding out to me and I wondered how I'd managed to trivialize my life in this manner. What happened to being a news anchor? Why had I allowed myself to be turned into another statistic? I was 19...and married...and a mother. What had I done? I wanted to buck the system and do something that was very unexpected and real and organic, but here I was just looking like another local yokel who didn't know any better. I remember how hard and for how long I cried. I remember looking at my beautiful child with more guilt than I'd every known it was possible to feel - I wanted all eyes on him, and no eyes on me. I also remembered how I felt I was on the edge of something much bigger than me and that I dare not look over and try to see what was at the bottom for fear it would suck me down. That was the last time I felt that feeling, though, unfortunately I've never been able to look at Lisa Bonet in the same way!
That was until April. That was until I lost Chynna and I found myself overlooking that exact same precipice. I was back on the edge. I knew it was the same edge because even the smell was the same. You know the smell of the rain in Autumn? There's a storm about to burst at the seams and you can smell that earthy smell of cut grass and leaves that have been raked up for some time but never bagged. It almost smells good for a minute, but then the undercurrent of sweet, sticky mildew hits you upside the head. That's the smell. I think it's the smell of fear. I think it may also be the smell of God. It was definitely the smell that took Chynna away from me. That smell is a calling card of something that is bigger than me. I don't know if it's good, bad, indifferent, glorious, disgusting...or what. I just know that it means business - the business of showing me that I'm not crazy. Or maybe I am. Or maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe I'm still just odd enough to be able to accept the tragedies of life that some people never have to experience and others get to experience over, and over, and over again. Maybe I've been groomed for this. Maybe only children that do the news on their front porches and choose an old pasture outside of Seagoville, TX to dig for archaeological treasures and later obsess over their mistakes crossing the bridge into adulthood grow up into the perfect candidates to lose their children and then get really sick. Maybe this will bring me full circle. Maybe this will make me not crazy anymore. Or more crazy. Maybe, just maybe, I'm finally having my nervous breakdown. If so, it's not as scary as I thought. I might even like it. Maybe I'll just crawl out to the edge and go on over. Maybe, just maybe, I already did.
Where are you, Chynna?
There is a place in my mind where everything makes sense. I look 30, at most. I'm thin and perpetually tan. I wear a white sundress with tiny pink flowers all over it and the little straps sometimes fall off one shoulder or the other. I'm barefooted and my toenails are painted Estee' Lauder's Rosa Rosa. My house is never the same in this little place in my mind. Sometimes it is in the country, sometimes in the city. There could be water nearby, or maybe a forest. There are things that are always constants, though. Everything is always perfectly in place. Floors are scrubbed clean. Beds are made with hospital corners and ironed sheets, dried on the line while hanging over lavender. The scent of roses and patchouli wafts lazily through the air. In my mind it is always a warm day, but a gentle breeze blows the hair away from our faces, never inward. Every metal and glass surface that exists in this house in the little place in my mind is achingly bright with the glare of complete and total cleanliness. It just could not be more perfect.
Where is this place? Will I ever get there? Was I there once with you and just did not realize it? More importantly, why can't I just stop searching for this place...for you? As crazy as it sounds, my perfect little place that I can never seem to reach has some advantages, some things that are not so terribly out of focus for me. There is always a peaceful feeling of love. We are both contented and patient and everyone can read this in the looks on our faces and the way we carry ourselves. We always have just finished a complete and total full-body laughing spell, probably over something you said or I did. Life is the way it was meant to be. You're wearing that adorable dress you bought yourself for Easter this year. You've either grown your hair out, like in your Sophomore Highstepper picture, or I've let you cut it shorter and die it jet black like you wanted so badly to do. We've just returned from a trip - maybe to New York. I was planning on taking you as your graduation present next summer. Maybe we went back to Disneyworld again. You've just finished doing something incredibly important, like discovering a cure for cancer (in light of everything, don't I wish!) or winning the Nobel Peace Prize. In this little place in my mind, you're my saving grace. You alone keep me sane and safe from all the things that threaten to destroy me but go unnoticed by a grown woman who still thinks like a child at times. You are still my hero and my dream come true.
Thank you for continuing to exist in this perfect little place in my mind. Finding you there is the highlight of my crazy world right now. I know if I never give up I'll really get there one day, for it's so real I can almost touch it! I can almost touch you. Almost smell the top of your head. Almost see your bottomless dimple. Almost hear your voice. You are the best part of me, Chynna. Stay there in that perfect little place in my mind, baby girl...and save a glass of lemonade for me.
Where is this place? Will I ever get there? Was I there once with you and just did not realize it? More importantly, why can't I just stop searching for this place...for you? As crazy as it sounds, my perfect little place that I can never seem to reach has some advantages, some things that are not so terribly out of focus for me. There is always a peaceful feeling of love. We are both contented and patient and everyone can read this in the looks on our faces and the way we carry ourselves. We always have just finished a complete and total full-body laughing spell, probably over something you said or I did. Life is the way it was meant to be. You're wearing that adorable dress you bought yourself for Easter this year. You've either grown your hair out, like in your Sophomore Highstepper picture, or I've let you cut it shorter and die it jet black like you wanted so badly to do. We've just returned from a trip - maybe to New York. I was planning on taking you as your graduation present next summer. Maybe we went back to Disneyworld again. You've just finished doing something incredibly important, like discovering a cure for cancer (in light of everything, don't I wish!) or winning the Nobel Peace Prize. In this little place in my mind, you're my saving grace. You alone keep me sane and safe from all the things that threaten to destroy me but go unnoticed by a grown woman who still thinks like a child at times. You are still my hero and my dream come true.
Thank you for continuing to exist in this perfect little place in my mind. Finding you there is the highlight of my crazy world right now. I know if I never give up I'll really get there one day, for it's so real I can almost touch it! I can almost touch you. Almost smell the top of your head. Almost see your bottomless dimple. Almost hear your voice. You are the best part of me, Chynna. Stay there in that perfect little place in my mind, baby girl...and save a glass of lemonade for me.
Cancer...I hate it but it's kind of funny sometimes
I have cancer. It's kind of like having a distant relative who shows up for a weekend visit and won't leave. Remember when Cousin Ernie showed up at Ricky and Lucy's apartment and wouldn't leave? She finally had to dress up like a "wicked city woman" and vamp Cousin Ernie to get him to go back to Bent Fork. That's what I'm doing. Just like Lucy and Ethel, me 'n my friend chemo are going to vamp cancer and trick it into leaving me alone. It's a great plan. Besides, I've always longed for an exciting, mysterious life filled with espionage. I just never thought I would be held captive by my own body. I was thinkin' more like Pierce Brosnan or George Clooney than cancer, okay? Still, I'm ready to embark on this great new chemo cruise of sorts, if only I could figure out this whole diet and wig thing. That, dear friends, is what we're hear to talk about today. Let us now start off with the phenomenon that is....the wig.
So, I took my husband with me to the wig store. BFF's and sisters-in-law are incredibly wonderful. Mothers are unimaginably essential. But, for this mission, I needed someone who I could guarantee would tell me the God's honest truth, someone who would live in fear of what I might choose to withhold from him should he lie to me to make me feel better. We girls can do that, ya know? Anyway, as we stood outside the "salon" and formed our game plan, me as the quarterback and Kev as my center who would launch the unsuspecting wigs my way for the saleslady to plop on my head, I was a bit uneasy. Wig stores are a little creepy. They slap you in the face and make you see what is about to happen to you, like it or not. And, they put ridiculous pantyhose things on your head. I didn't know if I was supposed to rob the store or what? Still, I tried on wigs, and tried on wigs, and tried on wigs. Amazingly, the wigs that you think look EXACTLY like you'd want to look and would make you absolutely indistinguishable from Kate Beckinsale, in actuality, make you look like a Fraggle or like Priscilla back when she first married Elvis. There was one wig that made me want to croon an off-key version of "Coal Miner's Daughter" whilst accepting my 1972 CMA Female Vocalist of the Year award. There was another one with blond tips and black roots that prompted the chorus only from Rod Stewart's "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy." Still another made me a doppelganger for Janet from "3's Company". It was a daunting task, so I developed what I like to call "The Church Test." Me: "Kevin, does this one look good?" Kevin: "Yeah, those little spriggly things that quiver when you turn your head are very realistic." Me: "Kevin, that's my real hair poking out of the bottom." Kevin: "Oh??" Me: "Kevin, can you really see me walking into St. Martin's with this thing quivering on top of my head?" Kevin: "I see what you mean. NEXT!" And, so it went. We did finally settle on a stunning little number named "Codi". Yes, in an unprecedented showing of personification, the saleslady insisted on referring to the wig as "her". Would you like to purchase some wig shampoo for "her"? I'm going to throw in a free wig head for "her". After all was said and done, however, and I think what it will be like to walk into church with "Codi" atop my noggin, I may just love "her". And that, my friends, is the story of how Dina met Codi. But, about my diet......
I am so confused. Eat meat. Don't eat meat. Yes dairy. No dairy. Soy is good. Soy is very, very bad. Soy is the Anti-Christ. Be a vegan. Eat any veggies. Eat only organic. Eat anything you want, you have cancer. Eat nothing. Eat everything. What is a sick girl to do? Where will I go? As Scarlet O'Hara said to Rhett Butler while Atlanta was burning, "What will become of me?" I THOUGHT I had it all figured out, smart little/sly little me! I thought I knew my cancer diet. I read and read and read and read - just to be sure. But, out of the 15 cancer books I'm looking at this moment, with about 12 of them being geared right toward breast cancer, I see that they all say something slightly different! To make it worse, apparently no self-respecting cancer doctor or oncologist is willing to stake their reputation on any one certain diet. So, we read. So, we research. After months of this (I should have a PhD in cancer, let me tell you!) I develop what I think is a fail-proof plan. I will do the vegan thing. After all, though I've been eating meat again for several years, I did spend several years and two pregnancies as a lacto-ovo vegetarian, only stopping when my family thought it best to break the news to me that, alas, chocolate is really not a meat substitute. The morph to vegan-ism should be easier for me than the average Joe, right? Yes! It's been an almost effortless though interesting transition from supposed normalcy to becoming the only non-carnivore in my household. But, what does a vegan put in her coffee? What do good little vegan girls pour over their Kashi in the mornings? Why, soy milk, of course! So, I've been swimming around in "Silk" heaven for the last 3 weeks. That was until Friday night. That was until Aunt Sue found it necessary to tell me that studies have linked pro-estrogen cancers, like mine, and soy consumption together. Aunt Sue knows her cancer, too! I looked it up. I researched it nine ways to Sunday and there is a link between both pre and post menopausal cancer patients that would suggest we stay the heck away from soy. Oh well, that at least leaves me with organic veggies and fruits and whole grain breads, right? Yum, yum! Besides, did you know that Pamela Anderson is a vegan? I'm getting on that bandwagon, fo sho! I'll have whatever Pam is having....then I'm off to vamp some cancer!
So, I took my husband with me to the wig store. BFF's and sisters-in-law are incredibly wonderful. Mothers are unimaginably essential. But, for this mission, I needed someone who I could guarantee would tell me the God's honest truth, someone who would live in fear of what I might choose to withhold from him should he lie to me to make me feel better. We girls can do that, ya know? Anyway, as we stood outside the "salon" and formed our game plan, me as the quarterback and Kev as my center who would launch the unsuspecting wigs my way for the saleslady to plop on my head, I was a bit uneasy. Wig stores are a little creepy. They slap you in the face and make you see what is about to happen to you, like it or not. And, they put ridiculous pantyhose things on your head. I didn't know if I was supposed to rob the store or what? Still, I tried on wigs, and tried on wigs, and tried on wigs. Amazingly, the wigs that you think look EXACTLY like you'd want to look and would make you absolutely indistinguishable from Kate Beckinsale, in actuality, make you look like a Fraggle or like Priscilla back when she first married Elvis. There was one wig that made me want to croon an off-key version of "Coal Miner's Daughter" whilst accepting my 1972 CMA Female Vocalist of the Year award. There was another one with blond tips and black roots that prompted the chorus only from Rod Stewart's "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy." Still another made me a doppelganger for Janet from "3's Company". It was a daunting task, so I developed what I like to call "The Church Test." Me: "Kevin, does this one look good?" Kevin: "Yeah, those little spriggly things that quiver when you turn your head are very realistic." Me: "Kevin, that's my real hair poking out of the bottom." Kevin: "Oh??" Me: "Kevin, can you really see me walking into St. Martin's with this thing quivering on top of my head?" Kevin: "I see what you mean. NEXT!" And, so it went. We did finally settle on a stunning little number named "Codi". Yes, in an unprecedented showing of personification, the saleslady insisted on referring to the wig as "her". Would you like to purchase some wig shampoo for "her"? I'm going to throw in a free wig head for "her". After all was said and done, however, and I think what it will be like to walk into church with "Codi" atop my noggin, I may just love "her". And that, my friends, is the story of how Dina met Codi. But, about my diet......
I am so confused. Eat meat. Don't eat meat. Yes dairy. No dairy. Soy is good. Soy is very, very bad. Soy is the Anti-Christ. Be a vegan. Eat any veggies. Eat only organic. Eat anything you want, you have cancer. Eat nothing. Eat everything. What is a sick girl to do? Where will I go? As Scarlet O'Hara said to Rhett Butler while Atlanta was burning, "What will become of me?" I THOUGHT I had it all figured out, smart little/sly little me! I thought I knew my cancer diet. I read and read and read and read - just to be sure. But, out of the 15 cancer books I'm looking at this moment, with about 12 of them being geared right toward breast cancer, I see that they all say something slightly different! To make it worse, apparently no self-respecting cancer doctor or oncologist is willing to stake their reputation on any one certain diet. So, we read. So, we research. After months of this (I should have a PhD in cancer, let me tell you!) I develop what I think is a fail-proof plan. I will do the vegan thing. After all, though I've been eating meat again for several years, I did spend several years and two pregnancies as a lacto-ovo vegetarian, only stopping when my family thought it best to break the news to me that, alas, chocolate is really not a meat substitute. The morph to vegan-ism should be easier for me than the average Joe, right? Yes! It's been an almost effortless though interesting transition from supposed normalcy to becoming the only non-carnivore in my household. But, what does a vegan put in her coffee? What do good little vegan girls pour over their Kashi in the mornings? Why, soy milk, of course! So, I've been swimming around in "Silk" heaven for the last 3 weeks. That was until Friday night. That was until Aunt Sue found it necessary to tell me that studies have linked pro-estrogen cancers, like mine, and soy consumption together. Aunt Sue knows her cancer, too! I looked it up. I researched it nine ways to Sunday and there is a link between both pre and post menopausal cancer patients that would suggest we stay the heck away from soy. Oh well, that at least leaves me with organic veggies and fruits and whole grain breads, right? Yum, yum! Besides, did you know that Pamela Anderson is a vegan? I'm getting on that bandwagon, fo sho! I'll have whatever Pam is having....then I'm off to vamp some cancer!
The sleeplessness of it all...
Well then suddenly, there was no one left standing in the hall...
In a flood of tears that no one really ever heard fall at all,
oh I went searchin' for an answer...
Up the stairs and down the hall, not to find an answer...
just to hear the call of a nightbird...
singing come away...
come away...
"Stevie Nicks, "Edge of Seventeen"
I can't sleep. Everyone told me that I would be sleep deprived after she died. It wasn't that I didn't believe them, all my well-wishers, it just wasn't so. I was sleeping fine. You tend to do that after about the third glass of merlot. But, the merlot isn't really good for me and I sort of knew that from the beginning. Besides, I'm a rules girl and the rules say that's not the way I'm supposed to handle this, so I don't do that anymore. And, now I can't sleep. I wake up in the middle of the deep, dark night with the strangest songs in my head, or snippets of an old memory clanking around in my rusty, metal-ly mind. I toss. I turn (several times). I sigh. I cry. I get up and make some coffee. I think complicated, impressive thoughts. I wonder if she thinks of me, too. I wonder where she is, what she does all day long up there. I wonder, can she see me from up there? Do I look like an ant in downtown Manhattan from a far away plane? Is there really a Heaven? Is she somewhere, anywhere?
Once upon a time when I was a different girl - before life took hold of me and shook me senseless, someone I loved very much told me that it might not be what I thought it was, this life. It's always about the "me"ness of things. It's my stuff: my blanket, my doll, my Disney DVDs, my Ipod, my phone, my car...these things MUST make me more me, right? I can't be as special as you unless I have more "my" things. In Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth" (which I did not enjoy! I'm sorry, Oprah, but this is one hot tamale train I did not buy a ticket for. Though, I am quoting it, huh?) we learn that in order to have peace you have to let go of the ego - let go of your "me" in order to fully understand how tiny little you fits in the big, bad old world. It's just an outward expression of what we Southern children heard preached to us every Sunday growing up in the Bible Belt - material things don't make you better...and you can't take it with you, anyway. But, what about the deeper layer? What about one more cut into the flesh of consciousness? Back to me as a younger me...someone said, basically - what if it isn't all about us? What if it's not about the human race even? What if, and I quote, we - our entire civilization as we know it- are "but a speck of dust under a giant's big toenail." We think that, even if we aren't all that and the bag of proverbial chips, we're at least a chink in the chain of life that is all encompassing. Maybe that isn't true...maybe eternity is just an insignificant speck in the face of something that doesn't even recognize us. Maybe we are to this bigger thing what a single-celled, undiscovered, unimportant, unknown algae thingamabobber out in the middle of the ocean is to us....absolutely NOTHING. Sort of a modern day "Horton Hears a Who", huh? Who needs a Big Bang Theory when we have Dr. Seuss?
I wonder about these things. I wonder if it all really matters. Maybe the unknown algae mechanisms have their versions of hospitals and cancers and little girls who die too soon. Maybe they have single-cell amoeba-like mothers who can't sleep at night and wonder about the complexities of grief and whether they will ever smile again that sort of smile that actually reaches their eyes...not the one they've perfected that just twists the mouth into something that could pass for a smile so people will stop staring at them in public places. Maybe they long not to feel their single cell pulled through their chest cavities and stomped on, over and over again. Maybe they wonder if they will always be this way - maybe it hurts so bad for them, too. I wonder about all these things. And, still, the songs play and the memories loop in an endless reel in my head. And, I know, I need to sleep..........and, I hope she sleeps, too. For she is my universe and I am but a speck of her dust.
In a flood of tears that no one really ever heard fall at all,
oh I went searchin' for an answer...
Up the stairs and down the hall, not to find an answer...
just to hear the call of a nightbird...
singing come away...
come away...
"Stevie Nicks, "Edge of Seventeen"
I can't sleep. Everyone told me that I would be sleep deprived after she died. It wasn't that I didn't believe them, all my well-wishers, it just wasn't so. I was sleeping fine. You tend to do that after about the third glass of merlot. But, the merlot isn't really good for me and I sort of knew that from the beginning. Besides, I'm a rules girl and the rules say that's not the way I'm supposed to handle this, so I don't do that anymore. And, now I can't sleep. I wake up in the middle of the deep, dark night with the strangest songs in my head, or snippets of an old memory clanking around in my rusty, metal-ly mind. I toss. I turn (several times). I sigh. I cry. I get up and make some coffee. I think complicated, impressive thoughts. I wonder if she thinks of me, too. I wonder where she is, what she does all day long up there. I wonder, can she see me from up there? Do I look like an ant in downtown Manhattan from a far away plane? Is there really a Heaven? Is she somewhere, anywhere?
Once upon a time when I was a different girl - before life took hold of me and shook me senseless, someone I loved very much told me that it might not be what I thought it was, this life. It's always about the "me"ness of things. It's my stuff: my blanket, my doll, my Disney DVDs, my Ipod, my phone, my car...these things MUST make me more me, right? I can't be as special as you unless I have more "my" things. In Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth" (which I did not enjoy! I'm sorry, Oprah, but this is one hot tamale train I did not buy a ticket for. Though, I am quoting it, huh?) we learn that in order to have peace you have to let go of the ego - let go of your "me" in order to fully understand how tiny little you fits in the big, bad old world. It's just an outward expression of what we Southern children heard preached to us every Sunday growing up in the Bible Belt - material things don't make you better...and you can't take it with you, anyway. But, what about the deeper layer? What about one more cut into the flesh of consciousness? Back to me as a younger me...someone said, basically - what if it isn't all about us? What if it's not about the human race even? What if, and I quote, we - our entire civilization as we know it- are "but a speck of dust under a giant's big toenail." We think that, even if we aren't all that and the bag of proverbial chips, we're at least a chink in the chain of life that is all encompassing. Maybe that isn't true...maybe eternity is just an insignificant speck in the face of something that doesn't even recognize us. Maybe we are to this bigger thing what a single-celled, undiscovered, unimportant, unknown algae thingamabobber out in the middle of the ocean is to us....absolutely NOTHING. Sort of a modern day "Horton Hears a Who", huh? Who needs a Big Bang Theory when we have Dr. Seuss?
I wonder about these things. I wonder if it all really matters. Maybe the unknown algae mechanisms have their versions of hospitals and cancers and little girls who die too soon. Maybe they have single-cell amoeba-like mothers who can't sleep at night and wonder about the complexities of grief and whether they will ever smile again that sort of smile that actually reaches their eyes...not the one they've perfected that just twists the mouth into something that could pass for a smile so people will stop staring at them in public places. Maybe they long not to feel their single cell pulled through their chest cavities and stomped on, over and over again. Maybe they wonder if they will always be this way - maybe it hurts so bad for them, too. I wonder about all these things. And, still, the songs play and the memories loop in an endless reel in my head. And, I know, I need to sleep..........and, I hope she sleeps, too. For she is my universe and I am but a speck of her dust.
Let's Rap
And every single person is a Slim Shady lurkin'
He could be workin at Burger King spitten on your onion rings
Or in the parking lot circling screaming I don't give a *&@#
With his windows down and system up
So will the real Shady, please stand up
and put one of those fingers on each hand up
and to be proud to be outta your mind and outta control and one more time,
loud as you can, how does it go?
I'm Slim Shady Yes I'm the real Shady
All you other Slim Shadys are just imitating
So won't the real Slim Shady...
Please stand up, Please stand up,
Please stand up
becuase I'm Slim Shady Yes I'm the real Shady
All you other Slim Shadys are just imitating
So won't the real Slim shady...
Please stand up,
Please stand up,
Please stand up
"The Real Slim Shady" by Eminem
"Will the real Slim Shady please stand up?" I am a study in contrasts. This is something I realized recently - recently while trying to get my old life back. See, there were just too many nasty, ugly things that happened to me last year. If you read this blog, then you know that my daughter died. If you read this blog, then you also know that I have (had?) breast cancer. You may know that I moved recently - and didn't particularly want to move, if you get my drift. These are all things that would be life changing situations at any time of our lives, much less all in one year. So, how do I get back to normal? What is normal? Was I even normal to begin with? I am an imposter in my own body, it seems.
Back to who I am and why I may need Robert Downey, Jr. to suspend filming the Sherlock Holmes movie and use his newly developed investigatory skills to help me figure this all out - nothing makes sense anymore! I don't look like a normal person. True, I try. I wear a wig, most days anyway. Some days I think it looks somewhat realistic, but other days it really does look like a brown football helmet. It's ok - you don't have to call me and tell me that it doesn't. Let's just not talk about it, ok? Besides, my lack of hair isn't that noticeable when my arms are two complete different sizes. I have one little elbow and one huge elbow - and that trend continues all the way down my arm. I look like a PTA version of Hellboy, proudly thrusting my stonehand at random nurses, cashiers, and unsuspecting hand-shakers all over town. Oh....and if you get past my "Two Face" body (get it, I'm somehow working all these comic book characters in my blog! First Hellboy, then Two Face, who had two different faces - I have two different arms??? Ok! It's a stretch & there's no Sherlock Holmes comic book, is there?), I'm sporting the ever trendy "turning brown fingernails look" on BOTH HANDS. Now, I'm working on all of these issues. The hair is growing - not very evenly, true - but growing nonetheless. The big arm will correct itself at some point, I hope, but nothing will happen in this area for at least another month, if not longer. I am told that the nails PROBABLY won't fall off, but will turn much darker before s-l-o-w-l-y growing out to reveal squeaky clean nails one day. Still, getting the imposter that I am back to looking like normal me is hard work.
Some things have drastically improved lately. After months of self-imposed exile, I do actually get out and about all by myself now. I have a car to drive again, after Chynna's car finally passed inspection! The air-conditioner doesn't work, and it smells like it caught on fire by the time I get to my destination, but it runs and it gets me where I need to go. I take baby steps. For 3 weeks I've been driving myself to and from radiation everyday, but nowhere else. Yesterday I decided to try on my old life, just for one afternoon, and run some errands - all by myself, big girl that I am. I went to radiation, true, but I also went to GardenRidge, to Kroger, and then, finally to visit my daughter. Which is another contrast altogether.
GardenRidge is amazing, isn't it? Forget LLCoolJ - what ladies really love is some discount home goods. Can I get an amen? I perused down each and every aisle, concentrating on the sights and smells of a place I hadn't been, alone anyway, in months. I pretended to be interested in candles. I touched all of the tablecloths trying to decide which one would be a perfect match in my dining room, even though I did not intend to buy one. I feigned excitement over the cookbooks in the front. But I walked out with something altogether different. I would never have imagined, that with all the beautiful things in such a store, that what I would be valiantly in search of....would be the perfect flowers for my daughter's headstone. And, that is what I bought. What a contrast. I also went to Kroger and bought dinner components and a bottle of wine. Not because I was throwing an impromptu dinner party, but because I knew I would need some alone time soon - a cocooning of sorts, where a glass of wine and a bubble bath can really help confront that old self that harbors a little charcoal ember of "why me" deep down in the center of my soul. So, that is also what I bought. What a contrast.
I will never be normal again, but that's ok with me. I will still get out, still go to the same old places, and, hopefully, begin looking like myself on the outside. My internal motive, however, will always be different. As I sat on the ground at the cemetery yesterday, after presenting her with identical bouquets of white lilies, straightening all of the charms on the Chynnatree and putting a feather boa collar on the statue of Berkley, I reminded my daughter how much I still miss her. I also reinforced some promises, like the promise to never forget her, the promise to never let the poinsettias stay on her headstone until January 21st again, and the promise to bring the real Berkley for a visit very soon. And, then I came home to my new normal life. I think the real Dina stood up today.
He could be workin at Burger King spitten on your onion rings
Or in the parking lot circling screaming I don't give a *&@#
With his windows down and system up
So will the real Shady, please stand up
and put one of those fingers on each hand up
and to be proud to be outta your mind and outta control and one more time,
loud as you can, how does it go?
I'm Slim Shady Yes I'm the real Shady
All you other Slim Shadys are just imitating
So won't the real Slim Shady...
Please stand up, Please stand up,
Please stand up
becuase I'm Slim Shady Yes I'm the real Shady
All you other Slim Shadys are just imitating
So won't the real Slim shady...
Please stand up,
Please stand up,
Please stand up
"The Real Slim Shady" by Eminem
"Will the real Slim Shady please stand up?" I am a study in contrasts. This is something I realized recently - recently while trying to get my old life back. See, there were just too many nasty, ugly things that happened to me last year. If you read this blog, then you know that my daughter died. If you read this blog, then you also know that I have (had?) breast cancer. You may know that I moved recently - and didn't particularly want to move, if you get my drift. These are all things that would be life changing situations at any time of our lives, much less all in one year. So, how do I get back to normal? What is normal? Was I even normal to begin with? I am an imposter in my own body, it seems.
Back to who I am and why I may need Robert Downey, Jr. to suspend filming the Sherlock Holmes movie and use his newly developed investigatory skills to help me figure this all out - nothing makes sense anymore! I don't look like a normal person. True, I try. I wear a wig, most days anyway. Some days I think it looks somewhat realistic, but other days it really does look like a brown football helmet. It's ok - you don't have to call me and tell me that it doesn't. Let's just not talk about it, ok? Besides, my lack of hair isn't that noticeable when my arms are two complete different sizes. I have one little elbow and one huge elbow - and that trend continues all the way down my arm. I look like a PTA version of Hellboy, proudly thrusting my stonehand at random nurses, cashiers, and unsuspecting hand-shakers all over town. Oh....and if you get past my "Two Face" body (get it, I'm somehow working all these comic book characters in my blog! First Hellboy, then Two Face, who had two different faces - I have two different arms??? Ok! It's a stretch & there's no Sherlock Holmes comic book, is there?), I'm sporting the ever trendy "turning brown fingernails look" on BOTH HANDS. Now, I'm working on all of these issues. The hair is growing - not very evenly, true - but growing nonetheless. The big arm will correct itself at some point, I hope, but nothing will happen in this area for at least another month, if not longer. I am told that the nails PROBABLY won't fall off, but will turn much darker before s-l-o-w-l-y growing out to reveal squeaky clean nails one day. Still, getting the imposter that I am back to looking like normal me is hard work.
Some things have drastically improved lately. After months of self-imposed exile, I do actually get out and about all by myself now. I have a car to drive again, after Chynna's car finally passed inspection! The air-conditioner doesn't work, and it smells like it caught on fire by the time I get to my destination, but it runs and it gets me where I need to go. I take baby steps. For 3 weeks I've been driving myself to and from radiation everyday, but nowhere else. Yesterday I decided to try on my old life, just for one afternoon, and run some errands - all by myself, big girl that I am. I went to radiation, true, but I also went to GardenRidge, to Kroger, and then, finally to visit my daughter. Which is another contrast altogether.
GardenRidge is amazing, isn't it? Forget LLCoolJ - what ladies really love is some discount home goods. Can I get an amen? I perused down each and every aisle, concentrating on the sights and smells of a place I hadn't been, alone anyway, in months. I pretended to be interested in candles. I touched all of the tablecloths trying to decide which one would be a perfect match in my dining room, even though I did not intend to buy one. I feigned excitement over the cookbooks in the front. But I walked out with something altogether different. I would never have imagined, that with all the beautiful things in such a store, that what I would be valiantly in search of....would be the perfect flowers for my daughter's headstone. And, that is what I bought. What a contrast. I also went to Kroger and bought dinner components and a bottle of wine. Not because I was throwing an impromptu dinner party, but because I knew I would need some alone time soon - a cocooning of sorts, where a glass of wine and a bubble bath can really help confront that old self that harbors a little charcoal ember of "why me" deep down in the center of my soul. So, that is also what I bought. What a contrast.
I will never be normal again, but that's ok with me. I will still get out, still go to the same old places, and, hopefully, begin looking like myself on the outside. My internal motive, however, will always be different. As I sat on the ground at the cemetery yesterday, after presenting her with identical bouquets of white lilies, straightening all of the charms on the Chynnatree and putting a feather boa collar on the statue of Berkley, I reminded my daughter how much I still miss her. I also reinforced some promises, like the promise to never forget her, the promise to never let the poinsettias stay on her headstone until January 21st again, and the promise to bring the real Berkley for a visit very soon. And, then I came home to my new normal life. I think the real Dina stood up today.
Unleashing My Inner Dork
My MySpace page is all totally pimped out
I got people begging for my top 8 spaces
Yo, I know Pi to a thousand places
Ain't got no grills but I still wear braces
I order all of my sandwiches with mayonnaise
I'm a whiz at minesweeper I can play for days
Once you see my sweet moves you're gonna stay amazed,
my fingers movin' so fast I'll set the place ablaze
There's no killer app I haven't run
At Pascal, well, I'm number 1
Do vector calculus just for fun
I ain't got a gat but I gotta soldering gun
Happy days is my favourite theme song
I can sure kick your butt in a game of ping pong
I'll ace any trivia quiz you bring on
I'm fluent in Java Script as well as Klingon
Here's the part I sing on
They see me roll on, my Segway!
I know in my heart they think I'mwhite n' nerdy!
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Can't you see I'm white n' nerdy
Look at me I'm white n' nerdy
I'd like to roll with-The gangsters
Although it's apparent I'm tooWhite n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
I'm just too white n' nerdy
How'd I get so white n' nerdy?
"White & Nerdy" by Weird Al Yankovic
Something funny happened to me today. Granted, you need a warped sense of humor to appreciate all the funny that I've been through in the last year, but this was almost a laugh out loud moment. We all know that deep down inside, I'm a big dork. Some of us have inner personalities that long to get out. Some women have that inner seductress they can unleash. Others have amazing inner strength - literally - that they call upon in times of need, or whenever you want furniture rearranged and there's not a man around. I, on the other hand, have an inner dork. What can I say?
I had an appointment with my radiation doctor today. I had absolutely no idea what was to be done at said appointment, I just knew that I needed to be there today. So, here I go, dressed very cute with a trench coat and angora scarf, to boot. First, I get there and have to scan my card. See, for radiation they give you this thing that looks like a library card. It's laminated and has a bar-code on the back. You're supposed to walk in and scan it, then have a seat and wait until your name is called. That is what I intended to do, except my card would not scan. Remember the first time you tried to use a curling iron? Remember how difficult it was to get the hang of looking into the mirror and moving your arms in the direction you needed them to go when everything looked so backward? Well, that was me and my little check-in card. I could see the red laser light shining out of the thing that looked like a WalMart scanner. I knew I was supposed to line it up with my little bar code. So, why then, did the laser light move 5 inches to the right or left each time I got my card anywhere near it? Honestly, I looked around to see if I was being punked! There was a receptionist right there - truly she is not a day under 90 - who was getting quite upset that I couldn't get the hang of this simple procedure. Finally, I decided to take control of the situation. I reached down to pick up the mounted scanner, thinking I would have more luck moving the scanner to match the card than the card to match the scanner. That's when Granny went apes*&@ on me (sorry kids - I call it like I see it). Apparently, there has been a rash of stolen scanner thingamabobbers. Maybe they are hot sellers on the black market or something. So, I drop the scanner like it's a hot coal and then Granny had to remount and reset the darn thing. All this was happening while dozens of other people had lined up behind me to scan their little cards, too. Rumbles and grumbles ensued and Granny was all too happy to tell everyone that I had, indeed, thought myself worthy enough to pick up the scanner. Heads were shaking and dozens of people were tsk tsking me. I felt like that guy in the Visa debit card commercial when he tries to use cash! Meanwhile, Granny grabs my check-in card out of my hand and slides it right into the scanner like nobody's business - beep, and we're done. I was humiliated. This was just the beginning.
Next I sit in the waiting room waiting to see what comes next. Shortly a nurse appears and tells me that, while radiation doesn't start until tomorrow, she is there to walk me through the procedure so I will know exactly what to do everyday. Great! This is definitely something I can handle, right? First we walk back to a dressing room. She shows me where I will change clothes everyday, where my clothes should hang, what can stay in that spot and what has to come with me. This is where I start to fall apart - I am very busy thinking: clothes stay, purse comes with me, jewelry goes in purse - so jewelry comes with me, coats stay with clothes, but scarves go into purse - so scarves stay with me, pants stay on my body so do not take them off, etc, etc. Suddenly she says, "After that stay here and wait for your name to be called." OK, so I thought she meant stay right here tomorrow, once you have your "what stays and what goes" sorted through. I did not know I was actually supposed to do the stay and go thing right now. It wasn't until the "Employees Only Past This Point" door hit me in the face that she realized I was still behind her. Ouch! Now Florence Nightengale has to go through the whole dressing room rules monolague again before I realize that I needed to take my clothes off today - right now, actually. "Oooooooh, I get it." That was all I could think of to say! So, back I go to change my clothes, leaving my shirt and coat but taking my jewelry and scarf in my purse. Then I sit down with my big Mom purse wearing my jeans with a ginormous hospital gown over the top.
My name finally gets called and I set off in search of the person calling me. Figuring out where the source of a sound is coming from is NOT one of my strong points. I am almost all the way back to Granny at the front desk when someone YELLS at me. I whipped around, saw the error of my ways - literally, and trudge back to Nurse Cratchit by the infamous dressing room. She impatiently tells me that I am to follow her into the next room, the dreaded radiation room. This is the part where I really do a great job! I had it going on in the radiation room! I sat down my purse and hopped up on the table. I remembered this big machine from last time - knees here, arms above head, hands clasped...so I assume the position without having to be told what to do. No doubt I had quite the "I am the shizzle" look on my face at that moment, but Nursie-nurse would not crack a smile. For some reason I decide to make it my life's work to make her smile at me. Why I could not just be there and be quiet, I do not know. Here were some of my best lines..."Glad my arms are above my head - you can't see my stretch marks this way." As they were moving my arms and legs all over the place..."Bet you guys are GREAT at the hokie pokie." How about my personal favorite as they were photographing me..."Wow, this is like a centerfold. Should I smile?" Yes, that's right. They took pictures of me, ungowned, on a cold, hard table. They also drew all over me with a sharpie pen - all around frankenboobie (affectionate nomenclature since it's all stitched back together like Frankenstein), and even under my armpit!!! Not only was it not the body art I've always longed for, but it tickled - BIG TIME! While I tried so hard not to laugh, they were busy telling me that the pictures and marks were to help line me up right each day, but I know that deep down inside it was so they could sit around a table at lunch and show their nurse friends pictures of the dumb lady that messed up the scanner, got lost, and wouldn't stop laughing.
Anywho, I made it through this terribly embarassing appointment. I will be going back tomorrow.....I've decided never to wear jewelry or a scarf, since all that stay and go stuff is way too confusing. Hopefully I can get my scan card to work. I've been thinking about Granny's technique. I believe it's all in the wrist. Do me a favor. If those pictures ever show up on the internet, please remember that I was having a bad day, ok? I accidentally let my inner dork out. Oops!
I got people begging for my top 8 spaces
Yo, I know Pi to a thousand places
Ain't got no grills but I still wear braces
I order all of my sandwiches with mayonnaise
I'm a whiz at minesweeper I can play for days
Once you see my sweet moves you're gonna stay amazed,
my fingers movin' so fast I'll set the place ablaze
There's no killer app I haven't run
At Pascal, well, I'm number 1
Do vector calculus just for fun
I ain't got a gat but I gotta soldering gun
Happy days is my favourite theme song
I can sure kick your butt in a game of ping pong
I'll ace any trivia quiz you bring on
I'm fluent in Java Script as well as Klingon
Here's the part I sing on
They see me roll on, my Segway!
I know in my heart they think I'mwhite n' nerdy!
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Can't you see I'm white n' nerdy
Look at me I'm white n' nerdy
I'd like to roll with-The gangsters
Although it's apparent I'm tooWhite n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
I'm just too white n' nerdy
How'd I get so white n' nerdy?
"White & Nerdy" by Weird Al Yankovic
Something funny happened to me today. Granted, you need a warped sense of humor to appreciate all the funny that I've been through in the last year, but this was almost a laugh out loud moment. We all know that deep down inside, I'm a big dork. Some of us have inner personalities that long to get out. Some women have that inner seductress they can unleash. Others have amazing inner strength - literally - that they call upon in times of need, or whenever you want furniture rearranged and there's not a man around. I, on the other hand, have an inner dork. What can I say?
I had an appointment with my radiation doctor today. I had absolutely no idea what was to be done at said appointment, I just knew that I needed to be there today. So, here I go, dressed very cute with a trench coat and angora scarf, to boot. First, I get there and have to scan my card. See, for radiation they give you this thing that looks like a library card. It's laminated and has a bar-code on the back. You're supposed to walk in and scan it, then have a seat and wait until your name is called. That is what I intended to do, except my card would not scan. Remember the first time you tried to use a curling iron? Remember how difficult it was to get the hang of looking into the mirror and moving your arms in the direction you needed them to go when everything looked so backward? Well, that was me and my little check-in card. I could see the red laser light shining out of the thing that looked like a WalMart scanner. I knew I was supposed to line it up with my little bar code. So, why then, did the laser light move 5 inches to the right or left each time I got my card anywhere near it? Honestly, I looked around to see if I was being punked! There was a receptionist right there - truly she is not a day under 90 - who was getting quite upset that I couldn't get the hang of this simple procedure. Finally, I decided to take control of the situation. I reached down to pick up the mounted scanner, thinking I would have more luck moving the scanner to match the card than the card to match the scanner. That's when Granny went apes*&@ on me (sorry kids - I call it like I see it). Apparently, there has been a rash of stolen scanner thingamabobbers. Maybe they are hot sellers on the black market or something. So, I drop the scanner like it's a hot coal and then Granny had to remount and reset the darn thing. All this was happening while dozens of other people had lined up behind me to scan their little cards, too. Rumbles and grumbles ensued and Granny was all too happy to tell everyone that I had, indeed, thought myself worthy enough to pick up the scanner. Heads were shaking and dozens of people were tsk tsking me. I felt like that guy in the Visa debit card commercial when he tries to use cash! Meanwhile, Granny grabs my check-in card out of my hand and slides it right into the scanner like nobody's business - beep, and we're done. I was humiliated. This was just the beginning.
Next I sit in the waiting room waiting to see what comes next. Shortly a nurse appears and tells me that, while radiation doesn't start until tomorrow, she is there to walk me through the procedure so I will know exactly what to do everyday. Great! This is definitely something I can handle, right? First we walk back to a dressing room. She shows me where I will change clothes everyday, where my clothes should hang, what can stay in that spot and what has to come with me. This is where I start to fall apart - I am very busy thinking: clothes stay, purse comes with me, jewelry goes in purse - so jewelry comes with me, coats stay with clothes, but scarves go into purse - so scarves stay with me, pants stay on my body so do not take them off, etc, etc. Suddenly she says, "After that stay here and wait for your name to be called." OK, so I thought she meant stay right here tomorrow, once you have your "what stays and what goes" sorted through. I did not know I was actually supposed to do the stay and go thing right now. It wasn't until the "Employees Only Past This Point" door hit me in the face that she realized I was still behind her. Ouch! Now Florence Nightengale has to go through the whole dressing room rules monolague again before I realize that I needed to take my clothes off today - right now, actually. "Oooooooh, I get it." That was all I could think of to say! So, back I go to change my clothes, leaving my shirt and coat but taking my jewelry and scarf in my purse. Then I sit down with my big Mom purse wearing my jeans with a ginormous hospital gown over the top.
My name finally gets called and I set off in search of the person calling me. Figuring out where the source of a sound is coming from is NOT one of my strong points. I am almost all the way back to Granny at the front desk when someone YELLS at me. I whipped around, saw the error of my ways - literally, and trudge back to Nurse Cratchit by the infamous dressing room. She impatiently tells me that I am to follow her into the next room, the dreaded radiation room. This is the part where I really do a great job! I had it going on in the radiation room! I sat down my purse and hopped up on the table. I remembered this big machine from last time - knees here, arms above head, hands clasped...so I assume the position without having to be told what to do. No doubt I had quite the "I am the shizzle" look on my face at that moment, but Nursie-nurse would not crack a smile. For some reason I decide to make it my life's work to make her smile at me. Why I could not just be there and be quiet, I do not know. Here were some of my best lines..."Glad my arms are above my head - you can't see my stretch marks this way." As they were moving my arms and legs all over the place..."Bet you guys are GREAT at the hokie pokie." How about my personal favorite as they were photographing me..."Wow, this is like a centerfold. Should I smile?" Yes, that's right. They took pictures of me, ungowned, on a cold, hard table. They also drew all over me with a sharpie pen - all around frankenboobie (affectionate nomenclature since it's all stitched back together like Frankenstein), and even under my armpit!!! Not only was it not the body art I've always longed for, but it tickled - BIG TIME! While I tried so hard not to laugh, they were busy telling me that the pictures and marks were to help line me up right each day, but I know that deep down inside it was so they could sit around a table at lunch and show their nurse friends pictures of the dumb lady that messed up the scanner, got lost, and wouldn't stop laughing.
Anywho, I made it through this terribly embarassing appointment. I will be going back tomorrow.....I've decided never to wear jewelry or a scarf, since all that stay and go stuff is way too confusing. Hopefully I can get my scan card to work. I've been thinking about Granny's technique. I believe it's all in the wrist. Do me a favor. If those pictures ever show up on the internet, please remember that I was having a bad day, ok? I accidentally let my inner dork out. Oops!
Confucius Smells a Rat
On a morning from a Bogart movie
In a country where they turn back time
You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre Contemplating a crime
She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running
Like a watercolour in the rain
Don't bother asking for explanations
She'll just tell you that she came
In the year of the cat.
She doesn't give you time for questions
As she locks up your arm in hers
And you follow 'till your sense of which direction
Completely disappears
By the blue tiled walls near the market stalls
There's a hidden door she leads you to
These days, she says, I feel my life
Just like a river running through
The year of the cat
Al Stewart, "The Year of the Cat"
Well....more like the year of the rat, I think. You know how every year is a different symbol in the Chinese calender? Some years are pigs, cats, maybe even poodles (maybe those are more like delicacies??)....surely this is the rat year. Does anyone know? Here's what I think. Something is going on with my hair. You can spread rumors behind my back - doesn't bother me. You can talk smack about my Mother (she can take care of herself, so I would seriously reconsider if I were you - she comes armed with a pool cue!). Please, however, do not mess with my hair! I haven't had any in quite some time, after all. Just when I was finally growing some in - and just when the bald spot on the back of my crown (that made me look like a monk...alms for the poor?), had finally almost completely grown in, a new problem developed.
My doctor explained it to me this way...some cancer/chemo patients regain their hair just as it was when they lost it. Some patients have hair that comes back completely opposite in color or texture - jet black or ultra curly hair is very common in this category, even if you were a stick-straight blond prior to cancer. Very rarely though, there is a strange mutation of hair that a patient will grow. Very rarely there is an odd phenomenon. Very rarely...well, you get the picture. My hair is growing at an astounding rate. My step-son literally cannot believe how much hair I have today in comparison to last week. My doctor, however, told me that the ultra- professional, uber-technical term for the color of my new hair is.....(drumroll)......RODENT!!! Yes, I am one of those very few isolated cases where a patient re-grows hair that isn't quite brown, isn't quite blond, isn't quite gray.....it's the color of a big, fat, rat. It also looks very "dusty" like someone sat me in the corner for 6 months and forgot to wipe me off!
It is mortifying. I do not like it! I feel like a female Master-Splinter off of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Picture me with a cane and a nasty brown robe saying,"Raphael, Michelangelo...We must stop Shredder!" Imagine me as Templeton from Charlotte's Web telling Charlotte and that Goose how to score food at the fair. Didn't Michael Jackson sing a song about a rat named Ben at one point in time? There is no such thing as a cute rat, anyway. That's all I know. At any rate, it isn't good news. They also say that I can try to color it, but I can't use a strong hair color, only one that washes out. Oh, yeah...and they tell me it probably won't take the hair color very well. I am doomed, I'm afraid. The next time you see me, I may be doing commercials for Activia yogurt (al a Jamie Lee Curtis). Maybe I can audition for one of those emergency device commercials (I will practice saying "I've fallen and I can't get up" in various accents). Wait! Didn't George Eat Old Gray Rat At Phillips House Yesterday????? No....that's just the way my Mother taught me to spell geography. Woe is me! Wish me well & thank you for reading this edition of Rat Tales!
In a country where they turn back time
You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre Contemplating a crime
She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running
Like a watercolour in the rain
Don't bother asking for explanations
She'll just tell you that she came
In the year of the cat.
She doesn't give you time for questions
As she locks up your arm in hers
And you follow 'till your sense of which direction
Completely disappears
By the blue tiled walls near the market stalls
There's a hidden door she leads you to
These days, she says, I feel my life
Just like a river running through
The year of the cat
Al Stewart, "The Year of the Cat"
Well....more like the year of the rat, I think. You know how every year is a different symbol in the Chinese calender? Some years are pigs, cats, maybe even poodles (maybe those are more like delicacies??)....surely this is the rat year. Does anyone know? Here's what I think. Something is going on with my hair. You can spread rumors behind my back - doesn't bother me. You can talk smack about my Mother (she can take care of herself, so I would seriously reconsider if I were you - she comes armed with a pool cue!). Please, however, do not mess with my hair! I haven't had any in quite some time, after all. Just when I was finally growing some in - and just when the bald spot on the back of my crown (that made me look like a monk...alms for the poor?), had finally almost completely grown in, a new problem developed.
My doctor explained it to me this way...some cancer/chemo patients regain their hair just as it was when they lost it. Some patients have hair that comes back completely opposite in color or texture - jet black or ultra curly hair is very common in this category, even if you were a stick-straight blond prior to cancer. Very rarely though, there is a strange mutation of hair that a patient will grow. Very rarely there is an odd phenomenon. Very rarely...well, you get the picture. My hair is growing at an astounding rate. My step-son literally cannot believe how much hair I have today in comparison to last week. My doctor, however, told me that the ultra- professional, uber-technical term for the color of my new hair is.....(drumroll)......RODENT!!! Yes, I am one of those very few isolated cases where a patient re-grows hair that isn't quite brown, isn't quite blond, isn't quite gray.....it's the color of a big, fat, rat. It also looks very "dusty" like someone sat me in the corner for 6 months and forgot to wipe me off!
It is mortifying. I do not like it! I feel like a female Master-Splinter off of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Picture me with a cane and a nasty brown robe saying,"Raphael, Michelangelo...We must stop Shredder!" Imagine me as Templeton from Charlotte's Web telling Charlotte and that Goose how to score food at the fair. Didn't Michael Jackson sing a song about a rat named Ben at one point in time? There is no such thing as a cute rat, anyway. That's all I know. At any rate, it isn't good news. They also say that I can try to color it, but I can't use a strong hair color, only one that washes out. Oh, yeah...and they tell me it probably won't take the hair color very well. I am doomed, I'm afraid. The next time you see me, I may be doing commercials for Activia yogurt (al a Jamie Lee Curtis). Maybe I can audition for one of those emergency device commercials (I will practice saying "I've fallen and I can't get up" in various accents). Wait! Didn't George Eat Old Gray Rat At Phillips House Yesterday????? No....that's just the way my Mother taught me to spell geography. Woe is me! Wish me well & thank you for reading this edition of Rat Tales!
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