blue girl

Everybody Dance Now

Someone very close to me, someone I've always felt was indestructible and someone I love very much was diagnosed with lung cancer on May 13.  It's why I haven't been blogging much.  I have too much rambling around in my head to focus on one thing for very long.


There's no stupid, idiotic, ridiculous anger in the pie chart of my mind because I already covered that topic in the only post I've been able to write since my family started living this nightmare.

Each slice of the pie either grows or decreases with how I'm feeling at any given moment.  For example, during the first week, when we were all in shock from the news, this was the pie chart of my mind.

Turk can dance!  I want to dance like that. I just love him.  Like the man says, "He's so damn ... talented."

Scrubs has been a life saver for me and the only thing my mind's been able to absorb easily after long days of sitting in doctors' offices, with family members, taking notes.

Unfortunately, Cute, Smart Doctors has been taking up way more space in my mind than the pie chart implies.  And so has The Language of Disease.  I despise -- thoroughly despise -- every, single, solitary, stupid, idiotic, ridiculous word that's involved in this whole process.

Especially the word oncology.

And while I haven't been writing for my blog much, I've been doing a lot of writing in a notebook.  Since I'm the note taker when we go to see the doctors, I not only have to hear these words, but I also have to understand them, absorb them, while those I love sit next to me and have to do the same thing.  And I watch as they hear these horrible words and I watch how they respond to them.  I don't want the doctors to say them, but they inevitably do.  And I want to ignore them and I want the people I love to ignore them because if we all just ignore them, they won't exist.  They won't be real.  And they'll have to go away.  And my parents can go back to the May 12th of their minds.

But, that won't happen, so I write them down, giving them permanence in our lives.

In the past, whenever I heard or saw the word oncology, the pie chart of my mind looked like this:

The day I was forced (by the grownup inside of me who can be a huge baby!) to sit directly across from an actual Oncologist, the pie chart of my mind looked like this:

He made a mistake at our first meeting and said Plan A was "Cure."  And while that is the word that I most love over all other words that exist right now, the grownup inside of me knew that he had made a mistake by saying it.

A week later, my gut instinct was confirmed and "cure" will not be written down in my notebook again. 

We're moving to Plan B.

The grownup inside of me who can be a big baby forgave the three year old Oncologist, though, because as we were leaving our last appointment, he spoke true words of wisdom.

He was asked, "Does he have any restrictions?"

And the Oncologist said, "No, no restrictions at all.  We all want him to live his life.  And we are treating him so that he can live it to the fullest."

Out of the mouths of babes.

I haven't known how to write about this on my blog.  But, I figured if a man who I have always considered indestructible can choose to rely on me, then I can, in turn, rely on all of you and write about what I'm going through.  (Also see:  I Miss Writing above.)  As the song says...

    I can't do this all on my own.  No, I know, I'm no Superman.  I'm no Superman.

And I don't plan on writing about just the bad stuff either.  You'll notice there's lots of good stuff up there in that pie chart of my mind.  There's The Kindness of Strangers and there's I Love My Friends and there's Laughing and there's Hope and there's Love.  And there might be, in the future -- or right now! -- a whole pie chart of its own that says...

...because I believe that and I also really believe that slice of the pie that says, Thank God for The Beatles.

Over this way, we're working on putting the thought of Plan A behind us and focusing on living life to the fullest and most importantly, helping someone we love do the same.

Join us, okay?  Like the man says...

Give me the music
Give me the music...

Just Doesn't Feel Good

Technology has been getting in the way as Ruth's been trying to write this week, leaving her feeling beyond words.

Whenever my ability to get words on paper temporarily gets put on hold, it goes like this: I'm beyond words and that just doesn't feel good.

My earliest memories include writing in composition books that I used to put in my closet. There were so many of them that I had to stack them in cartons. My grandmother found them and asked what I was doing and I told her I was trying to write a novel. I was about 11 years old. To my surprise she didn't laugh at me, but gave me my grandfather's typewriter that he used in World War I and suddenly my writing was condensed into typed letters, single pages that I rarely numbered in my haste to write the next American novel.

My grandfather's typewriter had keys that could bend easily, that you had to be careful when you hit them to type. It was set into a suitcase, so that you could close it in a hurry and take off because as a journalist in the war, he had to be on the run. I tried to imagine my grandfather sitting in a tent, picking out words for an article.

Now I can't even imagine the look on the face of that young soldier-journalist if he could see me sitting here talking into a microphone to a laptop that was magically forming words. Would he have words to describe that?

Real all of Ruth's post, Beyond Words, here.

Crazy Love

Yes it makes me righteous
Yes it makes me feel whole
Yes it makes me mellow
Down in to my soul

Sing it, Van.

Eggplant Bottom

What is eggplant bottom and how does one end up with it?  And after one ends up with it, does it hurt to sit on it? 

Will the baby be saved? 

Is the husband just wicked quick or is he really an alien? 

And most importantly, does the teenager with the big feet get to finish his X-Box 360 game?

Find out!  By reading Deeples' Amazing, True and Illustrated Story of How She Didn't Die on the Stairs!

Trying Not to Fall Down

I read a post last week about anger.  I guess when you are feeling very angry it really means that you are afraid.  At least that’s what Rachel, Officer Gleason’s first commenter, wrote.

I’ve found the root of my anger (usually) comes from fear. When I’m really angry about something, I understand it better by asking “what is it I’m afraid of here?”....

....For me, though, acknowledging the fear has helped. I move closer to activism, to changing what I can as a person. It’s complicated. But I wish you luck.

I read her comment at the perfect time and it made sense to me because I am going through something right now and am experiencing fear.  A fear I’ve never experienced before.  The type of fear that makes me want to run away.  Or jump off the nearest rooftop.

I’d do that.  But, I’m too afraid of heights.

The other day I was behind a woman at a salad bar.  She was poking at grape tomatoes and fluffing around the shredded cheddar cheese with the tongs instead of making her salad the way she was supposed to be doing, Godblessit! because she was talking on her cell phone.  She’d fake me out.  She’d start moving to the right, which meant I’d start moving but then I’d have to stop suddenly because she’d start talking again, “Yeah, Joan looked terrible in those jeans!  She really needs to lose weight!”

Really?  How interesting.  Because from this vantage point, you’re no Calista Flockhart, sister.  What if I I take my plastic salad fork and start jabbing you in all the areas that could use some work?  Maybe start pinching your midsection with my salad tongs in Joan’s honor?  Or just dump the bucket of diet Ranch dressing over your head?

I didn’t do any of that.  Because she suddenly realized I was behind her.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

I smiled, “That’s ok.”

When you’re angry, it seems you’re not only fearful but also insincere -- and very capable of plastering a fake smile across your face.

I left the store and had to stop to get gas.  We got a new car a few weeks ago and this was the first time I had to fill ‘er up.  I found the button to pop the trunk.  I found the button to pop the hood.  I found the button that rolls down the windows, adjusts the mirrors, the seats and the radio.  But, I couldn’t find the button that pops the tank door.

I punched the button that turns the car off.  A button does that in our new car.  It’s keyless.  Not sure what the point of it is, but it’s sort of fun.

So, I had my one half second of fun and got out and tried to pry the tank lid open with my fingers.  Didn’t work.  I got back in the car and found the button that pops open the glove compartment and started to read the manual.

I really have to sit here and read this stupid, idiotic, ridiculous manual to find out where the tank door button is?  Stupid, idiotic, ridiculous car designers!

I should say at this point that I really wasn’t thinking stupid, idiotic, or ridiculous.  The words I was using to describe the manual and those stupid, idiotic, ridiculous car designers were much, much worse.  I didn’t think Godblessit! either when I was behind Calista Flockhart-not at the salad bar.

Seems like when you are angry, you’re not only fearful and capable of being insincere, you also become Rated R at the drop of a hat.  Or at the lack of a button.  That should be in an obvious spot! 

Godblessit!

After reading the poorly written and poorly illustrated idiotic manual, I finally found the button and $60 later was ready to leave.

$3.99 a gallon!  Stupid, idiotic, ridiculous George Bush!  Dick Cheney!  Oil men, all of them.  Billions in ridiculous profits!  Stupid Congress questioning them like it’ll do any good!  Soldiers dying so I can drive around in this ridiculous car why do we live in the stupid suburbs we should be living in the city and walking, God I hate every stupid thing right now!

But I couldn’t leave.  Because I was blocked in on both sides.  Godblessit!

This could’ve been my Falling Down moment. 

But, it wasn’t.

The lady who had me blocked in from the front, in her mid-60s with pretty blonde hair and a kind face looked at me and winked and then pointed behind me.  The guy who had me blocked in from the back, a 20-something landscaper with equipment piled high in the back of his beat-up, black Chevy pickup, who was supposed to be leaving the station, but instead was just stopped behind me, his tan upper body hanging out of his window, was staring at a girl from behind who filled out her jeans better than Calista Flockhart would but probably not as much as poor Joan does, as she walked into the station.

He was in a hip swinging coma.

The sun was shining and a breeze was blowing and suddenly it felt nice standing outside as the kind-faced lady and I smiled at each other and watched him watch her.  In that moment, I relaxed, but I did have to get going.

“Pssst.  Pssssssst!”

He looked up at me, surprised and embarrassed.

“I need to get going.  Can you move back?”

“Oh yeah.  Yeah.  Sorry ma’am.”

Ma’am?  MA’AM?!  MA’AM??!!!!!

I smiled, “That’s ok.”  And this time, I sincerely meant it.

Ma’am?!  He’s lucky I didn’t have a Bazooka.  These days, my moods can change like that.  Like that!

Like Rachel wrote, “It’s complicated.”

Yeah, it is.  But, I’m working on it.  Wish me luck.

Something Else is Slipping Away

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

---Billy Collins

I just realized I forgot to do something important last week.  Not the most important thing I was supposed to do.  I was doing the most important thing I was supposed to be doing, which had a hand in me forgetting the simply important thing.

Sigh.

Here's an animated version of Forgetfulness by Billy Collins.  It's really worth watching.

h/t to Jennifer, who linked to this video many moons ago.  (See?  I didn't forget that!)  But, I can't find her post.

A Walk in the Park

Snapped this photo about an hour ago while walking the bike path down in the valley, just before a Cardinal flew by.

Simple and Delicious Joy

Go read what was beyond good, fantastic and awesome over at Ruth's place.
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Jennifer warned me that Typepad had changed their posting page. Why is the leading so wide?
And why is the link to Ruth's blog on the "be" only?  Totally unacceptable.
Oh, the joy of change!

M.A. Peel's Cinematic Moment

I went to Rutgers College, and lived for two years in town, on Bayard Street, near the train tracks. In the few seconds we were flying by, the sense of the deeply ingrained familiar drew my eye right to the window of my old apartment, straight on into my old kitchen.

There I was sitting at the kitchen table, as I often did to study, and in that instant, my twenty-year old self looked up from her book.

Our eyes met. My head was spinning. I tried to smile at her, but all I could muster was amazement. She smiled, but I realized it was a reaction to something she had just read, not to me. She had no idea she was glimpsing part of her future.

She looked happy and healthy. Suddenly she got up to answer the phone. It was "the call." That terrible call.

Read all of M.A.'s An Occurrence on the Acela to D.C.

That's Life

Just felt like sending out some positive energy into the universe, Sinatra-style.

***

I deleted that post about how much Larry Jones hates advertising. I hate advertising, too. So, the whole thing was a big, fat lie! When I deleted the post, your comments were deleted, too. Don't be sad. I'll always remember them fondly.

There are things going on around here that are making it hard for me to think straight. I'm not feeling much like blogging. You know, sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't, yadda, yadda, yadda. Right now, I don't. So, just in case I'm feeling less like a nut for awhile, I didn't want that hateful post up top, I wanted the positive energy of that song.

Ok, gonna close now. Time to make the doughnuts...

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p.s. You know I wanted to work in every single advertising tag line from this page into my post. I really wanted to! But, I don't have time. I need to get working on some more Offer Ends Soon! copy.