"Am I only dreaming?"
The nightmare didn't end. I didn't wake up, and the struggle with reality is only beginning. It's been a week since we said goodbye, and my stomach is still in knots.
"I'll wake up tomorrow and I'll start; Tonight it feels so hard."
I don't go to bed until you can argue that it's technically morning. And then I don't get out of bed until it's actually afternoon. Depression? I don't think so. Not specifically. Ennui? Maybe. I really don't know what I feel right now. And my new sleeping pattern is not going to coincide with my return to work.
"When you go, I'll let you be; But you're killing everything in me."
I want her back. But I know it doesn't work that way. I want to shout that it's not fair. But I know life isn't. I want to punch the wall, and fully realize all I'll end up with is a broken fist to accompany my heart. I don't know how to let go, and I'm afraid that I'm not more of a mess right now because I'm not letting go. Am I rationalizing it away as a defense mechanism? Or am I really stronger than I thought?
"I've always been afraid."
It's true. About lots of things. About taking chances. About quitting my job and striking off on my own. About losing people I love. Well, now I really know what one of those is like. But I'm going to try to learn the lesson she'd want me to learn: It will be okay.
"I feel that when I'm old; I'll look at you and know; The world was beautiful."
Over 500 lines in the guestbook were signed at Mom's wake. That doesn't include couples or families or those who didn't see the book. It's not a stretch to say there were easily over 600 people who came to pay their respects and maybe closer to 700. Some friends said they waited for over an hour to get inside. The line wrapped around the inside and the outside of the building. Some people actually saw the line from the street, went to run some errands, and came back later. (Mom would have enjoyed that.)
I'm lucky in that I don't have to wait till I'm older to appreciate the amazing woman that my mom was. The hundreds of people who came to pay their respects were proof. Not only friends and family from near and far. Her fellow teachers who all came out to say goodbye. Who helped us clean out the stuff in her classroom. Her former students and their parents. Our neighbors. Even our mailman came. The countless mass cards, letters, notes and emails. The food that seems to materialize from nowhere. The packed church. The overflowing cemetery chapel. The women at the bank who all broke down in tears when we told them that Mom passed. The amazing support from complete strangers.
"You say that love goes anywhere; In your darkest time, it's just enough to know it's there."
I can't begin to thank anyone who has shown us support. Our family and friends. The people who have stumbled across this blog. Woody among others--who I've never met or even spoken with aside from comments and comments about comments--who all leave me kind words and support. This is the darkest time of my life. The most painful thing I've had to face. But everywhere I turn I see love. A "thank you" doesn't cover that.
But that's all I have.
So thank you.
And Mom would thank you too. Her family was her world, and the support you have for us is support for which she would be forever grateful.
"Then you tell me..."
Here's to tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
"And the time such clumsy time, in deciding if it's time..."
Mom died on Saturday night. To write those words again tears another hole in my heart. Another void in my stomach.
I'm numb. Or in shock. Or both.
She was supposed to die on Tuesday. Then Wednesday. Every day the doctor came in and told us, "Not long now." 24 hours. Tomorrow. Soon.
"We can't do a thing but wait."
The hospital room was packed. Bed with mom. Chairs surrounding with her children. My father. My aunt. Our friends. We slept contorted and twisted and draped over the bed, holding on to her hands, her feet.
"When the big hand goes round again."
For 5 days my mom lived on love and determination.
After some discussion, we left the room on several occasions to have what would pass for family dinners in the hospital cafeteria. At first we thought maybe she was waiting for us to leave before she would pass. Towards the end of the week it became evident that she wasn't waiting for anything. She just wouldn't give up.
"You can lose yourself in your courage."
I voiced that opinion Saturday morning. Mom never had any intention of stopping. She kept going until her body couldn't. To sit for 5 days and watch you mother die... I guess I don't have a right to talk about what's tough or not anymore.
The doctor and nurses told us she has a strong heart.
Yeah, no kidding. We could have told you that. As if it was some astounding diagnosis. As if it was some great revelation that could not be explained. If it wasn't for the aggressiveness of the cancer in her liver, making chemo impossible, Mom would be here right now.
(Fuck you, cancer.)
"When the time we have now ends."
I held my mom's hand as she died. I held her hand.
My mom died and it hasn't even begun to sink in. What are we going to do without her? What am I going to do?
"Can you still hear the last goodnight?"
My mom died and I held her hand as she took her last breath. I felt her hand get cold. I saw her expression change. I lost my mom.
"Close my eyes and believe where you are, an angel for me."
I'm numb. Or in shock. Or both.
She was supposed to die on Tuesday. Then Wednesday. Every day the doctor came in and told us, "Not long now." 24 hours. Tomorrow. Soon.
"We can't do a thing but wait."
The hospital room was packed. Bed with mom. Chairs surrounding with her children. My father. My aunt. Our friends. We slept contorted and twisted and draped over the bed, holding on to her hands, her feet.
"When the big hand goes round again."
For 5 days my mom lived on love and determination.
After some discussion, we left the room on several occasions to have what would pass for family dinners in the hospital cafeteria. At first we thought maybe she was waiting for us to leave before she would pass. Towards the end of the week it became evident that she wasn't waiting for anything. She just wouldn't give up.
"You can lose yourself in your courage."
I voiced that opinion Saturday morning. Mom never had any intention of stopping. She kept going until her body couldn't. To sit for 5 days and watch you mother die... I guess I don't have a right to talk about what's tough or not anymore.
The doctor and nurses told us she has a strong heart.
Yeah, no kidding. We could have told you that. As if it was some astounding diagnosis. As if it was some great revelation that could not be explained. If it wasn't for the aggressiveness of the cancer in her liver, making chemo impossible, Mom would be here right now.
(Fuck you, cancer.)
"When the time we have now ends."
I held my mom's hand as she died. I held her hand.
My mom died and it hasn't even begun to sink in. What are we going to do without her? What am I going to do?
"Can you still hear the last goodnight?"
My mom died and I held her hand as she took her last breath. I felt her hand get cold. I saw her expression change. I lost my mom.
"Close my eyes and believe where you are, an angel for me."
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
"May angels lead you in"
I have been here a week. My mom for two. I think I speak for my family when I say we've run the gamut of emotions. We've been hopeful an scared. Happy and sad.
The same couch. The same exact spot. Except this time the pit in my stomach isn't going away. It's going to turn into a hole that cannot be filled.
"May angels lead you in."
My mom is going to die. There isn't anything else they can do for her. Unless she becomes the object of a miracle, the doctors have given her 24 hours. My mom is going to die and my heart is broken.
"I never said thank you for that..."
But I got a chance. Yesterday morning, after a very difficult and pain-filled night and before the fever and situation that would exclude my mom from anymore treatment, we had an opportunity to speak with her. Each breath was a struggle, and each exhalation was accompanied by a moan. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was in a whole lot of pain. I asked for a moment alone with her.
When I smoothed her hair with my hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek, I told her I wanted to talk to her. She opened her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes, now sick and yellow. I tried not to cry when I told her she was so brave and strong. How she taught me to be brave and strong. I told her I try to make her proud, and she told me, "Always." I told her I hope I don't disappoint her, and she said, "Never." I told her that I love her, and she said, "I'll always love you."
I am sure that I am unable to fully appreciate that minute-long conversation right now. But I'm confident that in the weeks and months and years that will follow, it will probably be one of the most important conversations of my life.
A little while after this, she developed a fever and started shaking and moaning uncontrollably. It took a long time before she was drained of fluid, comforted with warm blankets and soothed back to breath-moans. Then my mom sort of regained some consciousness. I remember when is now a long, long time ago, writing about having to shave my mom's head after her first round of chemo. I thought that was going to be one of the most difficult things I would ever have to do. I was wrong. I'd shave her head from now till kingdom come if it would have prevented what happened when she tried to talk.
Keep in mind, my mom has not had anything to eat or much to drink in over a week. Sure she's been able to down part of smoothie or shake here or there, but much has had to rely on the now-removed feeding tube. Her throat is sore, and her lips and mouth are perpetually dry. Not to mention all the morphine in her system, or whatever stronger pain killers and anesthesia that never left. It's hard for her to talk. Or it was.
"I'm so sorry."
Heart sinks to knees.
"I tried so hard."
Tears burst from our eyes and hers.
"I tried."
We all told her how proud we are of her. How brave she is, how strong she is. How she has nothing to apologize for. How she did wonderfully. Perfectly. How amazing she is. How she showed us to be strong and fight. This time I can't speak for the family. But a part of me died I think.
And then another part when she struggled to say, "I love you guys." Over and over and over. "I love you guys so much. I love everyone so much."
I don't know how many times she said it. And I don't know how many times each of us assured her that we know, that we would tell everyone, that we love her too.
My biggest fear now is my mom's afraid of dying. Afraid of leaving us. We are her life, and she would do anything for us. Pardon the phrase, but it kills her to know she won't physically be here for us. After all, it kills us too.
We did our best to calm here and share our love with each other, and eventually she fell asleep. Her moaning stopped and her anxious breathing slowed. We continued to talk to her for the rest of the day and through the night. After a while she stopped opening her eyes and responding. But we still talk. We still tell her we love her. That we're proud of her.
The night nurse told us her heart is strong. We could have told her that. Even today, her heart is strong. Her vitals are even pretty good. It's her liver which has given up. Her bilirubin continues to climb. Her stomach continues to fill with fluid. I still cannot believe we have to sit here and watch her die. Watch her strong heart stop beating. I don't know how I'm going to do this.
"And if you were with me tonight, I'd sing to you just one more time..."
I can't sing to save my life. But she will be with us tonight. Just one more time. I hope and pray I won't forget to tell her a thing...
"A song for a heart so big, God wouldn't let it live."
And it doesn't look like he's going to.
I don't know why I've been writing this blog. I don't know why I've been blogging about one of the most difficult and intimate parts of my life. And I still cannot believe I'm talking about my own mother...
I don't know how I'm going to get through this. But I know she taught me well. And I have to do her proud. I told her I'd always talk to her. Always count on her. I don't think she'll mind.
I love you, mom.
The same couch. The same exact spot. Except this time the pit in my stomach isn't going away. It's going to turn into a hole that cannot be filled.
"May angels lead you in."
My mom is going to die. There isn't anything else they can do for her. Unless she becomes the object of a miracle, the doctors have given her 24 hours. My mom is going to die and my heart is broken.
"I never said thank you for that..."
But I got a chance. Yesterday morning, after a very difficult and pain-filled night and before the fever and situation that would exclude my mom from anymore treatment, we had an opportunity to speak with her. Each breath was a struggle, and each exhalation was accompanied by a moan. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was in a whole lot of pain. I asked for a moment alone with her.
When I smoothed her hair with my hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek, I told her I wanted to talk to her. She opened her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes, now sick and yellow. I tried not to cry when I told her she was so brave and strong. How she taught me to be brave and strong. I told her I try to make her proud, and she told me, "Always." I told her I hope I don't disappoint her, and she said, "Never." I told her that I love her, and she said, "I'll always love you."
I am sure that I am unable to fully appreciate that minute-long conversation right now. But I'm confident that in the weeks and months and years that will follow, it will probably be one of the most important conversations of my life.
A little while after this, she developed a fever and started shaking and moaning uncontrollably. It took a long time before she was drained of fluid, comforted with warm blankets and soothed back to breath-moans. Then my mom sort of regained some consciousness. I remember when is now a long, long time ago, writing about having to shave my mom's head after her first round of chemo. I thought that was going to be one of the most difficult things I would ever have to do. I was wrong. I'd shave her head from now till kingdom come if it would have prevented what happened when she tried to talk.
Keep in mind, my mom has not had anything to eat or much to drink in over a week. Sure she's been able to down part of smoothie or shake here or there, but much has had to rely on the now-removed feeding tube. Her throat is sore, and her lips and mouth are perpetually dry. Not to mention all the morphine in her system, or whatever stronger pain killers and anesthesia that never left. It's hard for her to talk. Or it was.
"I'm so sorry."
Heart sinks to knees.
"I tried so hard."
Tears burst from our eyes and hers.
"I tried."
We all told her how proud we are of her. How brave she is, how strong she is. How she has nothing to apologize for. How she did wonderfully. Perfectly. How amazing she is. How she showed us to be strong and fight. This time I can't speak for the family. But a part of me died I think.
And then another part when she struggled to say, "I love you guys." Over and over and over. "I love you guys so much. I love everyone so much."
I don't know how many times she said it. And I don't know how many times each of us assured her that we know, that we would tell everyone, that we love her too.
My biggest fear now is my mom's afraid of dying. Afraid of leaving us. We are her life, and she would do anything for us. Pardon the phrase, but it kills her to know she won't physically be here for us. After all, it kills us too.
We did our best to calm here and share our love with each other, and eventually she fell asleep. Her moaning stopped and her anxious breathing slowed. We continued to talk to her for the rest of the day and through the night. After a while she stopped opening her eyes and responding. But we still talk. We still tell her we love her. That we're proud of her.
The night nurse told us her heart is strong. We could have told her that. Even today, her heart is strong. Her vitals are even pretty good. It's her liver which has given up. Her bilirubin continues to climb. Her stomach continues to fill with fluid. I still cannot believe we have to sit here and watch her die. Watch her strong heart stop beating. I don't know how I'm going to do this.
"And if you were with me tonight, I'd sing to you just one more time..."
I can't sing to save my life. But she will be with us tonight. Just one more time. I hope and pray I won't forget to tell her a thing...
"A song for a heart so big, God wouldn't let it live."
And it doesn't look like he's going to.
I don't know why I've been writing this blog. I don't know why I've been blogging about one of the most difficult and intimate parts of my life. And I still cannot believe I'm talking about my own mother...
I don't know how I'm going to get through this. But I know she taught me well. And I have to do her proud. I told her I'd always talk to her. Always count on her. I don't think she'll mind.
I love you, mom.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
"Fear prejudices Courage"
The oncologist did not feel it was right to begin my mom's chemo treatment yesterday. Between the general malnutrition, the feeding tube, the narcotics intolerance and PleurX drain surgery, I can't say I blame him. He wants her to build up strength over the weekend, and is looking for some of her counts to level out (calcium too high, hemoglobin too low, etc).
"Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others." -Robert Louis Stevenson
I am trying my hardest to do this. I read my family the riot act before they arrived yesterday: NO crying in the room. NO negative emotion. NO arguing. NO "what ifs" that lead us down the path of the unthinkable. I held my mom's hand while she was in pain, rubbed her shoulder, stroked her hair. I did all the same things I've been doing all week and tried to show them to do the same. I told them she needs us to be strong. I need them to hold it together. They are.
"To fear is one thing. To let fear grab you by the tail and swing you around is another." - Katherine Paterson
That mistake was made a couple times this week, although the second time wasn't as bad as the first. Wednesday, when I walked out of this room nearly torn apart, I thought I was hiding it well. But it had to be written all over my face. The woman from housekeeping looked at me and asked if everything was alright. For the first time in a long time I think I answered that question with "No." And she hugged me.
"There is a time to take counsel of your fears, and there is a time to never listen to any fear." -George S. Patton
When I stop to think, I'm still in shock. How is this happening? How is this possible? It's just so unbelievable. I'm watching the nurse adjust my mom's feeding tube. Her IVs. My mom's feeding tube? Why does she have all these tubes running into and out of her? My fears did not offer any counsel that I wanted. Nothing the I will utter out loud or type on a keyboard. My fears did nothing but make my stomach sink and eat into my gut and fill my mind with terror and denial and grief. I wage war with them every minute to keep them at bay. Sometimes, somehow, I'm successful. I block them out. I am confident and strong and calm. Sometimes.
One minute, I fear what will happen tomorrow. Will she continue to get stronger? Will she stay awake longer? Will we get her out of bed? Or will a test show something else wrong? Was something that was strong begin to falter? And what of Monday? Will the oncologist change his mind? Will she not be strong enough? It's funny how those are "What ifs" disguised as guesses...
But I fight back. I told my mom that today she was so much better than yesterday. And that tomorrow will be so much better than today. When she says, "I think I'm doing better," I tell her, "You ARE doing better." When she moans, "I hope this pain will go away," I tell her, "This pain WILL go away." I try to be ever-watchful of her words and slay her doubt as fast as they tumble from her dry lips.
"I want to get better" becomes "I WILL get better."
I wonder who would be amused now to see the self-proclaimed realist, but often-accused pessimist forcing himself and others to be positive. Forcing himself to have hope and faith and courage.
I wonder who would believe that he actually feels it, because there are those times when he genuinely does.
Here I sit. In this room. Watching my mother sleep. She WILL get better. I told her she would. And I won't let her forget it.
Our next hurdle sprints to us. We need to be strong enough to overcome it. If you are reading this, pray for us. Think positive thoughts for us. Help us. We WILL do this.
"Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others." -Robert Louis Stevenson
I am trying my hardest to do this. I read my family the riot act before they arrived yesterday: NO crying in the room. NO negative emotion. NO arguing. NO "what ifs" that lead us down the path of the unthinkable. I held my mom's hand while she was in pain, rubbed her shoulder, stroked her hair. I did all the same things I've been doing all week and tried to show them to do the same. I told them she needs us to be strong. I need them to hold it together. They are.
"To fear is one thing. To let fear grab you by the tail and swing you around is another." - Katherine Paterson
That mistake was made a couple times this week, although the second time wasn't as bad as the first. Wednesday, when I walked out of this room nearly torn apart, I thought I was hiding it well. But it had to be written all over my face. The woman from housekeeping looked at me and asked if everything was alright. For the first time in a long time I think I answered that question with "No." And she hugged me.
"There is a time to take counsel of your fears, and there is a time to never listen to any fear." -George S. Patton
When I stop to think, I'm still in shock. How is this happening? How is this possible? It's just so unbelievable. I'm watching the nurse adjust my mom's feeding tube. Her IVs. My mom's feeding tube? Why does she have all these tubes running into and out of her? My fears did not offer any counsel that I wanted. Nothing the I will utter out loud or type on a keyboard. My fears did nothing but make my stomach sink and eat into my gut and fill my mind with terror and denial and grief. I wage war with them every minute to keep them at bay. Sometimes, somehow, I'm successful. I block them out. I am confident and strong and calm. Sometimes.
One minute, I fear what will happen tomorrow. Will she continue to get stronger? Will she stay awake longer? Will we get her out of bed? Or will a test show something else wrong? Was something that was strong begin to falter? And what of Monday? Will the oncologist change his mind? Will she not be strong enough? It's funny how those are "What ifs" disguised as guesses...
But I fight back. I told my mom that today she was so much better than yesterday. And that tomorrow will be so much better than today. When she says, "I think I'm doing better," I tell her, "You ARE doing better." When she moans, "I hope this pain will go away," I tell her, "This pain WILL go away." I try to be ever-watchful of her words and slay her doubt as fast as they tumble from her dry lips.
"I want to get better" becomes "I WILL get better."
I wonder who would be amused now to see the self-proclaimed realist, but often-accused pessimist forcing himself and others to be positive. Forcing himself to have hope and faith and courage.
I wonder who would believe that he actually feels it, because there are those times when he genuinely does.
Here I sit. In this room. Watching my mother sleep. She WILL get better. I told her she would. And I won't let her forget it.
Our next hurdle sprints to us. We need to be strong enough to overcome it. If you are reading this, pray for us. Think positive thoughts for us. Help us. We WILL do this.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
"Think like a man of action, act like a man of thought"
I will have more to say about this one later...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
"Sometimes even to live is an act of Courage."
Here we are again. The same couch. The same scene. My mom has 30 minutes left before they take the feeding tube out in preparation for tomorrow's surgery. I woke her up just long enough to ask if she wanted a last sip of water. She didn't. But she did whisper, "I love you."
This morning was a nightmare. The attending physician undid all the hope the oncologist gave us yesterday. I heard what he was saying from the moment he sat down but I refused to believe it. I would not swallow it. And for the life of me I couldn't figure out why he didn't just say it.
How many ways can you tell someone, "I'm sorry, but there is nothing more we can do" before you just have to say, "She is going to die."?
Apparently a lot.
How many times can you convince yourself you are composed enough to make a phonecall before you break down?
Apparently only once or so, and only after you broke down on the five or six previous phonecalls.
Hope ran out on me early this morning after being chased away by the doctor. Faith deflated and crouched down in the corner. Fear and Despair hugged me tightly while Anger patted me on the back.
How many strangers can hug you in one day while they watch you quietly fall apart?
More than you can count.
But then how many people tell you not to listen to one doctor? How many patients tell you he is wrong? How many caregivers tell you not to lose Hope?
Barb upstairs? She had three months to live nine months ago.
Mary from Maryland? She went to bed every night for weeks after saying goodbye to her family because she was supposed to die before morning, but the sun is still coming up.
Jimmy next door? His wife had only three months to live. Eight years ago.
Once I told a good friend of mine that there wasn't enough time in our lives to make all the mistakes ourselves. That's where that whole "learn from others' mistakes" come from, right? I learned a lesson today. There's not enough time to learn when it's okay not to listen.
I saw Courage today, but not beside me. Courage was standing next to my mother when the doctor (who I'm not listening to) came in and asked my mom, "Do you want us to make you comfortable, or do you want to proceed with the oncologist's plan?"
Courage put its hand on her forehead, because she didn't skip a beat when she announced she wanted to do what the oncologist planned. Courage smiled when she said she that's what she came here for.
I can't tell you how many times she dosed off during the day. How many times she grimaced in pain. How many times she smiled at my stupid jokes. How many times she tolerated all the "What?" or "Mom, I can't hear you," that I whispered leaned over her face, or the single "I don't know how to be strong" that stumbled from my lips.
Each of those times Courage was there. Sitting next to her. Standing at her side. Hands on her shoulders.
It's funny how sometimes we can't see something clearly until later. But now I'm looking at my mom sleeping in the hospital bed. They are coming to take the feeding tube out to get her ready for the next battle. But there is Courage.
Right where Courage needs to be.
This morning was a nightmare. The attending physician undid all the hope the oncologist gave us yesterday. I heard what he was saying from the moment he sat down but I refused to believe it. I would not swallow it. And for the life of me I couldn't figure out why he didn't just say it.
How many ways can you tell someone, "I'm sorry, but there is nothing more we can do" before you just have to say, "She is going to die."?
Apparently a lot.
How many times can you convince yourself you are composed enough to make a phonecall before you break down?
Apparently only once or so, and only after you broke down on the five or six previous phonecalls.
Hope ran out on me early this morning after being chased away by the doctor. Faith deflated and crouched down in the corner. Fear and Despair hugged me tightly while Anger patted me on the back.
How many strangers can hug you in one day while they watch you quietly fall apart?
More than you can count.
But then how many people tell you not to listen to one doctor? How many patients tell you he is wrong? How many caregivers tell you not to lose Hope?
Barb upstairs? She had three months to live nine months ago.
Mary from Maryland? She went to bed every night for weeks after saying goodbye to her family because she was supposed to die before morning, but the sun is still coming up.
Jimmy next door? His wife had only three months to live. Eight years ago.
Once I told a good friend of mine that there wasn't enough time in our lives to make all the mistakes ourselves. That's where that whole "learn from others' mistakes" come from, right? I learned a lesson today. There's not enough time to learn when it's okay not to listen.
I saw Courage today, but not beside me. Courage was standing next to my mother when the doctor (who I'm not listening to) came in and asked my mom, "Do you want us to make you comfortable, or do you want to proceed with the oncologist's plan?"
Courage put its hand on her forehead, because she didn't skip a beat when she announced she wanted to do what the oncologist planned. Courage smiled when she said she that's what she came here for.
I can't tell you how many times she dosed off during the day. How many times she grimaced in pain. How many times she smiled at my stupid jokes. How many times she tolerated all the "What?" or "Mom, I can't hear you," that I whispered leaned over her face, or the single "I don't know how to be strong" that stumbled from my lips.
Each of those times Courage was there. Sitting next to her. Standing at her side. Hands on her shoulders.
It's funny how sometimes we can't see something clearly until later. But now I'm looking at my mom sleeping in the hospital bed. They are coming to take the feeding tube out to get her ready for the next battle. But there is Courage.
Right where Courage needs to be.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
"It is such a secret place, the land of tears."
As I write this, I'm sitting in a hospital room in Philadelphia. My mom is laying in a hospital bed, wearing a cheap pair of headphones and falling asleep to a meditation CD on a Coby disc player. My headache has faded, and the pit in my stomach has been replaced with hunger pangs.
While my fingers pluck away at keys on a laptop, my mind is racing like it hasn't done in a long, long time. Depression rises and falls like a wave. With it apprehension and fear and anger. Hope and longing.
What's left of my mom's hair is a mess and still falling out on the pillow. This time more from malnourishment rather than chemotherapy. The light plays tricks with the shadows. Her skin is pulled too tight across her frame, and her port--the port that was supposed to be barely noticeable--sticks out of her chest like a cube of bone.
Rufus Wainwright's version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" drifts through my own headphones.
Part of me wants to run away because it doesn't know how to deal. The part of me that never knows how to deal. A part that I hate.
But I don't run away.
There is no beep from an IV drip. There is no mechanical purr of machinery to blow off CO2 from her lungs or alarm rigged up when she doesn't take a deep enough breath. It's just "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" and her breathing. Noise from the nurses drifting through the door. Fingers tapping keys. Stomach growling.
Philadelphia was her second opinion. It turns out it will also be her last chance. Our last chance. The tumor isn't any normal tumor. Why would it be? Look out your window. Do you see that tree over there? Do you see how the branches grow from the trunk, and how those branches extend and grow and have smaller branches and smaller branches growing and extending and reaching into the sky?
Take that picture of that tree with it's almost endless branches, hold it in your mind, and shrink it. Shrink it until it fits not above your liver. Not below your liver. But inside your liver. Those branches? They don't reach to the sky. They crawl along your bile ducts and strangle them closed. They don't shade you from the sun. They prevent your liver from processing toxins. And medications.
My mom is sleeping in the bed with a tube hanging out of her side draining bilirubin from her cancer-riddled liver. But remember those branches we talked about? There are too many. They drain does it's job wonderfully--it drains the bilirubin from the side of the liver it's in. But there is too much. In fact, the organ functions so poorly that fluid drains into her abdomen and her belly painfully swells.
For the second day in a row, they brought her in to drain the fluid from her stomach. It's possible there is cancer there now too, but no one has mentioned it since the possibility was brought up. In truth, until the tests come back, there is no point in worrying about the possibility.
This is the story.
The plan was to drain the liver enough to be able to place a stent or two and help it function on its own. The bilirubin would drop to a safe level. Chemo could begin. Tumor would shrink. Then localized chemo to kill it off. That was then.
Now. The tree is too strong. The stent will never work. Other problems are arising. Like her inability to eat enough to keep the rest of her body working and the fluid pooling in her abdomen. The new plan. If all goes "well." Tomorrow, a feeding tube through her nose. Thursday, a permanent drain in her abdomen. Thursday or Friday, aggressive chemo to be continued once a week for two or three weeks until her body adjusts and a regular schedule can be established.
The nurse just came in to check the drain. My mom stirred but didn't really wake up. She made a sleepy request and I changed the CD in the Coby player. I gave in and am eating half a blueberry bagel. (Blueberry bagel? Seriously?)
I look at her face and I remember wiping the tear from her eye before she went in for the procedure this morning. She cried. I had to leave the room before the doctor told me it was time to go. I couldn't look at my aunt as we walked to the waiting room. It was the only reason we held it together.
Water. All I wanted was some water. And some air. My Klean Kanteen was in the car. I cursed myself with every step there and back. "Pull it together. Pull your shit together."
Suddenly I'm still a little boy. Mothers aren't supposed to cry. They are strong. They are infallible and invincible. I'm a little boy, terrified and huddled in a stranger's body watching my sick mother dying... Is she really dying? in a hospital bed.
But I have to be positive, right? We have to be positive. Take things in stride. One step at a time. One day at a time. We hope and we pray. We put our trust in this hospital with it's cutting edge technology. With it's amazing nurses (who seriously are among the kindest people I've ever met in my life) and it's renowned doctors. With the oncologist who will treat my mom when everyone else gave up. With the surgeon who saw her smile and told us, "I need to make this woman better."
Hope and Faith. Fear and Despair. They are sitting with me on this couch keeping my company. They watch me type. They gaze into her face and look me in the eye. They wave as Regret walks by (yeah, that was from the blueberry bagel...). They will climb under the covers with me. I wonder if they'll stay the night.
My mom is snoring softly. And I wonder if I will find Courage tomorrow.
While my fingers pluck away at keys on a laptop, my mind is racing like it hasn't done in a long, long time. Depression rises and falls like a wave. With it apprehension and fear and anger. Hope and longing.
What's left of my mom's hair is a mess and still falling out on the pillow. This time more from malnourishment rather than chemotherapy. The light plays tricks with the shadows. Her skin is pulled too tight across her frame, and her port--the port that was supposed to be barely noticeable--sticks out of her chest like a cube of bone.
Rufus Wainwright's version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" drifts through my own headphones.
Part of me wants to run away because it doesn't know how to deal. The part of me that never knows how to deal. A part that I hate.
But I don't run away.
There is no beep from an IV drip. There is no mechanical purr of machinery to blow off CO2 from her lungs or alarm rigged up when she doesn't take a deep enough breath. It's just "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" and her breathing. Noise from the nurses drifting through the door. Fingers tapping keys. Stomach growling.
Philadelphia was her second opinion. It turns out it will also be her last chance. Our last chance. The tumor isn't any normal tumor. Why would it be? Look out your window. Do you see that tree over there? Do you see how the branches grow from the trunk, and how those branches extend and grow and have smaller branches and smaller branches growing and extending and reaching into the sky?
Take that picture of that tree with it's almost endless branches, hold it in your mind, and shrink it. Shrink it until it fits not above your liver. Not below your liver. But inside your liver. Those branches? They don't reach to the sky. They crawl along your bile ducts and strangle them closed. They don't shade you from the sun. They prevent your liver from processing toxins. And medications.
My mom is sleeping in the bed with a tube hanging out of her side draining bilirubin from her cancer-riddled liver. But remember those branches we talked about? There are too many. They drain does it's job wonderfully--it drains the bilirubin from the side of the liver it's in. But there is too much. In fact, the organ functions so poorly that fluid drains into her abdomen and her belly painfully swells.
For the second day in a row, they brought her in to drain the fluid from her stomach. It's possible there is cancer there now too, but no one has mentioned it since the possibility was brought up. In truth, until the tests come back, there is no point in worrying about the possibility.
This is the story.
The plan was to drain the liver enough to be able to place a stent or two and help it function on its own. The bilirubin would drop to a safe level. Chemo could begin. Tumor would shrink. Then localized chemo to kill it off. That was then.
Now. The tree is too strong. The stent will never work. Other problems are arising. Like her inability to eat enough to keep the rest of her body working and the fluid pooling in her abdomen. The new plan. If all goes "well." Tomorrow, a feeding tube through her nose. Thursday, a permanent drain in her abdomen. Thursday or Friday, aggressive chemo to be continued once a week for two or three weeks until her body adjusts and a regular schedule can be established.
The nurse just came in to check the drain. My mom stirred but didn't really wake up. She made a sleepy request and I changed the CD in the Coby player. I gave in and am eating half a blueberry bagel. (Blueberry bagel? Seriously?)
I look at her face and I remember wiping the tear from her eye before she went in for the procedure this morning. She cried. I had to leave the room before the doctor told me it was time to go. I couldn't look at my aunt as we walked to the waiting room. It was the only reason we held it together.
Water. All I wanted was some water. And some air. My Klean Kanteen was in the car. I cursed myself with every step there and back. "Pull it together. Pull your shit together."
Suddenly I'm still a little boy. Mothers aren't supposed to cry. They are strong. They are infallible and invincible. I'm a little boy, terrified and huddled in a stranger's body watching my sick mother dying... Is she really dying? in a hospital bed.
But I have to be positive, right? We have to be positive. Take things in stride. One step at a time. One day at a time. We hope and we pray. We put our trust in this hospital with it's cutting edge technology. With it's amazing nurses (who seriously are among the kindest people I've ever met in my life) and it's renowned doctors. With the oncologist who will treat my mom when everyone else gave up. With the surgeon who saw her smile and told us, "I need to make this woman better."
Hope and Faith. Fear and Despair. They are sitting with me on this couch keeping my company. They watch me type. They gaze into her face and look me in the eye. They wave as Regret walks by (yeah, that was from the blueberry bagel...). They will climb under the covers with me. I wonder if they'll stay the night.
My mom is snoring softly. And I wonder if I will find Courage tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Fahrenheit 451
Unlike so many students today, I didn't have the pleasure of being "required" to read this book. However, it's always been one that I've wanted to pick up. Unfortunately, that stack of books on the floor of my room never seems to get lower, and a slue of titles I want to read are curiously absent.
A couple years ago, I started to get into audiobooks. Granted, I can't seem to ever listen to one unless I'm driving. If I'm walking, my mind wanders (although I have mastered the walk-and-read-a-book-while-listening-to-my-iPod routine). If I'm painting, hours slip away and I find I haven't a clue as to what just happened in the book. Either way, while I drive, sure my mind wanders a bit but it's easier to focus on the book. Even when I miss a few sentences (or a chapter) I can usually pull it back together.
Granted, some are much more enjoyable to listen to than others. Some readers are engaging and have the type of voice you can listen to for hours (which is a good thing when a book can be 8-18 hours long). I figured this would be a good way to dive into some of these books I want to read but can't seem to find the time to open them.
Fahrenheit 451 is what I'm currently listening to. I will probably go back and actually read this title one day, because right now I find it so engaging. It's uncomfortable to recognize that such a dystopian future can be realized in such small steps until one hardly realized it's happened.
I'm only about halfway through, but so far this paragraph sticks out to me. I'm drawn to the last line at the end too, for more than one reason.
A couple years ago, I started to get into audiobooks. Granted, I can't seem to ever listen to one unless I'm driving. If I'm walking, my mind wanders (although I have mastered the walk-and-read-a-book-while-listening-to-my-iPod routine). If I'm painting, hours slip away and I find I haven't a clue as to what just happened in the book. Either way, while I drive, sure my mind wanders a bit but it's easier to focus on the book. Even when I miss a few sentences (or a chapter) I can usually pull it back together.
Granted, some are much more enjoyable to listen to than others. Some readers are engaging and have the type of voice you can listen to for hours (which is a good thing when a book can be 8-18 hours long). I figured this would be a good way to dive into some of these books I want to read but can't seem to find the time to open them.
Fahrenheit 451 is what I'm currently listening to. I will probably go back and actually read this title one day, because right now I find it so engaging. It's uncomfortable to recognize that such a dystopian future can be realized in such small steps until one hardly realized it's happened.
I'm only about halfway through, but so far this paragraph sticks out to me. I'm drawn to the last line at the end too, for more than one reason.
The books are to remind us what asses and fools we are. They're Caesar's praetorian guard, whispering as the parade roars down the avenue, 'Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal.' Most of us can't rush around, talk to everyone, know all the cities of the world, we haven't time, money or that many friends. The things you're looking for, Montag, are in the world, but the only way the average chap will ever see ninety-nine per cent of them is in a book. Don't ask for guarantees. And don't look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were headed for shore.I'm thinking that is probably overall good advice for lots of things.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
As for the nerves...
1. Chemo isn't working. Again. "Minor progression of tumors." But it didn't spread beyond the liver. On to chemo #4. But this one "shouldn't be too bad." Guess that port they put into her chest was a good thing after all... (The last chemo caused chemical burning in her veins.)
2. I got a call from HR today... (yeah, so actually more nerves, but some excitement too!)
3. Haha, I just don't even know.
Thanks for the positive thoughts.
2. I got a call from HR today... (yeah, so actually more nerves, but some excitement too!)
3. Haha, I just don't even know.
Thanks for the positive thoughts.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Nerves.
Things that have tied my stomach into knots:
1. Waiting for the results of my mom's tests.
2. Waiting to see if I score an interview for a job that will set me on a new path down a familiar road.
3. Sigh.
Anticipation is distraction.
Now I just have to get better at not anticipating.
1. Waiting for the results of my mom's tests.
2. Waiting to see if I score an interview for a job that will set me on a new path down a familiar road.
3. Sigh.
Anticipation is distraction.
Now I just have to get better at not anticipating.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Wait, you just saw me naked?
On my way home from SC, I had the...opportunity...to pass through an airport x-ray machine for the first time. I've known about these for a while, yet even though I fly two or three times a year, I haven't before had the pleasure.
It was sort of weird. Not the standing there with feet shoulder width apart, arms raised, bent at the elbows, hands behind my head. And obviously the x-ray itself doesn't feel like anything. But those signs that assure you that someone far, far away is viewing my somewhat nude picture. Oh, and they promise they don't keep them.
Now, I'm not flattering myself in the least and assuming someone would want to keep my picture(s?). In fact, it's probably more reasonable that there would be pointing and giggling. (Hahah, like those dreams where you are naked in class or giving a speech.)
It's not really a big deal. But I dunno, does this really make us "safer?"
I remember back in college while flying home with friends, the only girl of the group was pulled aside for special screening. By a TSA dude. Now, it wasn't a pat down or anything. He used the wand or whatever. But still. She was between me and another friend and was pulled aside. I won't pretend to know what makes one suspicious. Or if they are supposed to count to a certain number of people. But since these people protecting us are just that--people--I have to wonder about it.
The trip was absolutely awesome, by the way. So I guess my nudie x-ray was a small price to pay.
It was sort of weird. Not the standing there with feet shoulder width apart, arms raised, bent at the elbows, hands behind my head. And obviously the x-ray itself doesn't feel like anything. But those signs that assure you that someone far, far away is viewing my somewhat nude picture. Oh, and they promise they don't keep them.
Now, I'm not flattering myself in the least and assuming someone would want to keep my picture(s?). In fact, it's probably more reasonable that there would be pointing and giggling. (Hahah, like those dreams where you are naked in class or giving a speech.)
It's not really a big deal. But I dunno, does this really make us "safer?"
I remember back in college while flying home with friends, the only girl of the group was pulled aside for special screening. By a TSA dude. Now, it wasn't a pat down or anything. He used the wand or whatever. But still. She was between me and another friend and was pulled aside. I won't pretend to know what makes one suspicious. Or if they are supposed to count to a certain number of people. But since these people protecting us are just that--people--I have to wonder about it.
The trip was absolutely awesome, by the way. So I guess my nudie x-ray was a small price to pay.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Gallery!
And in non-Relay related news...
The gallery opening for the show I made it into is Thursday. Even though it's only one painting in a multi-man-and-woman show, it's still pretty cool. And openings are always kinda fun.
And I've been tightening up some work for a one-man exhibit next month! It's small, and at a public library, but in a pretty affluent town. Who knows? There will be some music, courtesy of a flutist friend and her violinist companion. I haven't decided between fake wine and cheese or cookies and juice. (Okay, who am I kidding. It's going to be fake wine and cheese. Unless I receive a mysterious shipment of cookies from the Mid-west. Hahah!)
I also sent submitted some work to the authors/artists in charge of this Children's Lit Conference later in the year. Only have to wait till August to hear if I made it in!
Maybe things are starting to turn around?
The gallery opening for the show I made it into is Thursday. Even though it's only one painting in a multi-man-and-woman show, it's still pretty cool. And openings are always kinda fun.
And I've been tightening up some work for a one-man exhibit next month! It's small, and at a public library, but in a pretty affluent town. Who knows? There will be some music, courtesy of a flutist friend and her violinist companion. I haven't decided between fake wine and cheese or cookies and juice. (Okay, who am I kidding. It's going to be fake wine and cheese. Unless I receive a mysterious shipment of cookies from the Mid-west. Hahah!)
I also sent submitted some work to the authors/artists in charge of this Children's Lit Conference later in the year. Only have to wait till August to hear if I made it in!
Maybe things are starting to turn around?
Awesome.
Last weekend, we held the most successful Relay For Life event the city has ever seen. Over 500 people attended (most between Kick-off and the Luminaria Ceremony) and we raised over $78,000.00 and counting. The weather was beautiful for us!! No rain for the first time in years. We held an entire event, not to mention our first Fight Back Ceremony. In all it was amazing.
I'm actually allowing myself to feel a little satisfied! Chairing this event is always a little challenging, and leading up to the finish line things were getting nerve wracking. We had almost 400 people signed up on the website prior to the event, so we knew it was going to be big. Speaking in front of that many people is always a little embarrassing! And there's only so much making fun of oneself and muddling through that can be done. But it went over pretty well.
And my mom! Best survivor speaker ever. Of course I'm a little biased. And of course, my committee sort of coaxed her into it. But she did great. I barely choked up introducing her. And she didn't skip a beat till the end. Since a majority of my family participated in or helped run the event this year, it meant all the more.
But now I find myself at a crossroads. I have been looking to step down as Event Chair. However, as long as I'm where I am (location, job, etc), I can't imagine not being a part of Relay. I'd at least be a Team Captain. Attend the event. Walk the laps instead of running back and forth across the stadium for 20 hours.
So much of my time and energy has been spent trying to build this event up to what it's become today. I won't pretend that I'm the reason it's successful, and I know it will go on without me. I'm trying to figure out if I should step back and groom a replacement. Chair from the side. Or vice-chair. I don't want to see it fail.
On the other hand, this would be the perfect year to step back. We beat our city-wide goal of $57K (by $20,000.00!!!). My team raised over $12,000. And we were the second highest fundraiser! Our top team brought in over $20,000.00! Aside from the other event-wide successes, I surpassed my personal goal of $2,500.00.
I might actually let some pride sneak up on me this year.
Alas. That doesn't help me make a decision. And we all know how good I am at making decisions.
I guess we'll see what happens...
I'm actually allowing myself to feel a little satisfied! Chairing this event is always a little challenging, and leading up to the finish line things were getting nerve wracking. We had almost 400 people signed up on the website prior to the event, so we knew it was going to be big. Speaking in front of that many people is always a little embarrassing! And there's only so much making fun of oneself and muddling through that can be done. But it went over pretty well.
And my mom! Best survivor speaker ever. Of course I'm a little biased. And of course, my committee sort of coaxed her into it. But she did great. I barely choked up introducing her. And she didn't skip a beat till the end. Since a majority of my family participated in or helped run the event this year, it meant all the more.
But now I find myself at a crossroads. I have been looking to step down as Event Chair. However, as long as I'm where I am (location, job, etc), I can't imagine not being a part of Relay. I'd at least be a Team Captain. Attend the event. Walk the laps instead of running back and forth across the stadium for 20 hours.
So much of my time and energy has been spent trying to build this event up to what it's become today. I won't pretend that I'm the reason it's successful, and I know it will go on without me. I'm trying to figure out if I should step back and groom a replacement. Chair from the side. Or vice-chair. I don't want to see it fail.
On the other hand, this would be the perfect year to step back. We beat our city-wide goal of $57K (by $20,000.00!!!). My team raised over $12,000. And we were the second highest fundraiser! Our top team brought in over $20,000.00! Aside from the other event-wide successes, I surpassed my personal goal of $2,500.00.
I might actually let some pride sneak up on me this year.
Alas. That doesn't help me make a decision. And we all know how good I am at making decisions.
I guess we'll see what happens...
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Captain.
Last month's test results were a mixed bag... No, the cancer didn't spread (awesome!). But, the chemo isn't working and it's still there (wtf?).
On to another chemo... Another drug... Another slew of side effects. 5 hour chemo sessions. Self-administered injections.
It's frustrating.
So what do we do? "Face forward, move slow, forge ahead."
Relay For Life barreling across the squares on the calendar, refusing to slow down. It's become this pretty massive thing this year, which is amazing. There are 10 days until our event, and we've already surpassed our goal of $57,000.00 (I only have $373 left to reach my own goal!!). At almost $60,000.00 raised to date, with one person shy of 300 registered, this event has become bigger than the previous 5 in this city. This is going to be the biggest year we've had. It's sort of scary and kind of thrilling.
I don't know how I fell into this role of leadership. It doesn't seem right. It doesn't quite seem like I know what I'm doing. But no one seems to notice... Am I just pretending? Or am I really being a leader?
"Courageous, just like the captain."
The past few days I've been overwhelmed with a few things... (Haha, okay, sort of like "I'm frozen, tied up, cast in lead.") I want to run away! But I can't.
I can, however, put all of this on hold for a few days to totally immerse myself in a most wonderful wedding weekend for two people I could not be more happy for. A couple days of fun to supercharge the batteries... (And give a best man speech!)
"It's simple, so says the captain."
Monday it'll all be there to great me again. But you know what? I'm going to make this start working for me. I'm tired of the frustration. The uncertainty. I might not be able to do anything more for my mom than what I'm already doing. I can't control the weather for this Relay event. I might have absolutely no clue what to do with my own life. My responsibilities aren't endless. "My conscience, mistrust and regret" will still be there for sure.
But it's time to be more like the captain.
"Marching forward, with no doubt in his head."
On to another chemo... Another drug... Another slew of side effects. 5 hour chemo sessions. Self-administered injections.
It's frustrating.
So what do we do? "Face forward, move slow, forge ahead."
Relay For Life barreling across the squares on the calendar, refusing to slow down. It's become this pretty massive thing this year, which is amazing. There are 10 days until our event, and we've already surpassed our goal of $57,000.00 (I only have $373 left to reach my own goal!!). At almost $60,000.00 raised to date, with one person shy of 300 registered, this event has become bigger than the previous 5 in this city. This is going to be the biggest year we've had. It's sort of scary and kind of thrilling.
I don't know how I fell into this role of leadership. It doesn't seem right. It doesn't quite seem like I know what I'm doing. But no one seems to notice... Am I just pretending? Or am I really being a leader?
"Courageous, just like the captain."
The past few days I've been overwhelmed with a few things... (Haha, okay, sort of like "I'm frozen, tied up, cast in lead.") I want to run away! But I can't.
I can, however, put all of this on hold for a few days to totally immerse myself in a most wonderful wedding weekend for two people I could not be more happy for. A couple days of fun to supercharge the batteries... (And give a best man speech!)
"It's simple, so says the captain."
Monday it'll all be there to great me again. But you know what? I'm going to make this start working for me. I'm tired of the frustration. The uncertainty. I might not be able to do anything more for my mom than what I'm already doing. I can't control the weather for this Relay event. I might have absolutely no clue what to do with my own life. My responsibilities aren't endless. "My conscience, mistrust and regret" will still be there for sure.
But it's time to be more like the captain.
"Marching forward, with no doubt in his head."
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Moth's Wings (cont.)... It's in my head!
I pretty much don't know anything about music. I can only sing to babies and dogs. (I was in chorus back in 4th grade.) I don't know what the hell all those symbols mean on a sheet of music. (I used to play the trumpet! And I foolishly let myself be talked into buying a guitar, and have been unable to tune it or decipher the poster with the chords?... notes?...) I can't tell you which band sings what song--if I could even name the band or better yet an actual song title.
But I like music! Haha. And I love listening to new stuff. The problem I run into is I can't tell if I like it at first or not. Rarely will a song hit me the first time I listen to it, although it happens. A coworker excitedly shared "Runaway" by Love and Theft, claiming it made her think of me. I was skeptical at first, but wow. Haha. I pretty much went home and downloaded the acoustic version (okay, I know that I have a huge, huge preference for an acoustic version of a song, pretty much across the board).
That was a rare case though. Usually, a new album or CD takes me a good 4 or 5 listens before the songs start to separate from each other. I'll suddenly notice that Track 5 has an intro I really like and Track 11 has a lyric that seems to literally stop the song and whisper into my ear. Then after a few more listens, I know I've really got a song. At first it's just a lyric or two that stands out (Whose side are you on?/What side is this anyway?). And then, maybe it gets so into my head that I listen to it too much and bam.
So now "Moth's Wings" by Passion Pit has fixed itself into my head. I usually try not to skip through songs when I'm driving. But when I hear:
"Dear friend, as you know..."
I get excited.
It's like a conversation. I think maybe that's why I like it. It's not someone belting out how much he loves someone, or misses someone, or how great things are, or how bad they are. Sure there's emotion to it, and strong ones at that (But the clouds are clearing up/and I've come rebelling/burning incandescently/like a bastard on the burning sea). But it's different.
I just keep coming back to this conversation idea. Things are "wrong" with the situation (You're pressing on your laurels/and stepping on my toes). There's "conflict" (You come beating like moth's wings/spastic and violently/whipping me into a storm/shaking me down to the core). Then there's the question--my "first" lyric!! (Whose side are you on?/What side is this anyway?).
And then another part that I love about this song. There's a resolution offered (Put down your sword and crown/Come lay with me on the ground).
It's a song to make amends. A song to mend fences or build bridges. A song to renew relationships, or ya know what? Even end them. But on good terms I think. It's like a book that has one of those endings where the reader decides what happens. You don't know if the friend accepts the offer or not. Even if you've decided on the relationship--friends, lovers, siblings, whatever--it's just out there. That possibility, that offer. After the singer and friend are on the same level, after laying down on the ground, what happens? Friends again? Kiss and make up? Business as usual and pretend the conversation never happened? Turn around and walk away?
Hm. I spent way too much time writing this post. I take solace in the fact that you didn't have to sit there and read it. ;)
But I like music! Haha. And I love listening to new stuff. The problem I run into is I can't tell if I like it at first or not. Rarely will a song hit me the first time I listen to it, although it happens. A coworker excitedly shared "Runaway" by Love and Theft, claiming it made her think of me. I was skeptical at first, but wow. Haha. I pretty much went home and downloaded the acoustic version (okay, I know that I have a huge, huge preference for an acoustic version of a song, pretty much across the board).
That was a rare case though. Usually, a new album or CD takes me a good 4 or 5 listens before the songs start to separate from each other. I'll suddenly notice that Track 5 has an intro I really like and Track 11 has a lyric that seems to literally stop the song and whisper into my ear. Then after a few more listens, I know I've really got a song. At first it's just a lyric or two that stands out (Whose side are you on?/What side is this anyway?). And then, maybe it gets so into my head that I listen to it too much and bam.
So now "Moth's Wings" by Passion Pit has fixed itself into my head. I usually try not to skip through songs when I'm driving. But when I hear:
"Dear friend, as you know..."
I get excited.
It's like a conversation. I think maybe that's why I like it. It's not someone belting out how much he loves someone, or misses someone, or how great things are, or how bad they are. Sure there's emotion to it, and strong ones at that (But the clouds are clearing up/and I've come rebelling/burning incandescently/like a bastard on the burning sea). But it's different.
I just keep coming back to this conversation idea. Things are "wrong" with the situation (You're pressing on your laurels/and stepping on my toes). There's "conflict" (You come beating like moth's wings/spastic and violently/whipping me into a storm/shaking me down to the core). Then there's the question--my "first" lyric!! (Whose side are you on?/What side is this anyway?).
And then another part that I love about this song. There's a resolution offered (Put down your sword and crown/Come lay with me on the ground).
It's a song to make amends. A song to mend fences or build bridges. A song to renew relationships, or ya know what? Even end them. But on good terms I think. It's like a book that has one of those endings where the reader decides what happens. You don't know if the friend accepts the offer or not. Even if you've decided on the relationship--friends, lovers, siblings, whatever--it's just out there. That possibility, that offer. After the singer and friend are on the same level, after laying down on the ground, what happens? Friends again? Kiss and make up? Business as usual and pretend the conversation never happened? Turn around and walk away?
Hm. I spent way too much time writing this post. I take solace in the fact that you didn't have to sit there and read it. ;)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
"Tests at the end of April"
That came sort of fast...
Monday: CT and PET scans
Wednesday: MRIs
Friday: Bone scan
Monday: CT and PET scans
Wednesday: MRIs
Friday: Bone scan
Monday, April 12, 2010
Relay For Life
With two months left until our event, things are starting to get interesting. We're leaps and bounds above where we were at this point last year. Granted, our event was a month earlier last year. But that's still a good sign, right?
22 teams, 127 participants signed up so far (and almost one new registrant every day!). About a hundred dollars shy of raising $28,000.00 so far!
Our RedHat Angels team is completely dominating the fundraising--over $12,000.00 and they still have big fundraisers planned! It's amazing. They are unstoppable! Haha, at least I know I can't catch them. I'm keeping my team's $10,000.00 goal in sight, and we've got about 2 months to raise the last $2,000.00 or so.
Even more important than that, I want our event to be successful--I want us to hit our goals. Last year we were one of the only Relays in the region to come close to making goal. ($53,000 raised out of a $55,000 goal... so close!!) Somehow we were a success story. It was pretty cool.
This year, the ACS set our goal at $57,000. Not too much more than last year. But that's such a big number. And it's difficult to get people involved, or even to get those who are already involved to raise money. I want us to make goal this year. (Besides, the theme is superheroes... It's like a Relay geek's dream!)
I've been thinking a lot about this Relay For Life event. I'm so happy to have been a part of it for so long. Of course, I never feel like I do a good enough job running it. And that's not even taking into account the weather that I can't control. But either way, for 5 years this has been a big part of what I do with my time. And I've been in charge for 3 of those years. It might be time to step aside.
I'm not talking about walking away, per se. But I think it's time for someone else to take the reins. New blood, new ideas, new leadership. A volunteer event like this shouldn't be run by the same person or people for years at a time. Someone needs to step up!
Having a team and participating in the event are still important to me. I actually wonder what it would be like to attend the Relay and not have to run around making sure everything is progressing smoothly. To actually attend a Relay with my family and friends... Walk the track... Sit down when I want to! Haha. How different that would be?
It's been a great experience. And I'm not necessarily sold on "retirement." But it might be time. And perhaps a new opportunity will present itself.
Plus, it would be sort of fun to go out on top, giving this city the best Relay it's ever seen. I might even allow that sense of accomplishment sneak up on me.
Here's to a $57,000.00 quest!
22 teams, 127 participants signed up so far (and almost one new registrant every day!). About a hundred dollars shy of raising $28,000.00 so far!
Our RedHat Angels team is completely dominating the fundraising--over $12,000.00 and they still have big fundraisers planned! It's amazing. They are unstoppable! Haha, at least I know I can't catch them. I'm keeping my team's $10,000.00 goal in sight, and we've got about 2 months to raise the last $2,000.00 or so.
Even more important than that, I want our event to be successful--I want us to hit our goals. Last year we were one of the only Relays in the region to come close to making goal. ($53,000 raised out of a $55,000 goal... so close!!) Somehow we were a success story. It was pretty cool.
This year, the ACS set our goal at $57,000. Not too much more than last year. But that's such a big number. And it's difficult to get people involved, or even to get those who are already involved to raise money. I want us to make goal this year. (Besides, the theme is superheroes... It's like a Relay geek's dream!)
I've been thinking a lot about this Relay For Life event. I'm so happy to have been a part of it for so long. Of course, I never feel like I do a good enough job running it. And that's not even taking into account the weather that I can't control. But either way, for 5 years this has been a big part of what I do with my time. And I've been in charge for 3 of those years. It might be time to step aside.
I'm not talking about walking away, per se. But I think it's time for someone else to take the reins. New blood, new ideas, new leadership. A volunteer event like this shouldn't be run by the same person or people for years at a time. Someone needs to step up!
Having a team and participating in the event are still important to me. I actually wonder what it would be like to attend the Relay and not have to run around making sure everything is progressing smoothly. To actually attend a Relay with my family and friends... Walk the track... Sit down when I want to! Haha. How different that would be?
It's been a great experience. And I'm not necessarily sold on "retirement." But it might be time. And perhaps a new opportunity will present itself.
Plus, it would be sort of fun to go out on top, giving this city the best Relay it's ever seen. I might even allow that sense of accomplishment sneak up on me.
Here's to a $57,000.00 quest!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Value
I'm submitting a painting I finished to a local gallery for a chance to be in an upcoming show. I figured I'd sell it (if, of course, it gets selected for entry), but have absolutely no idea what to set the price as.
That's one thing I don't like about being an artist. And there are so many opinions on how to price work that there doesn't really seem to be any standard. I'm almost better at accepting a commission where the client says, "I have this much money to spend, can you do it?"
Then I can just say yes or no!
So, an original oil painting, 24"x30"... Gallery would keep 20%... Hmmmm.
Luckily I have a few days to play with some numbers.
That's one thing I don't like about being an artist. And there are so many opinions on how to price work that there doesn't really seem to be any standard. I'm almost better at accepting a commission where the client says, "I have this much money to spend, can you do it?"
Then I can just say yes or no!
So, an original oil painting, 24"x30"... Gallery would keep 20%... Hmmmm.
Luckily I have a few days to play with some numbers.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
"You may be staring at the end of cancer."
I will let the article speak for itself: This Is the Future of the Fight Against Cancer - Nanobots - Gizmodo
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
GPSing my way out of a paper bag. And irony!
It's not really a big secret that I'm hopeless when it comes to directions. It took me long enough, but I finally bought a GPS yesterday. One would think now I'd be all excited to hit the road without a care in the world!
That one is probably wrong. ;)
Of course, when I "get the itch to fly" and I, well, fly, it could come in handy.
Here's the irony! (Or maybe just humor?) I ordered a GPS from Amazon. I must have looked at 10 or 15 different brands and models. I settled on a Garmin Nuvi 265 over the Garmin Nuvi 765 And guess what there deal of the day at Amazon is today! A Garmin Nuvi 765!! Hahaha.
Refreshing to see I still got it.
That one is probably wrong. ;)
Of course, when I "get the itch to fly" and I, well, fly, it could come in handy.
Here's the irony! (Or maybe just humor?) I ordered a GPS from Amazon. I must have looked at 10 or 15 different brands and models. I settled on a Garmin Nuvi 265 over the Garmin Nuvi 765 And guess what there deal of the day at Amazon is today! A Garmin Nuvi 765!! Hahaha.
Refreshing to see I still got it.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Arrrrr(t) Pt IV
And this is an older piece, but is a direct influence of something I'm tinkering with now.
Arrrrr(t) Pt III
This is one in a series of 4 I did for work to promote American Classics. It's probably hard to tell, but the entire piece is made up of brushstrokes with the words in the phrase "Call me Ismael." (Obviously digital.)
Arrrrr(t) Pt. I
Not doing too good with the blogging lately! I received some nice encouragement about my work today from several people. Reminded me how a few people have asked to see some of my stuff...
And I just spend a few hours painting what might turn out to be an utter failure of a submission for the end of the month.
(I still love it.)
But I digress. This is a painting I did during my "Hmm, let's get back into acrylic" step a little while ago. You can sort of forget how quick it dries. Fingers were used in the making of this piece.
And I just spend a few hours painting what might turn out to be an utter failure of a submission for the end of the month.
(I still love it.)
But I digress. This is a painting I did during my "Hmm, let's get back into acrylic" step a little while ago. You can sort of forget how quick it dries. Fingers were used in the making of this piece.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Baby baby baby
There's no doubt that the brand new little niece has been a huge blessing in our family. Aside from the fact that she is the most adorable thing I've laid eyes on, she provides so much positive for us to dwell on. Our little 7 lb slugger is pushing back a lot of the worries and fears. Not to mention being a grandma is my mom's newest favorite pastime. (Screw you, cancer.)
It's surprising to me how long I can hold her, or sit there and stare at her even when she's sleeping. I'm amazed by her. (I also take great pride in the fact that I'm usually able to get her to stop crying! Although, I have yet to change a diaper solo.) She makes me laugh hysterically. I don't know how long it takes for babies to develop to the point where they recognize faces or voices or anything. But I talk to her, and sometimes she looks at me.
She also smiles for me. Most awesome thing ever. (Okay, it's probably gas, but let uncle have this little thing.)
I can't wait till we laugh together...
It's surprising to me how long I can hold her, or sit there and stare at her even when she's sleeping. I'm amazed by her. (I also take great pride in the fact that I'm usually able to get her to stop crying! Although, I have yet to change a diaper solo.) She makes me laugh hysterically. I don't know how long it takes for babies to develop to the point where they recognize faces or voices or anything. But I talk to her, and sometimes she looks at me.
She also smiles for me. Most awesome thing ever. (Okay, it's probably gas, but let uncle have this little thing.)
I can't wait till we laugh together...
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
HUB-BUB
As I mentioned before, I kicked my butt and dove back into painting. Some of my ventures have been pretty cool and some not so much. I've been staying up pretty late and dragging myself out of bed to go to work in the morning. On the one hand it's been invigorating while on the other I haven't had nights like these in a long time.
Fun. =)
So my renewed efforts are actually two-fold. I'm an artist. Making art makes me happy. It's something I need to do. You see the logical conclusion (and the inevitable question: Well then, what the "f" has been your problem?").
The second reason is a bit more specific. There is this amazing job opportunity for an Artist-in-Residence position that I want. I actually really want it. There, I said that too. I want this job.
While going through pieces to include in the portfolio to send, I was talking to good friend who encouraged me to do some more paintings. She was of the opinion to forget about the marketability of the work, and just do it: Make something.
And it's been fun. And now I have 2 (maybe 3?) new pieces that I can include in this portfolio that I'll be sending out this week. It's exciting, and almost feels like applying to art school all over again.
I'm thrilled at the thought of working in a gallery for 11 months. To work with the community in a creative aspect. To create and play with creative people. It's like a dream!
Now, I don't know what kind of talent I'm up against. There are scads of amazing artists out there. I've been trying to keep that in perspective. I want to take this wave to its highest crest and see how long I can ride it. If things don't work out with this one for me, I hope that it sets me on a new path.
Fun. =)
So my renewed efforts are actually two-fold. I'm an artist. Making art makes me happy. It's something I need to do. You see the logical conclusion (and the inevitable question: Well then, what the "f" has been your problem?").
The second reason is a bit more specific. There is this amazing job opportunity for an Artist-in-Residence position that I want. I actually really want it. There, I said that too. I want this job.
While going through pieces to include in the portfolio to send, I was talking to good friend who encouraged me to do some more paintings. She was of the opinion to forget about the marketability of the work, and just do it: Make something.
And it's been fun. And now I have 2 (maybe 3?) new pieces that I can include in this portfolio that I'll be sending out this week. It's exciting, and almost feels like applying to art school all over again.
I'm thrilled at the thought of working in a gallery for 11 months. To work with the community in a creative aspect. To create and play with creative people. It's like a dream!
Now, I don't know what kind of talent I'm up against. There are scads of amazing artists out there. I've been trying to keep that in perspective. I want to take this wave to its highest crest and see how long I can ride it. If things don't work out with this one for me, I hope that it sets me on a new path.
To Woody et al
Woody and gang:
Thanks for all the prayers and well wishes. I'm still surprised at the outpouring of support from just a line or two in someone's blog. It means a lot to me (and my family too!).
I apologize for not stopping by your blogs individually and offering thanks. I've been blog procrastinating for a while, and since I've been throwing myself back into painting, I haven't been spending as much time on the computer.
Things are going well so far on this end. The oncologist remains positive that the new treatment will work. We just have to wait and see what the next round of tests shows.
Here's to thinking positive, and to some new "blog" friends.
Thanks all,
m.
Thanks for all the prayers and well wishes. I'm still surprised at the outpouring of support from just a line or two in someone's blog. It means a lot to me (and my family too!).
I apologize for not stopping by your blogs individually and offering thanks. I've been blog procrastinating for a while, and since I've been throwing myself back into painting, I haven't been spending as much time on the computer.
Things are going well so far on this end. The oncologist remains positive that the new treatment will work. We just have to wait and see what the next round of tests shows.
Here's to thinking positive, and to some new "blog" friends.
Thanks all,
m.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Surprises... pleasant ones
During the past few days, I've received a couple comments from complete strangers expressing support and well wishes for my mom and my family's current situation. It's been really very awesome.
I obviously don't have many blog "followers," and at times I'm not really sure who's even checking it out. It just sort of made my day. Twice. So thank you, both.
And for a quick update: They changed the chemo. I'll have to find the name of the drug again. But this one's actually an oral medication, which is sort of cool. She still has to go to the hospital every other week for this other drug, Avastin, which is supposed to inhibit the growth of cancer cells. Side effects with this new chemo are supposed to be more mild, with dry skin and blistering the worst of it.
So there we are.
And here we go.
I obviously don't have many blog "followers," and at times I'm not really sure who's even checking it out. It just sort of made my day. Twice. So thank you, both.
And for a quick update: They changed the chemo. I'll have to find the name of the drug again. But this one's actually an oral medication, which is sort of cool. She still has to go to the hospital every other week for this other drug, Avastin, which is supposed to inhibit the growth of cancer cells. Side effects with this new chemo are supposed to be more mild, with dry skin and blistering the worst of it.
So there we are.
And here we go.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
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