I remember Halloween when I was about 13 years old. My Aunt Bobbie, after whom I am named (middle name), was up from Florida. She was dying of brain cancer. She wore a kerchief on her bald head and smelled funny. This was not the Aunt Bobbie I remembered from visiting. That woman had hair; she wore glasses and was always laughing and making me laugh.
She sat in the recliner in the living room that night and we set up a video camera at the front door that broadcast all the little trick-or-treaters onto the television in the living room. She got to witness one last Halloween, adapted for her illness. She stayed in Connecticut for awhile, undergoing treatments and surgery. Details are blurry to me because of my youth. She flew back to Florida with her daughters.
The next summer my dad and I drove the white van she had left up here down to Florida. It was one of those funny ones that had a big bump behind the front seat. Was it the engine? Or the gas tank? I don't know; I just remember that it was cool. Her house was cool too. It was just a short walk from the beach. I spent the majority of that trip down at the beach hunting seashells or on her porch playing with her Siamese cat and its kittens. She had jars and jars of seaside treasures decorating her porch and yard, full of shells, beach glass, starfish, just everything I could imagine. There were sand fleas. You would dig and dig in the beach sand and the little sand fleas would scurry further down their holes. I could never dig far enough or fast enough to catch one.
One day Aunt Bobbie got mad. She yelled at her daughter because her friend had called and said she was coming to visit and why wasn't she here? Aunt Bobbie wanted to call her friend so badly to see if she was okay, to yell at her for not coming over. She could not get what had now become a child-like brain around the idea that her friend was in fact dead and could not have called her.
We flew back to Connecticut. On the plane ride up there was a cute older boy bragging about how he got to drive his very own golf cart while he was in Florida so I lied and said I had too. I never saw Aunt Bobbie after that. I heard about how she was in the hospital and they were just waiting for her to die, and then she did.
I loved the old Aunt Bobbie very much--the Aunt Bobbie with hair and glasses, who laughed and made me laugh, the Aunt Bobbie who had walked down to the beach so many mornings and collected all those beautiful treasures from the sea, who had bred Siamese cats. The Aunt Bobbie I had been named for.
The one who interfered with my Halloween with that stupid video camera, who looked scary with no hair and smelled funny, the one that didn't remember her friend had died, didn't remember me, and got mad for the forgetting...she scared me, disgusted me. I resented her for the attention she got from everyone. And then one day she was gone too and there was neither of the two Aunt Bobbies.
My niece had an argument with my mother the other day. She told my mom that she doesn't like to go over to the house anymore, that it's not fun anymore. That my mom isn't the same. My mom asked when things changed and Vicky responded that it was when she started living at the house during the week.
My mom said, "That's when I got sick."
My niece is ten. She is three years younger than I was with Aunt Bobbie, and she is so much more connected to Mom than I was to my aunt. Mom isn't as bad as Aunt Bobbie was that last year, but she has stretches of time that are worse than others, and the house is darkened by the cloud of cancer. Even the happiest moments in that house are tinged with bittersweetness because we are all aware now of how precious these times are.
What can I say to her? What can I do to make the dealing easier when I don't know how well I'm dealing myself? I just hope she is able to remember the seashells and Siamese kittens
of these times.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
Deep in the Heart of Texas Part II: Wet and Naked
Goddamn I have been absentee lately. Not just from here but from my friends and family as well. Took on way too much this fall and now there's nothing for it but to push through each day until November 7th. But before I get too much into that, I'll finish up the San Antonio story...
So when we last left off I had packed for the trip. But...did I tell you about how I was assaulted by air puffs at the airport? It was a totally new thing that they did not have last year. You walked into the former metal detector but it had a plexiglass door on the other side and you had to stand there as air was blown on you in a short but strong puff. That air touched me in places no man has in months!
Okay so I asked them to do it again. Can you blame me? ;)
At the Atlanta airport where we changed planes, I stopped at the Starbuck's to grab an iced mocha. I know they're corporate and I don't care for their drip coffee at all, but their espresso drinks are okay. Also, they give health insurance to part time employees. But the Starbucks there did not have a working espresso machine. A Starbuck's without espresso? What in the hell is this world coming to, I ask you? I had to buy one of those fake frappuccinos you can get at the damn gas station.
But alas, we finally made it to San Antonio, checked into the hotel, and found a place to have a late lunch outdoors on the Riverwalk. It was Mexican food, of course; 1 out of every 2 restaurants in those parts is Mexican. The food was pretty good but more interesting was the wildlife: Ducks in the water were immediately attracted to suckers like my sisters and I, who would clearly be feeding them chips. Pigeons were, of course, more bold--to the point of obnoxious--walking all over our table and only dissuaded when we practically whacked them one. But the most thrilling was the water snake in the river, who hung out right near us the whole time. When I was in San Antonio last I wondered if anyone ever fell in when they were drunk. It wouldn't be so bad, as the water is only 3 to 4 feet deep. At least, that's what I thought before I saw the water snake. I know they're probably perfectly harmless, but come on! They are snakes!
After that, we retired to the hotel room for a nap. We had, after all, begun our day at 4:30 AM and had just drunk a pitcher of Sangria. I meant to only sleep for 1/2 an hour but next thing I knew it was after 9 PM. We went looking for dinner. We walked a ways down the Riverwalk in the dry heat of the night, weaving through fellow tourists, local couples, and kids out for some fun. Between the hotel and the mall was a fairly quiet stretch where we ran into a cockroach the size of my hand!! I kid you not. It's true: Everything's bigger in Texas!
We ended up eating a very late dinner at the Lonestar Grill, which had not bad food and a really, really funny karaoke dj/singer. Since no one would join in, this guy sang almost the whole night all by himself, at times pulling out a plastic blow-up guitar with which he rocked out. A metal-head Mexican stuck running karaoke night at a local chain restaurant. I felt kinda bad for him but he seemed to take it all in stride. There was also the lone drunk man who occasionally sang really off-tune version of 4 Non Blonde's "What's Up" and other bizarre songs to hear coming out of this guy's mouth.
Before taking off from there for the night we ordered shots of tequila at the bar. Having been a bartender, it took me only a second before I realized what the bartender meant when he asked if we wanted them fully dressed or wet and naked. God, I love bartenders' euphamisms!
So there was our first day in my favorite town in Texas. I promise I won't wait a month to get to the next day.
So when we last left off I had packed for the trip. But...did I tell you about how I was assaulted by air puffs at the airport? It was a totally new thing that they did not have last year. You walked into the former metal detector but it had a plexiglass door on the other side and you had to stand there as air was blown on you in a short but strong puff. That air touched me in places no man has in months!
Okay so I asked them to do it again. Can you blame me? ;)
At the Atlanta airport where we changed planes, I stopped at the Starbuck's to grab an iced mocha. I know they're corporate and I don't care for their drip coffee at all, but their espresso drinks are okay. Also, they give health insurance to part time employees. But the Starbucks there did not have a working espresso machine. A Starbuck's without espresso? What in the hell is this world coming to, I ask you? I had to buy one of those fake frappuccinos you can get at the damn gas station.
But alas, we finally made it to San Antonio, checked into the hotel, and found a place to have a late lunch outdoors on the Riverwalk. It was Mexican food, of course; 1 out of every 2 restaurants in those parts is Mexican. The food was pretty good but more interesting was the wildlife: Ducks in the water were immediately attracted to suckers like my sisters and I, who would clearly be feeding them chips. Pigeons were, of course, more bold--to the point of obnoxious--walking all over our table and only dissuaded when we practically whacked them one. But the most thrilling was the water snake in the river, who hung out right near us the whole time. When I was in San Antonio last I wondered if anyone ever fell in when they were drunk. It wouldn't be so bad, as the water is only 3 to 4 feet deep. At least, that's what I thought before I saw the water snake. I know they're probably perfectly harmless, but come on! They are snakes!
After that, we retired to the hotel room for a nap. We had, after all, begun our day at 4:30 AM and had just drunk a pitcher of Sangria. I meant to only sleep for 1/2 an hour but next thing I knew it was after 9 PM. We went looking for dinner. We walked a ways down the Riverwalk in the dry heat of the night, weaving through fellow tourists, local couples, and kids out for some fun. Between the hotel and the mall was a fairly quiet stretch where we ran into a cockroach the size of my hand!! I kid you not. It's true: Everything's bigger in Texas!
We ended up eating a very late dinner at the Lonestar Grill, which had not bad food and a really, really funny karaoke dj/singer. Since no one would join in, this guy sang almost the whole night all by himself, at times pulling out a plastic blow-up guitar with which he rocked out. A metal-head Mexican stuck running karaoke night at a local chain restaurant. I felt kinda bad for him but he seemed to take it all in stride. There was also the lone drunk man who occasionally sang really off-tune version of 4 Non Blonde's "What's Up" and other bizarre songs to hear coming out of this guy's mouth.
Before taking off from there for the night we ordered shots of tequila at the bar. Having been a bartender, it took me only a second before I realized what the bartender meant when he asked if we wanted them fully dressed or wet and naked. God, I love bartenders' euphamisms!
So there was our first day in my favorite town in Texas. I promise I won't wait a month to get to the next day.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Deep in the Heart of Texas, Part I: The Packing
Rum and Coke is an old drink, very retro, but it certainly does the job. Little tip from a bartender: Carbonated beverages make you drunk faster. And you know that old Bill Cosby skit about different drinks making different kinds of drunks? I believe it's true. (And if you don't, shame on you. Don't you know a classic comedian when you see one?) So anyhow, tonight it was rum and Coke.
I went on a little vacation after my professional success. Was gone most of the week this week. Took my sisters to San Antonio. I went to San Antonio in the winter of 2005 because my senile Grandma C. wanted to visit her long-lost brother one last time before she died but couldn't go on her own so I was nominated to bring her down but I said I would not do so alone, so my mother came along. It was a decent time once we dropped my grandma and Maiden Aunt Etta (a pair I must describe in a posting dedicated to them alone one day) off at her brother's, but one thing I noticed right away was that there was this gorgeous Riverwalk that clearly could not be enjoyed fully unless you were in the company of fellow young-uns. I mean, there were bars and late-night restaurants and clubs and such.
So my sisters and I made a drunken pact last Christmas to take a trip together to San Antonio, and after we won, excuse me, did what we did at my job, I finally had an opportunity to fulfill the promise. Of course, this involved travelling after Homeland Security imposed the no liquids and gels rule for carry-ons, but we forged on regardless.
It did force us to check a piece of luggage, something to which I am vehemently opposed since I suspect the luggage most often lost is that with a small transfer time at the hub airport, and we had only a 45 minute transfer time on the way down (which, when you add in the 30 minute early boarding time means only 15, isn't very long). I was personally not going to check my luggage but rather buy all liquid and gel products when I arrived in Texas, but once Kristy decided to check a duffle bag, I horned in with my hair products, which are the most expensive of my liquids and gels.
And since I'm on the subject of packing, on the way back(which's [and I know that's not a real word (like my use of double and now triple parentheses)] layover was only an hour [at Atlanta, no less, which is the worst airport to have to get around in]), I decided to check a piece of luggage myself, despite my golden rule. I figured if it got lost, I'd already be home so I'd have enough supplies to make do until it turned up.
Also, I bought too much stuff while I was there, a fatal flaw I have in which I think that anything I buy on vacation is free so long as I charge it. I even had to buy a new piece of luggage in which to put all the new stuff I bought (skip the rest of this paragraph if you're a man): 2 new t shirts, one green saying "Texas" with a retro star in a square, the other brown and punk rockish saying, Hard Rock Cafe San Antonio (I know, cheesy to buy a Hard Rock t shirt but the brown with yellow crabby-looking writing convinced me it was almost cool); a tank top with the artwork of Rosie the Riveter emblazoned on the front and back (hence my new profile pic); 3 bracelets--one cuff-style with inlaid Mexican mother of pearl and onyx in a rose patter, one brass saying, "live, love, rock," and one a collection of small layered brown beaded bracelets and indigo beaded bracelets; a shot glass in the shape of a cowboy boot stating, "Don't mess with Texas"; a necklace with two strands of multi-sized emerald, turquoise, garnet, and clear beats; two boxes of Mexican jumping beans (for my niece); a small barette of onyx and mother of pearl; a box of Alamo shortbread cookies for my dad; a purple Mexican skirt for my niece; a pottery dish with a frog's head and feet at either end (I heart frogs) and another that is very artsy with purple and green coloring; two matchingly distressed posters to be framed and put on opposite sides of my couch in my future apartment of Calamity Jane and Annie Oakley; an owl magnet for my mom's birthday (she loves owls); 5 hand-crafted glass swizzle-sticks (I collect them but only glass ones); a woven pink, olive, and black blanket; a tortoise from a local San Antonio glass-blower (for myself; turtles represent feminine power and longevity); and several pairs of earrings--four black freshwater pearls on each dangling clip of silver (I only do silver, white gold, or if I were rich, platinum; not ever yellow gold), two pair handcrafted by Mexican artisans, one containing a blue sapphire-colored piece of oval glass above four separate cylanders of wood above diamond-shaped silver pieces all hung from long isosceles triangles well below the lobe; and two pieces by Jody Coyote, my favorite earring artist--one with a long silver strand curling in on itself in a snail-like fashion with two turquoise and two bronse beads along the outermost coil, and the other two inch-long chains of silver (one hanging behind and one in front of the lobe), one ending with a daisy shape centered by an onyx and the other with a long cylander of silver.
Wow, I feel dirty after actually writing all that out.
Anyway, as I was packing up my return luggage that I would check, I pondered. See, on the way down, both my sisters' luggage had gotten notices that they had been searched by the TSA. So as I packed the bag I would check on the way back, I thought about something: I bet myself that not one of our three bags would receive that TSA notice, and here's why--on the return trip, you are much, much less likely to get searched and here's why: 1. A suicide bomber wouldn't do it on the return from a trip but on the first leg; 2. (And most importantly) If I were a TSA/HS agent, I would NOT want to go through someone's dirty underwear to see if there were a bomb I was unable to pick up upon x-ray and chemical inspection.
I was spot on. None of us was searched. Though Kristy's duffle had broken straps anyway, which the airline refused to reimburse.
I went on a little vacation after my professional success. Was gone most of the week this week. Took my sisters to San Antonio. I went to San Antonio in the winter of 2005 because my senile Grandma C. wanted to visit her long-lost brother one last time before she died but couldn't go on her own so I was nominated to bring her down but I said I would not do so alone, so my mother came along. It was a decent time once we dropped my grandma and Maiden Aunt Etta (a pair I must describe in a posting dedicated to them alone one day) off at her brother's, but one thing I noticed right away was that there was this gorgeous Riverwalk that clearly could not be enjoyed fully unless you were in the company of fellow young-uns. I mean, there were bars and late-night restaurants and clubs and such.
So my sisters and I made a drunken pact last Christmas to take a trip together to San Antonio, and after we won, excuse me, did what we did at my job, I finally had an opportunity to fulfill the promise. Of course, this involved travelling after Homeland Security imposed the no liquids and gels rule for carry-ons, but we forged on regardless.
It did force us to check a piece of luggage, something to which I am vehemently opposed since I suspect the luggage most often lost is that with a small transfer time at the hub airport, and we had only a 45 minute transfer time on the way down (which, when you add in the 30 minute early boarding time means only 15, isn't very long). I was personally not going to check my luggage but rather buy all liquid and gel products when I arrived in Texas, but once Kristy decided to check a duffle bag, I horned in with my hair products, which are the most expensive of my liquids and gels.
And since I'm on the subject of packing, on the way back(which's [and I know that's not a real word (like my use of double and now triple parentheses)] layover was only an hour [at Atlanta, no less, which is the worst airport to have to get around in]), I decided to check a piece of luggage myself, despite my golden rule. I figured if it got lost, I'd already be home so I'd have enough supplies to make do until it turned up.
Also, I bought too much stuff while I was there, a fatal flaw I have in which I think that anything I buy on vacation is free so long as I charge it. I even had to buy a new piece of luggage in which to put all the new stuff I bought (skip the rest of this paragraph if you're a man): 2 new t shirts, one green saying "Texas" with a retro star in a square, the other brown and punk rockish saying, Hard Rock Cafe San Antonio (I know, cheesy to buy a Hard Rock t shirt but the brown with yellow crabby-looking writing convinced me it was almost cool); a tank top with the artwork of Rosie the Riveter emblazoned on the front and back (hence my new profile pic); 3 bracelets--one cuff-style with inlaid Mexican mother of pearl and onyx in a rose patter, one brass saying, "live, love, rock," and one a collection of small layered brown beaded bracelets and indigo beaded bracelets; a shot glass in the shape of a cowboy boot stating, "Don't mess with Texas"; a necklace with two strands of multi-sized emerald, turquoise, garnet, and clear beats; two boxes of Mexican jumping beans (for my niece); a small barette of onyx and mother of pearl; a box of Alamo shortbread cookies for my dad; a purple Mexican skirt for my niece; a pottery dish with a frog's head and feet at either end (I heart frogs) and another that is very artsy with purple and green coloring; two matchingly distressed posters to be framed and put on opposite sides of my couch in my future apartment of Calamity Jane and Annie Oakley; an owl magnet for my mom's birthday (she loves owls); 5 hand-crafted glass swizzle-sticks (I collect them but only glass ones); a woven pink, olive, and black blanket; a tortoise from a local San Antonio glass-blower (for myself; turtles represent feminine power and longevity); and several pairs of earrings--four black freshwater pearls on each dangling clip of silver (I only do silver, white gold, or if I were rich, platinum; not ever yellow gold), two pair handcrafted by Mexican artisans, one containing a blue sapphire-colored piece of oval glass above four separate cylanders of wood above diamond-shaped silver pieces all hung from long isosceles triangles well below the lobe; and two pieces by Jody Coyote, my favorite earring artist--one with a long silver strand curling in on itself in a snail-like fashion with two turquoise and two bronse beads along the outermost coil, and the other two inch-long chains of silver (one hanging behind and one in front of the lobe), one ending with a daisy shape centered by an onyx and the other with a long cylander of silver.
Wow, I feel dirty after actually writing all that out.
Anyway, as I was packing up my return luggage that I would check, I pondered. See, on the way down, both my sisters' luggage had gotten notices that they had been searched by the TSA. So as I packed the bag I would check on the way back, I thought about something: I bet myself that not one of our three bags would receive that TSA notice, and here's why--on the return trip, you are much, much less likely to get searched and here's why: 1. A suicide bomber wouldn't do it on the return from a trip but on the first leg; 2. (And most importantly) If I were a TSA/HS agent, I would NOT want to go through someone's dirty underwear to see if there were a bomb I was unable to pick up upon x-ray and chemical inspection.
I was spot on. None of us was searched. Though Kristy's duffle had broken straps anyway, which the airline refused to reimburse.
Friday, August 25, 2006
It's All Good
I wish I could be more verbose about this but there's no other way to put it . . . everything turned out just fine! :)
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Cancer-Dealers
Here's the thing about the lump (which, for some unnamed reason, I'd rather call a bump): I knew I had to keep it a secret. That's why it was so important to write about it here--because no one in my family could know but I needed to let it out somewhere.
No one who had to personally deal with my mother could know. Until I couldn't tell them something, I didn't realize how much I'd come to depend on each of them in the last year and a half. I confided in all of them different things, and if you added my family members all together, you came up with one complete best friend.
But I also knew that each of them just couldn't go through with me what I had to go through right now. All of them had lived through three major recurrences of my mother's own cancer. Each of them had come to terms with what it meant to lose my mother. Each had come to terms with the idea that maybe they didn't have to. Each was told no, the hope had been wrong. The cancer would kill her in a year. Each had heard that death sentence from many different doctors, the best in the field. So each came to terms again with the idea that she'd die. Soon. (When you're talking about the rest of someone's life, a year is soon.)
Each heard that she was in remission--remission--a word we never, never, ever expected to hear. A miracle, the doctors said. No one, especially my mom, could believe it was true. They must have gotten her files mixed up with some other patient's. She wasn't supposed to have remission. She was supposed to die.
It didn't last. By fall--9 months after our lives as cancer-dealers started--she had it again. Surgery. They removed the new lesions. 6 more months, they said. She was in remission again--a word I now recognize for its truly fickle optimism. 10 months this time, then cancer again. Surgery again. Out in time for the once-a-year family reunion.
Now who knows? 6? 9? 10 months? We'll take it, whatever it is, but it leaves a bitter taste in our throats, this new remission, because we know what is around the corner at the end of this latest purgatory, even if we don't know how far down the road this corner might be.
* * *
How could I enter into this precarious set of peaks and valleys that is my family's life the idea that I might--might--also have cancer? I couldn't. Not yet.
So I began to play a game in my head. When would I tell them? Not now, when I hadn't even confirmed if there was reason to be concerned. What about if they decided to do a mammogram? No. What about if they saw something on it and decided to do a biopsy? No. What if the biopsy was positive and we needed to consider treatment options?
. . . Probably not. If I had a mastectomy? Well, I couldn't hide that. But probably the best thing to do would be to wait. Tell them after when things would be done, when things would be okay or not okay but when I'd know, or when they'd know.
I understand now, see. I know what it is to worry, to await each test, each doctor's visit, each surgery. I know what it is to measure your life in hospital visits. It's horrible enough to undergo that waiting for one you love. To undergo that for two you love? Unbearable. I mean it. Just . . . unbearable.
No one who had to personally deal with my mother could know. Until I couldn't tell them something, I didn't realize how much I'd come to depend on each of them in the last year and a half. I confided in all of them different things, and if you added my family members all together, you came up with one complete best friend.
But I also knew that each of them just couldn't go through with me what I had to go through right now. All of them had lived through three major recurrences of my mother's own cancer. Each of them had come to terms with what it meant to lose my mother. Each had come to terms with the idea that maybe they didn't have to. Each was told no, the hope had been wrong. The cancer would kill her in a year. Each had heard that death sentence from many different doctors, the best in the field. So each came to terms again with the idea that she'd die. Soon. (When you're talking about the rest of someone's life, a year is soon.)
Each heard that she was in remission--remission--a word we never, never, ever expected to hear. A miracle, the doctors said. No one, especially my mom, could believe it was true. They must have gotten her files mixed up with some other patient's. She wasn't supposed to have remission. She was supposed to die.
It didn't last. By fall--9 months after our lives as cancer-dealers started--she had it again. Surgery. They removed the new lesions. 6 more months, they said. She was in remission again--a word I now recognize for its truly fickle optimism. 10 months this time, then cancer again. Surgery again. Out in time for the once-a-year family reunion.
Now who knows? 6? 9? 10 months? We'll take it, whatever it is, but it leaves a bitter taste in our throats, this new remission, because we know what is around the corner at the end of this latest purgatory, even if we don't know how far down the road this corner might be.
* * *
How could I enter into this precarious set of peaks and valleys that is my family's life the idea that I might--might--also have cancer? I couldn't. Not yet.
So I began to play a game in my head. When would I tell them? Not now, when I hadn't even confirmed if there was reason to be concerned. What about if they decided to do a mammogram? No. What about if they saw something on it and decided to do a biopsy? No. What if the biopsy was positive and we needed to consider treatment options?
. . . Probably not. If I had a mastectomy? Well, I couldn't hide that. But probably the best thing to do would be to wait. Tell them after when things would be done, when things would be okay or not okay but when I'd know, or when they'd know.
I understand now, see. I know what it is to worry, to await each test, each doctor's visit, each surgery. I know what it is to measure your life in hospital visits. It's horrible enough to undergo that waiting for one you love. To undergo that for two you love? Unbearable. I mean it. Just . . . unbearable.
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