The Christmas after I left University for the first time, and yes, I left 3 times, was one that just lately has come to make a lot of sense to me.
That year, I was working my very first full time job. I was rocking it working at Pennington's (a clothing store for fat ladies) in the Toronto Eaton Centre. Premier mall in the biggest city in all of Canada and I was selling mumus to all the best fat chicks in town. I was working my ass of for $278 every two weeks - and that's full time hours brothers and sisters - it was a LONG time ago. And I was only 20.
I had my own apartment - $275 a month - right beside the train tracks in one of the worst neighbourhoods in town. The entire apartment could fit inside my kitchen in my tiny townhouse now but I thought it was amazing.
Back to Christmas - I saved up and bought my mom a dress for Christmas. This was no small feat - finding a dress that would suit my Mom. My Mom had a weird body. She was big on top and also had a HUGE ass - the kind that we called a "shelf bum" - like you could sit trinkets and ornaments on to display them.... She also had a uniform that she rarely strayed from. She wore gabardine stretch pants in either brown, black or navy - a brightly coloured sleeveless shirt and a co-ordinating overblouse that covered her bum. We were all to check that the bum and gut were always covered over....
So, I thought I was stepping my mom out. My mom thought she had her own style - and in retrospect, although it horrified me - I guess she really did.
This dress I bought her was a two peice = short sleeved longish top and elastic waist A-line skirt. All in a tasteful black and white and green pattern that if I close my eyes I can still see although I find it quite impossible to describe without having it sound hideous.
My mom seemed happy enough when she opened it. I forced her to try it on because I wanted to see how wonderful it would look on her. Now, I had bought a size 28. For those of you not in the know, that's about as big as it got at the time - there was no where but smaller to go from there in the land of larges.
My mom tried it on and it didn't fit. The top was too small and the bottom wouldn't go around her.
I was sure that there was something wrong - I checked the tags - I kept saying that there must be some mistake.
And my mom broke down. She cried. I'm sure NOW that she was upset with herself - like I am when my "fat pants" turn out to be just "pants". But she started screaming... How could I do this to her. How could I ruin Christmas for her - for everyone. I am so selfish - everything has to be about Sandra. We all have to be impressed that Sandra can afford big gifts now that she has her big city job...how could I do this to her?
I spent Christmas day in my room. I couldn't even talk I was so ashamed. Why. What had I done this for? Why did I want to hurt her?
At one point during the day, my cousin Janice came up to my room - we're close now, we weren't then - and said to me that not only had I hurt my mother with my thoughtless gift, I had ruined christmas for her and everyone else.
My mom didn't speak to me for the rest of the day. I left the next morning for Toronto to be back to work on boxing day sales.
I took the dress with me. Turns out, it was a 22 mislabelled as a 28. I exchange it for the 28, mailed it to my mom and we never talked about that dress, that fight or that Christmas again.
I try not to think about that Christmas ever.
Christmas was my mom's favourite holiday. She spent 2 months preparing for it and a month cleaning up after it. Now that she's gone, I've tried to recreate the Christmas that she use to - but I just can't. Rick tells me every year that the Christmas I long for no longer exists. I almost think that it was the one horrific Christmas - the one that I inadvertently ruined by being an underacheiving over-acheiver that stops me from being able to.
I have this paralyzing fear that at any time as I try to make everyone love me (or at the very very least really like me) by giving anything and everything I've got to make sure that everyone is happy every minute of every day that at any second any one of them is going to turn to me and say "you ruined it all". And all I was trying to do was help.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Saturday, June 2, 2007
**worryworryworryworry**
When I was a baby my Mother taught me, as she did all other babies before and after me, to say "worryworryworryworryworry". She'd hold her hands up in front of the baby's face (think jazz hands...) and repeat it over and over, "worryworryworryworryworry". Very monotone and in her deepest of deep lady voice. The babies would stare transfixed at her and eventually hold up their hands and we too would repeat "wooywooywooywooywooy".
So, I guess you can say I came by it honestly - my love of worrying.
I suppose its not so much of a love of worry but an obsession really. I've spent most of my life trying to control the worry with plattitudes. "Don't worry, it might never happen"...as much as I've tried to convince myself that the worst will never happen - some times bad shit happens to people. Sometimes we are all going to be that guy: your house will burn down, you parents will die, your husband will leave you, your kid will fall off the monkey bars and break their arm, you will get cancer, you will grow a big hair right in the centre of your chin and you will not get the job/man/girl/house/car/life that you want. Shit just sometimes happens. Of course, it also might never happen.
I think that the book "the secret" is good AND bad. I read someone's blog the other day touting its power to bring you stuff that you want. I respect that it works for her. I really really do. But, in essence, isn't the secret just a self fulfilling prophesy? If I believe it then it must be true/will be true. I'm not sure and I don't want to doubt anything that Oprah likes because I am convinced the blog police monitor blogs for anti-Oprah sentiments and if you speak against her - oooooh bad shit can happen to you. Perhaps that is where that chin hair came from?
I generally am full of piss and vinegar. On a good day I think I'm great and smart and funny and should likely rule the world - if I told you all how to live your life - how happy you would all be! It is the times when I'm alone and its too quiet that I let the self doubt creep in and allow my mother's mantra to infiltrate my tiny mind. I really MUST stop doing that. Does everyone do that? Did my mother teach you all? Damn she was good.
So, I guess you can say I came by it honestly - my love of worrying.
I suppose its not so much of a love of worry but an obsession really. I've spent most of my life trying to control the worry with plattitudes. "Don't worry, it might never happen"...as much as I've tried to convince myself that the worst will never happen - some times bad shit happens to people. Sometimes we are all going to be that guy: your house will burn down, you parents will die, your husband will leave you, your kid will fall off the monkey bars and break their arm, you will get cancer, you will grow a big hair right in the centre of your chin and you will not get the job/man/girl/house/car/life that you want. Shit just sometimes happens. Of course, it also might never happen.
I think that the book "the secret" is good AND bad. I read someone's blog the other day touting its power to bring you stuff that you want. I respect that it works for her. I really really do. But, in essence, isn't the secret just a self fulfilling prophesy? If I believe it then it must be true/will be true. I'm not sure and I don't want to doubt anything that Oprah likes because I am convinced the blog police monitor blogs for anti-Oprah sentiments and if you speak against her - oooooh bad shit can happen to you. Perhaps that is where that chin hair came from?
I generally am full of piss and vinegar. On a good day I think I'm great and smart and funny and should likely rule the world - if I told you all how to live your life - how happy you would all be! It is the times when I'm alone and its too quiet that I let the self doubt creep in and allow my mother's mantra to infiltrate my tiny mind. I really MUST stop doing that. Does everyone do that? Did my mother teach you all? Damn she was good.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
My very first Rick in a Series of Many
When I was 13 years old my best friend was as smart as a doorhandle. Her name was Debbie and she was very pretty. All the boys liked her. I hung out with her because - she was a pretty dorky stupid girl and I could easily make her laugh. And I got to hang with the boys.
She had a party one night - her parents were out and we played Styx over and over and over again.
"Babe I'm leaving, must be on my way...."
It was at that party that Debbie made out with THE most gorgeous guy I'd ever seen - at the time anyway - Rick. Ohhh he had dark thick wavy hair that was just a bit too long. He wore braces -which was V sexy for the time and he had a tall lanky swimmers body. So cute. So nice. So into Debbie. So what? I just sat on the couch ate chips and talked to his friend Mike. Mike was uglier, fatter, shorter and just seemed annoyed by Rick.
Soon after this party, they stopped being friends. Stuff like that happens easily when you are 13. Soon after that party Debbie dumped Rick too. She found an older boy - 17 - who filled her make-out needs more completely. And soon after, Rick and I became friends, and I dumped Debbie. She was way too slow on the uptake for me. Even then I had an intollerance for those who are slow of wit.
So Rick and I started to hang out. First I used the family pool to invite him over to my house. Then he and I would hang out in his family's attic. We did 13 year old stuff - wrote poetry, shared it - listened to music - read parts of novels out loud to one another. What do you mean that's not what 13 year old girls do with their 13 year old male best friends? It was normal to us.
Rick was gay. Obviously. But he was my first gay best friend. He was sarcastic and funny and mean. He was fashionable and critical and girly. Upon reflection 25 years later, it was as if he read the manual on "gay 101" and followed the rules right from the get go.
We finished grade 8 together like siamese twins. And when we started grade 9 we were in the same class and always together...until *insert ominous dandandunnnnnn here* the twins came along!
Mark and Mike were twins. Adorable fraternal twins. Kind of awkward. Kind of goofy. The kind of guys that everyone liked. They wanted to hang with Rick and I. At first it was both. Then Mark. Then Mike. It didn't bother me, because personality wise they were just like Rick. And they liked the same things that we did. And hey.....maybe they were gay too? Of course they were.
Now, by that time I was 14 and I knew what gay was. It was boys who liked boys. Gheesh - everyone knew that. And Rick was, well, gay - like on Three's Company when Jack pretended to be gay. I was a woman of the world and accepting of all others. I was liberalism personified at an exceptionally young age. I had a gay best friend.
Until I saw it. I saw Rick and Mark making out. Kissing and groping and hands down each others pants. They stopped. Looked at me. And laughed. And then they went right back at it.
I wasn't fine. I was far from fine. What the flaming Jesis was that? I mean sure I knew - I mean I thought I knew - I'm sure I knew that boys made out with boys - and If there were no girl parts to deal with of course they would deal with boy parts - oh of course they would. Shit. Shit Shit shit shit shit.
I left the attic and sat on the front porch. Mike said - did you catch them at it again? And, having recovered my senses by that point I said "sheesh - again!" and acted like nothing happened. Cause I was a woman of the world with a gay best friend and this was just something that wasn't going to freak me out. Nope. Not me.
Then Rick and Mike started seeing each other behind Mark's back. And I had to play interloper and the whole threesome took on a life of its own. I enjoyed the intrigue - the theatre and the mayhem that ensued! Nothing is quite so fun as a bunch of boys having hissy fit girl fights about who loves who more!
And each time I saw them kissing or making out it got a little easier. Acceptance doesn't come without thought - its something that you have to work at sometimes. I saw a lot. I'm to a point now where NOTHING shocks or bothers me. I think at this point, I've seen it all.
So, Rick was my first. My first gay best friend. My first boy on boy kiss. But he wasn't the best best friend by a long shot. As a matter of fact, he turned out to be quite an asshole. He and his boyfriend told me that my first real boyfriend was gay. They insisted that he couldn't possibly be with me - big homo queer that he was. And the fuckers were right - he was. I hate that.
His boyfriend (that same one) died of AIDS in the late 90s - the two of them were together for almost 20 years. It was terribly sad. When he and I met up many years later, he hypothesized that an entire generation of people had lost their soul mates to a disease. And I was very sad for him.
We tried hanging out again - like old times - but then I discovered something. He's not very nice and I don't like him. You live you learn.
She had a party one night - her parents were out and we played Styx over and over and over again.
"Babe I'm leaving, must be on my way...."
It was at that party that Debbie made out with THE most gorgeous guy I'd ever seen - at the time anyway - Rick. Ohhh he had dark thick wavy hair that was just a bit too long. He wore braces -which was V sexy for the time and he had a tall lanky swimmers body. So cute. So nice. So into Debbie. So what? I just sat on the couch ate chips and talked to his friend Mike. Mike was uglier, fatter, shorter and just seemed annoyed by Rick.
Soon after this party, they stopped being friends. Stuff like that happens easily when you are 13. Soon after that party Debbie dumped Rick too. She found an older boy - 17 - who filled her make-out needs more completely. And soon after, Rick and I became friends, and I dumped Debbie. She was way too slow on the uptake for me. Even then I had an intollerance for those who are slow of wit.
So Rick and I started to hang out. First I used the family pool to invite him over to my house. Then he and I would hang out in his family's attic. We did 13 year old stuff - wrote poetry, shared it - listened to music - read parts of novels out loud to one another. What do you mean that's not what 13 year old girls do with their 13 year old male best friends? It was normal to us.
Rick was gay. Obviously. But he was my first gay best friend. He was sarcastic and funny and mean. He was fashionable and critical and girly. Upon reflection 25 years later, it was as if he read the manual on "gay 101" and followed the rules right from the get go.
We finished grade 8 together like siamese twins. And when we started grade 9 we were in the same class and always together...until *insert ominous dandandunnnnnn here* the twins came along!
Mark and Mike were twins. Adorable fraternal twins. Kind of awkward. Kind of goofy. The kind of guys that everyone liked. They wanted to hang with Rick and I. At first it was both. Then Mark. Then Mike. It didn't bother me, because personality wise they were just like Rick. And they liked the same things that we did. And hey.....maybe they were gay too? Of course they were.
Now, by that time I was 14 and I knew what gay was. It was boys who liked boys. Gheesh - everyone knew that. And Rick was, well, gay - like on Three's Company when Jack pretended to be gay. I was a woman of the world and accepting of all others. I was liberalism personified at an exceptionally young age. I had a gay best friend.
Until I saw it. I saw Rick and Mark making out. Kissing and groping and hands down each others pants. They stopped. Looked at me. And laughed. And then they went right back at it.
I wasn't fine. I was far from fine. What the flaming Jesis was that? I mean sure I knew - I mean I thought I knew - I'm sure I knew that boys made out with boys - and If there were no girl parts to deal with of course they would deal with boy parts - oh of course they would. Shit. Shit Shit shit shit shit.
I left the attic and sat on the front porch. Mike said - did you catch them at it again? And, having recovered my senses by that point I said "sheesh - again!" and acted like nothing happened. Cause I was a woman of the world with a gay best friend and this was just something that wasn't going to freak me out. Nope. Not me.
Then Rick and Mike started seeing each other behind Mark's back. And I had to play interloper and the whole threesome took on a life of its own. I enjoyed the intrigue - the theatre and the mayhem that ensued! Nothing is quite so fun as a bunch of boys having hissy fit girl fights about who loves who more!
And each time I saw them kissing or making out it got a little easier. Acceptance doesn't come without thought - its something that you have to work at sometimes. I saw a lot. I'm to a point now where NOTHING shocks or bothers me. I think at this point, I've seen it all.
So, Rick was my first. My first gay best friend. My first boy on boy kiss. But he wasn't the best best friend by a long shot. As a matter of fact, he turned out to be quite an asshole. He and his boyfriend told me that my first real boyfriend was gay. They insisted that he couldn't possibly be with me - big homo queer that he was. And the fuckers were right - he was. I hate that.
His boyfriend (that same one) died of AIDS in the late 90s - the two of them were together for almost 20 years. It was terribly sad. When he and I met up many years later, he hypothesized that an entire generation of people had lost their soul mates to a disease. And I was very sad for him.
We tried hanging out again - like old times - but then I discovered something. He's not very nice and I don't like him. You live you learn.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
No body puts baby in the corner
Okay so this isn't really about Dirty Dancing. I just love that line. Dirty Dancing was one of my Mom's favourite movies and the only movie I inherited from her - thank god it was good QUALITY cinema!
I haven't watched it in years - its VHS so that explains a lot. I keep it tucked away in a special place with all my tresures, my bathing suits and my sweater shaver that I used once.
But, having suddenly remembered it, I should watch it today. Its the perfect day for one of three things: cleaning your house, watching old movies or sitting around eating corn chips and masturbating. We have a strick no junk food policy in our house. And, since I have not now nor never had even the slightest bit of interest in cleaning anything, I opt always for the movies.
Back in the day, when the movie theatres had $2 tuesdays, I always asked for Tuesday to be my day off - since I was working in the glorious retail clothing industry at that time this was an option. I would head out to a movie in the afternoon by myself then meet up with my friend in the evening and see more. Two $2 movies in combination with buck a marguerita and free appetizers night at ChiChi's mexican food made for the perfect evening. Its no wonder I find movies, no matter how good or how bad, a soothing thing.
For me: movies = relaxation = happiness + love
I'm going to go with Dirty Dancing today, for old time's sake - cause really, nobody puts this baby in a corner!
Friday, May 18, 2007
Raised by Wolves
I don't know where my head is at lately. I swear I'm teetering on the precipise of manic depression. My highs are unreal and my lows are heartbreaking. And my blogging is like homework. I want to do it because I know I'm learning stuff - about me - about being a better writer - and about the people who read my blog and share their feedback (which by the way I so totally love - gobble it up like keg-a-beer as it were). But I just can't seem to find the balance to make the stuff I'm writing not sound like crap.
So lets see how this goes - lets choose a topic for the day. Hmmm. Let's choose family.
You know I have parents, who are dead. So needless to say I haven't seen a lot of them lately. I have a brother. He's an interesting one. But we are "estranged" - I just like that word because it sounds cool and kind of like we are in a french detective novel. How did that happen? That's a good story.
About 6 years ago my Dad got sick. His leg was so sore he could hardly walk. Turns out he had end stage lung cancer that had metasticized into his bones. At the time when the doctors gave him 6 months to live, he was living in Goderich, about a 3 hour drive from where I live. Since he couldn't drive, and needed to be closer to civilization, hospitals, etc. I convinced him to move to Stratford, into a ground floor apartment.
At this point, I had been driving from Ajax to Stratford (just 2 hours each way!) once or twice a week. I drove Dad to all his doctors appointments, did the banking, bought the groceries and took him for lunch every week - even to the nasty Chinese Buffet in Mitchell that had all you can eat liver and onions and Chinese food! I also ran all those pesky get drugs and oxygen errands! Little things. I couldn't handle the other bits and peices so I arranged for meals on wheels 3 times a week and set him up with someone to come and clean.
Dad didn't much like meals on wheels. He said everything was tasteless and white. He was right - it totally was. So, I would make him his faves - chilli or lasagne and freeze them in margarine containers (cause the man had a million - he never threw anything away). I would haul these to Stratford on that wendesday too - take the empties and refill the freezer. He ate those at night and on the other days. Lots of people who visited brought him food too - I had SO SO SO much support from my great extended family!
Meanwhile, back at the trailer park, my brother and his family had moved in to my Dad's house. Good that it wasn't sitting empty. And since they only had one car and my Dad's van couldn't be driven (oxyconton and driving don't mix my friends!) why wouldn't they use Dad's van too? It just made sense.
So, on we go with the illness - and my brother did visit Dad - I'll give him that much. Once every couple of weeks he'd try to haul dad out of the apartment in his wheelchair to church. Now, my Dad was NOT a churchgoing guy. He used to say that he went to the round church - so the devil couldn't corner him. Oh no, not when people asked him about church - he just used to say that all the time!!! But, my brother was really involved in the church - he was a lay minister at the correctional centre and big into the Dutch Christian Reform Church. Or was it the Baptist church that week? Maybe it was the Pentacostals. He was an equal opportunity religious freak.
Dad didn't like going to church. It made him angry for the whole week. But, since my Dad did think until the day he died that the sun shone out of my brother's ass and lit up the world, he went because it was his son!
Long story shorter - on the night my Dad is dying (which by the way was 6 months and 2 days after the doctors told him!) - we show up at the hospital and so do my brother and his wife. Sit up all night waiting for Dad to stop breathing. Seriously. Just the 4 of us sitting there in the most surreal horrific firghtening circumstance, waiting for my father to stop breathing. It was one of those awful awful things that you never would wish on your worst enemy. I literally sat there making deals with God - saying "please let this be the last one" and "no don't" "yes please just put him out of his misery - please just let it stop".
Morning rolls around and my Dad is still breathing when his fuckwit of a doctor shows up. Is there anything we can do I ask to help him go, well, frankly, faster - he seems to be suffering so much? Yes, the doctor says - you could just take away the oxygen mask. Take it off and he will die in minutes not hours. Will he be in pain? Will he suffer? No - he has medication for the pain and we won't stop it. So the four of us talk and basically the three of them say - whatever you want to do - like we are picking a restaurant for dinner or something. So, its my decision. My decision when Dad dies. And let me tell you, just because you can make decisions doesn't make you a bitch - it makes you decisive.
So yes. Lets do it. Lets help him go. I took off the mask. The nurse shut the ozygen off. And the room was silent with the exception of Dad's laboured breaths. My brother and sister in law said "okay well this could take a while, we're going to get some breakfast" and they left. They left us there. And it took about 3 minutes. My husband held my hand as I watched him stop breathing. There was no dramatic death rattle or last big gasp. He just stopped like the timer had literally ran out. And Wayne left me with him alone for 10 minutes while he went to find a nurse in the cursed understaffed hospital. And I sat with my dead father and screamed that silent scream in my head that you are sure that people can actually hear but they can't. I sat and just let the tears fall down my face without wiping them away. I couldn't function.
But, when everyone was back, I was okay. I made the calls. I made the arrangements. No funeral. Immediate cremation. He and I had talked about it many many times and even met with the funeral home. If people hadn't come to visit him when he was alive, he sure as hell didn't want them showing up when he was dead. Funny old fart.
We had a party at his apartment. And everyone ate my aunt's dainties (since it was days before Christmas) and laughed and, I hope, had a good time.
On Christmas day we always have a dinner with my big extended family. My brother didn't show or call. We waited for over an hour for him before eating. The next week we cleaned out the apartment. I kept the photos and let my brother and family and friends have everything else. I kept telling myself it was just stuff. Funny, now I think I should have fought for some of the stuff.
My brother got the house. And the van. Although my Dad did ask my brother to pay me $2000 for the van - he never did. I was the executor of the will. I got the bills and the debt. And an annuity of $4000 - so really - totally split down the middle......or not. Its just stuff, right?
I called them a few times during the year and always spoke to my sister in law - he never wanted to speak to me. But, in one loud horrible telephone fight my brother said I was a pushy domineering bitch who had to run everyones life and I ruined Dad's. Apparently I always have been. I forced Dad to move to a place that he hated. I treated him horribly. I hung up first.
When the ground thawed it was time to bury the cremains. I had the funeral home dig up my Mom's ashes and mix in my Dad's so that they would always be together. Sweet but also very financially practical (you know, if you are making plans of that nature...). My sisterinlaw wanted to know if there would be anyone speaking graveside. I said I didn't want to (frankly I just couldn't) but she and my brother could feel free - they brought a minister from their church.
We arrived on the day just close family - Dad's brother, his wife and his sister, close cousins, my Aunt, my husband and I - and no kids (hello - its a cemetary and my kids were 1 and 4). The minister spoke - can't remember what he said... My sister in law read 4 full pages of typed bible verse. We were all a little stunned by that and no one knew just what to say. She asked if anyone else would like to say anything and one of my Aunt Jean's (I have 4) spoke a few sentences about when they were kids.
Then it was my bother's turn. He talked of all the times that they had spent together driving back and forth to the doctor... and of how Dad had accepted his illness. He talked of the difficulty of providing him with his groceries and how hard it was for he and my sister in law to take care of Dad. He talked of how near the end of his life Dad had found Jesus Christ as his personal saviour and accepted that he would be with him in heaven.
I tell you what - I was gobsmacked. None of those things happened. Not once. My cousins and Aunts and Uncle all stood with their mouthes open. Afterwards at Tim Hortons (because where the hell else would we go after - really? Seriously?) they all said that they knew it had been me and not Craig. My response was this - we all need to believe what we need to believe to get ourselves by. My brother needs to believe that I am a bitch and that he is the great saviour son so that he can cope with his Dad being dead. I'm going to give him that one.
In the 6 years since I have tried to keep in touch - cards, emails, calls, never forgot a birthday.... And now that he and my sister in law are divorcing, I have heard from her that he truly hates me and never wants to see me again. Why? I don't know and I don't care. I have a relationship with the SIL and my neice and nephews and its all I am going to get I guess. My Dad would be super mad (and lets not even think how angry my Mom would be!) if he knew that we are "estranged" but hey, I did my best - I truly believe I did. And you have to believe what you have to believe to get you through stuff - right?
So lets see how this goes - lets choose a topic for the day. Hmmm. Let's choose family.
You know I have parents, who are dead. So needless to say I haven't seen a lot of them lately. I have a brother. He's an interesting one. But we are "estranged" - I just like that word because it sounds cool and kind of like we are in a french detective novel. How did that happen? That's a good story.
About 6 years ago my Dad got sick. His leg was so sore he could hardly walk. Turns out he had end stage lung cancer that had metasticized into his bones. At the time when the doctors gave him 6 months to live, he was living in Goderich, about a 3 hour drive from where I live. Since he couldn't drive, and needed to be closer to civilization, hospitals, etc. I convinced him to move to Stratford, into a ground floor apartment.
At this point, I had been driving from Ajax to Stratford (just 2 hours each way!) once or twice a week. I drove Dad to all his doctors appointments, did the banking, bought the groceries and took him for lunch every week - even to the nasty Chinese Buffet in Mitchell that had all you can eat liver and onions and Chinese food! I also ran all those pesky get drugs and oxygen errands! Little things. I couldn't handle the other bits and peices so I arranged for meals on wheels 3 times a week and set him up with someone to come and clean.
Dad didn't much like meals on wheels. He said everything was tasteless and white. He was right - it totally was. So, I would make him his faves - chilli or lasagne and freeze them in margarine containers (cause the man had a million - he never threw anything away). I would haul these to Stratford on that wendesday too - take the empties and refill the freezer. He ate those at night and on the other days. Lots of people who visited brought him food too - I had SO SO SO much support from my great extended family!
Meanwhile, back at the trailer park, my brother and his family had moved in to my Dad's house. Good that it wasn't sitting empty. And since they only had one car and my Dad's van couldn't be driven (oxyconton and driving don't mix my friends!) why wouldn't they use Dad's van too? It just made sense.
So, on we go with the illness - and my brother did visit Dad - I'll give him that much. Once every couple of weeks he'd try to haul dad out of the apartment in his wheelchair to church. Now, my Dad was NOT a churchgoing guy. He used to say that he went to the round church - so the devil couldn't corner him. Oh no, not when people asked him about church - he just used to say that all the time!!! But, my brother was really involved in the church - he was a lay minister at the correctional centre and big into the Dutch Christian Reform Church. Or was it the Baptist church that week? Maybe it was the Pentacostals. He was an equal opportunity religious freak.
Dad didn't like going to church. It made him angry for the whole week. But, since my Dad did think until the day he died that the sun shone out of my brother's ass and lit up the world, he went because it was his son!
Long story shorter - on the night my Dad is dying (which by the way was 6 months and 2 days after the doctors told him!) - we show up at the hospital and so do my brother and his wife. Sit up all night waiting for Dad to stop breathing. Seriously. Just the 4 of us sitting there in the most surreal horrific firghtening circumstance, waiting for my father to stop breathing. It was one of those awful awful things that you never would wish on your worst enemy. I literally sat there making deals with God - saying "please let this be the last one" and "no don't" "yes please just put him out of his misery - please just let it stop".
Morning rolls around and my Dad is still breathing when his fuckwit of a doctor shows up. Is there anything we can do I ask to help him go, well, frankly, faster - he seems to be suffering so much? Yes, the doctor says - you could just take away the oxygen mask. Take it off and he will die in minutes not hours. Will he be in pain? Will he suffer? No - he has medication for the pain and we won't stop it. So the four of us talk and basically the three of them say - whatever you want to do - like we are picking a restaurant for dinner or something. So, its my decision. My decision when Dad dies. And let me tell you, just because you can make decisions doesn't make you a bitch - it makes you decisive.
So yes. Lets do it. Lets help him go. I took off the mask. The nurse shut the ozygen off. And the room was silent with the exception of Dad's laboured breaths. My brother and sister in law said "okay well this could take a while, we're going to get some breakfast" and they left. They left us there. And it took about 3 minutes. My husband held my hand as I watched him stop breathing. There was no dramatic death rattle or last big gasp. He just stopped like the timer had literally ran out. And Wayne left me with him alone for 10 minutes while he went to find a nurse in the cursed understaffed hospital. And I sat with my dead father and screamed that silent scream in my head that you are sure that people can actually hear but they can't. I sat and just let the tears fall down my face without wiping them away. I couldn't function.
But, when everyone was back, I was okay. I made the calls. I made the arrangements. No funeral. Immediate cremation. He and I had talked about it many many times and even met with the funeral home. If people hadn't come to visit him when he was alive, he sure as hell didn't want them showing up when he was dead. Funny old fart.
We had a party at his apartment. And everyone ate my aunt's dainties (since it was days before Christmas) and laughed and, I hope, had a good time.
On Christmas day we always have a dinner with my big extended family. My brother didn't show or call. We waited for over an hour for him before eating. The next week we cleaned out the apartment. I kept the photos and let my brother and family and friends have everything else. I kept telling myself it was just stuff. Funny, now I think I should have fought for some of the stuff.
My brother got the house. And the van. Although my Dad did ask my brother to pay me $2000 for the van - he never did. I was the executor of the will. I got the bills and the debt. And an annuity of $4000 - so really - totally split down the middle......or not. Its just stuff, right?
I called them a few times during the year and always spoke to my sister in law - he never wanted to speak to me. But, in one loud horrible telephone fight my brother said I was a pushy domineering bitch who had to run everyones life and I ruined Dad's. Apparently I always have been. I forced Dad to move to a place that he hated. I treated him horribly. I hung up first.
When the ground thawed it was time to bury the cremains. I had the funeral home dig up my Mom's ashes and mix in my Dad's so that they would always be together. Sweet but also very financially practical (you know, if you are making plans of that nature...). My sisterinlaw wanted to know if there would be anyone speaking graveside. I said I didn't want to (frankly I just couldn't) but she and my brother could feel free - they brought a minister from their church.
We arrived on the day just close family - Dad's brother, his wife and his sister, close cousins, my Aunt, my husband and I - and no kids (hello - its a cemetary and my kids were 1 and 4). The minister spoke - can't remember what he said... My sister in law read 4 full pages of typed bible verse. We were all a little stunned by that and no one knew just what to say. She asked if anyone else would like to say anything and one of my Aunt Jean's (I have 4) spoke a few sentences about when they were kids.
Then it was my bother's turn. He talked of all the times that they had spent together driving back and forth to the doctor... and of how Dad had accepted his illness. He talked of the difficulty of providing him with his groceries and how hard it was for he and my sister in law to take care of Dad. He talked of how near the end of his life Dad had found Jesus Christ as his personal saviour and accepted that he would be with him in heaven.
I tell you what - I was gobsmacked. None of those things happened. Not once. My cousins and Aunts and Uncle all stood with their mouthes open. Afterwards at Tim Hortons (because where the hell else would we go after - really? Seriously?) they all said that they knew it had been me and not Craig. My response was this - we all need to believe what we need to believe to get ourselves by. My brother needs to believe that I am a bitch and that he is the great saviour son so that he can cope with his Dad being dead. I'm going to give him that one.
In the 6 years since I have tried to keep in touch - cards, emails, calls, never forgot a birthday.... And now that he and my sister in law are divorcing, I have heard from her that he truly hates me and never wants to see me again. Why? I don't know and I don't care. I have a relationship with the SIL and my neice and nephews and its all I am going to get I guess. My Dad would be super mad (and lets not even think how angry my Mom would be!) if he knew that we are "estranged" but hey, I did my best - I truly believe I did. And you have to believe what you have to believe to get you through stuff - right?
Friday, May 11, 2007
Funeral Pickles
About 17 years ago my Grandmother died. It wasn't any huge shock or great tragic event. She had been sick and old since I was born and it just seemed like she wasn't really "there" anyway.
Her name was Mary. When she was 16 she married my Grandfather Alvin. The two of them lived in a farmhouse in Embro, population 60. Six of those 60 people were her kids. Each and every one of them born in the stone farmhouse, just down the road from the volunteer firestation.
The first time my Mother met my father's parents (who were by any definition of the word "hicks") my Dad brought her to dinner in that farmhouse. Everything took place in the kitchen - the woodstove heated the whole house and cooked all the meals. Later, when they had tv, that would be in the kitchen as well. My mother met them in that kitchen.
My Dad, knowing my Mom was really nervous asked her what she though they were having for dinner - what could she smell? Well, my mother had no idea. Dad said, open the woodstove and check. No way was my mother brought up to open other people's ovens - but with Dad's family watching her - she really had no choice.
So as my mother told the story, she walked to the woodstove with everyone staring at her, opened it up and SCREAMED! Inside a wooden box lined with a towel were half a dozen live piglets! The sow had given birth that morning and they were keeping them in the woodstove because it was winter and no one wanted them to freeze. Of course they were. And dinner was sandwiches. It scared her to death. Actually, thinking about it now, its a wonder she ever at pork again!
Back to Grandma's funeral. My boyfriend, now my husband, and I drove to Stratford then followed my parents to Embro along the snowy back roads. This place is the bermuda triangle of the snowbelt and has some really wicked winter weather. Really bad. And, as we were driving our mustang to the funeral, we drove off of the road and into a ditch.
Because my parents were up ahead, of course they didn't see us get ditched. The just drove along on their merry way.
I suppose that I could have pushed the car, if I really wanted to, in my funeral suit and sensible pumps. But I didn't want to. So Wayne, in his funeral suit and dress shoes, got out and pushed us out of the ditch. We made the funeral in the nick of time although its not like she was going anywhere.
Six months later, at my Auntie Anna's funeral in Embro (my Dad's sister) we had more car troubles. At the burial at the cemetary in town (I know you are thinking 60 people? how could they need a cemetary? but they did!) my parent's locked their keys in their van. Of course everyone had already left by the time they figured it out and this was well before the time of cell phones. Eventually someone missed them and went back to help them out.
The point I'm trying to make is that in my family - the funeral itself is never the event. Its the coming and going that are the things you remember. The bright greenish blue sweet funeral pickles that the ladies of the legion make and serve at funerals. That's the memory maker!
A couple of years ago in a drunken diatribe I said to my friends - "when I go, you will all remember what a good person I was - what a great mom and an excellent friend. You're not going to sit around saying she kept the messiest house ever!" And shockingly one said - "Oh yes we will! We say that now!" I just hope that when my time does come someone goes into the ditch, locks their keys in the car and the guy that thinks I'm a terrible housekeeper chokes on a funeral pickle!
Her name was Mary. When she was 16 she married my Grandfather Alvin. The two of them lived in a farmhouse in Embro, population 60. Six of those 60 people were her kids. Each and every one of them born in the stone farmhouse, just down the road from the volunteer firestation.
The first time my Mother met my father's parents (who were by any definition of the word "hicks") my Dad brought her to dinner in that farmhouse. Everything took place in the kitchen - the woodstove heated the whole house and cooked all the meals. Later, when they had tv, that would be in the kitchen as well. My mother met them in that kitchen.
My Dad, knowing my Mom was really nervous asked her what she though they were having for dinner - what could she smell? Well, my mother had no idea. Dad said, open the woodstove and check. No way was my mother brought up to open other people's ovens - but with Dad's family watching her - she really had no choice.
So as my mother told the story, she walked to the woodstove with everyone staring at her, opened it up and SCREAMED! Inside a wooden box lined with a towel were half a dozen live piglets! The sow had given birth that morning and they were keeping them in the woodstove because it was winter and no one wanted them to freeze. Of course they were. And dinner was sandwiches. It scared her to death. Actually, thinking about it now, its a wonder she ever at pork again!
Back to Grandma's funeral. My boyfriend, now my husband, and I drove to Stratford then followed my parents to Embro along the snowy back roads. This place is the bermuda triangle of the snowbelt and has some really wicked winter weather. Really bad. And, as we were driving our mustang to the funeral, we drove off of the road and into a ditch.
Because my parents were up ahead, of course they didn't see us get ditched. The just drove along on their merry way.
I suppose that I could have pushed the car, if I really wanted to, in my funeral suit and sensible pumps. But I didn't want to. So Wayne, in his funeral suit and dress shoes, got out and pushed us out of the ditch. We made the funeral in the nick of time although its not like she was going anywhere.
Six months later, at my Auntie Anna's funeral in Embro (my Dad's sister) we had more car troubles. At the burial at the cemetary in town (I know you are thinking 60 people? how could they need a cemetary? but they did!) my parent's locked their keys in their van. Of course everyone had already left by the time they figured it out and this was well before the time of cell phones. Eventually someone missed them and went back to help them out.
The point I'm trying to make is that in my family - the funeral itself is never the event. Its the coming and going that are the things you remember. The bright greenish blue sweet funeral pickles that the ladies of the legion make and serve at funerals. That's the memory maker!
A couple of years ago in a drunken diatribe I said to my friends - "when I go, you will all remember what a good person I was - what a great mom and an excellent friend. You're not going to sit around saying she kept the messiest house ever!" And shockingly one said - "Oh yes we will! We say that now!" I just hope that when my time does come someone goes into the ditch, locks their keys in the car and the guy that thinks I'm a terrible housekeeper chokes on a funeral pickle!
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Big Pig Party
There comes a time in every fag hags career that you get the opportunity to choose to take one road or another with your friends. For those of you who don't know, let me explain how this works. Each hag is allotted one or more faggots. Sometimes a lot - sometimes a little - sometimes it depends on the season or the location. Faggots tend to be tempremental so, they tend to come and go.
I have been blessed with the greatest set of friends. And yes, they have come and gone through the years. Its only natural really.
Out of the group you are given, you may be truly blessed and have a very best friend. Sometimes its a bff (best friend forever) or a best girlfriend - depends on the guy really. I have been the luckiest bitch alive and have the best bff ever. But like I said, every trip has that road that gives you the opportunity to make a choice.
Many many years ago my family had what would go down in history as our worst family reunion ever. We had it at my cousin's cottage on Lake Huron - a beautiful place - right on the lake. My family brought our trailer (yes we had a trailer - why?) and I brought my best friend Rick. We took the train from Toronto to Stratford and drove with my parents the rest of the way - neither of us could drive then. I must have been about 24.
Rick and I always tell people that we met at a party: I buzzed the door and he answered it, made me laugh and I've never left his side since. For all intents and purposes, that's right. But it was more intense than than really. At that very first party, I got to the apartment - demanded to know who had answered the buzzer and didn't let him out of my sight that whole night. He made me laugh. I made him laugh. And at the end of those 2 or 3 hours I'd found the other half of my brain!
My mother adored Rick. He could do no wrong in her eyes and as a matter of fact, I think she is the only person that has ever ever said to me, "too bad he's gay". She always made sure to make him is favourite meal (these really disgusting super sweet spare ribs) whenever he came to town and treated him like the sun shone out of his ass and lit up the world. Sometimes I still think it does.
Anyway, we went to the cottage on Saturday. There was no room in the family trailer for Rick and I so we were sleeping in my cousins old tent trailer. As a matter of fact, my Uncle Chub had made the tent trailer himself so it was a homemade tent trailer - nothing classier than a home made trailer! And Uncle Chub is a whole other story.
Saturday was a fun play day at the lake. We swam out forever over the sandbars that go on forever out into the lake. We played in the inner tubes. We sat on the beach. We played volley ball. We did everything that we could wedge in. Dinner was bbqed something - but the best part was actually sitting around the fire later. We sat with my whole extended family - joking around, laughing at nothing and of course eating marshmallows and weiners on a stick.
When we finally stumbled to bed, we decided to put the sleeping bags together and sleep on the one bed, mattresses stacked in the name of comfort.
We talked until we fell asleep - mostly about nothing. This was something we did all the time - and still do. We get on the phone and talk about everything, nothing, people, places and things until one of us falls asleep and the other one has the good sense to hang up or fall asleep too.
I remember so clearly being just happy. Happy-happy-happy that night.
In the morning I awoke to Rick's horrific snoring. We were laying there face to face. At that point, he had long hair - beautiful naturally blondish and curly. I stared at his face, and even with those beautiful blue eyes closed, he was quite the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen.
And he loves me and I love him. And it wasn't of course in the traditional way that I always imagined someone would love me. There were no trumpets blaring and butterflies in my stomach. He didn't kiss me with a burning white hot passion. And of course there would never be sex.
He wasn't tall dark and handsome and riding on a white horse. He wasn't going to shower me with gifts. He was a vain, slutty, man-whore with an intollerance for people who ask questions. He lived life with no apology for who or what he is and who or what he does. He was hysterically funny and kind of mean. But then, as now, he is all I needed and in a totally untraditional way, he completed me - so sappy but true.
He was laying there beside me and I watched him sleep. I felt such overwhelming love. That very minute - that very day - that was when I decided that person who made me so very happy - that person was the love of my life. I would never let that go - no matter what.
During the day my family showed up in droves. Cousins, Uncles and Aunts from all over southwestern Ontario. My Mom and my cousins started to roast the WHOLE PIG over a fire. People brought the traditional Southwestern Ontario summer buffet foods: devilled eggs, jellied salads, many things with mayonaise and baked beans. All went nicely with the pig - right?
Rick and I did the same things we had done the day before and it was so fun.
Rick is a great person to introduce to any family. I have seriously in the 20+ years I've known him never heard anyone say that they don't like him. He makes a great first impression and I really admire that about him. Sometimes what I do is just watch him be him. As sad as that is it can be enough fun for me!
Supper came and we, of course were the first person to get to that big pig. Of course we were because my mother idolized Rick and whatever she could do to please him - like feed him - she would! We got our plate filled - loved it and....... hey - what was wrong with the pig? Well, apparently you need to cook a pig a hell of a lot longer than my family did! We and about 6 other people got the only edible cooked pork. The rest was a jellified jiggly salmonella filled mess. It ended up being mostly a vegetarian reunion. This in my family qualified as an unmitigated DISASTER!
We got back in the car, back on the train and home again - that part I know happened but don't really remember well. The thing about that weekend that makes it one of those times that I never forget is the sheer joy of being just who I was with just who I was with. My family and my very best friend.
That road you are given and the opportunity to make the choices - it is well worth travelling. Do we ever find love often enough that we should ever turn it way? Whatever form it takes whatever its length or its intesity, it is always worth taking that risk.
I have been blessed with the greatest set of friends. And yes, they have come and gone through the years. Its only natural really.
Out of the group you are given, you may be truly blessed and have a very best friend. Sometimes its a bff (best friend forever) or a best girlfriend - depends on the guy really. I have been the luckiest bitch alive and have the best bff ever. But like I said, every trip has that road that gives you the opportunity to make a choice.
Many many years ago my family had what would go down in history as our worst family reunion ever. We had it at my cousin's cottage on Lake Huron - a beautiful place - right on the lake. My family brought our trailer (yes we had a trailer - why?) and I brought my best friend Rick. We took the train from Toronto to Stratford and drove with my parents the rest of the way - neither of us could drive then. I must have been about 24.
Rick and I always tell people that we met at a party: I buzzed the door and he answered it, made me laugh and I've never left his side since. For all intents and purposes, that's right. But it was more intense than than really. At that very first party, I got to the apartment - demanded to know who had answered the buzzer and didn't let him out of my sight that whole night. He made me laugh. I made him laugh. And at the end of those 2 or 3 hours I'd found the other half of my brain!
My mother adored Rick. He could do no wrong in her eyes and as a matter of fact, I think she is the only person that has ever ever said to me, "too bad he's gay". She always made sure to make him is favourite meal (these really disgusting super sweet spare ribs) whenever he came to town and treated him like the sun shone out of his ass and lit up the world. Sometimes I still think it does.
Anyway, we went to the cottage on Saturday. There was no room in the family trailer for Rick and I so we were sleeping in my cousins old tent trailer. As a matter of fact, my Uncle Chub had made the tent trailer himself so it was a homemade tent trailer - nothing classier than a home made trailer! And Uncle Chub is a whole other story.
Saturday was a fun play day at the lake. We swam out forever over the sandbars that go on forever out into the lake. We played in the inner tubes. We sat on the beach. We played volley ball. We did everything that we could wedge in. Dinner was bbqed something - but the best part was actually sitting around the fire later. We sat with my whole extended family - joking around, laughing at nothing and of course eating marshmallows and weiners on a stick.
When we finally stumbled to bed, we decided to put the sleeping bags together and sleep on the one bed, mattresses stacked in the name of comfort.
We talked until we fell asleep - mostly about nothing. This was something we did all the time - and still do. We get on the phone and talk about everything, nothing, people, places and things until one of us falls asleep and the other one has the good sense to hang up or fall asleep too.
I remember so clearly being just happy. Happy-happy-happy that night.
In the morning I awoke to Rick's horrific snoring. We were laying there face to face. At that point, he had long hair - beautiful naturally blondish and curly. I stared at his face, and even with those beautiful blue eyes closed, he was quite the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen.
And he loves me and I love him. And it wasn't of course in the traditional way that I always imagined someone would love me. There were no trumpets blaring and butterflies in my stomach. He didn't kiss me with a burning white hot passion. And of course there would never be sex.
He wasn't tall dark and handsome and riding on a white horse. He wasn't going to shower me with gifts. He was a vain, slutty, man-whore with an intollerance for people who ask questions. He lived life with no apology for who or what he is and who or what he does. He was hysterically funny and kind of mean. But then, as now, he is all I needed and in a totally untraditional way, he completed me - so sappy but true.
He was laying there beside me and I watched him sleep. I felt such overwhelming love. That very minute - that very day - that was when I decided that person who made me so very happy - that person was the love of my life. I would never let that go - no matter what.
During the day my family showed up in droves. Cousins, Uncles and Aunts from all over southwestern Ontario. My Mom and my cousins started to roast the WHOLE PIG over a fire. People brought the traditional Southwestern Ontario summer buffet foods: devilled eggs, jellied salads, many things with mayonaise and baked beans. All went nicely with the pig - right?
Rick and I did the same things we had done the day before and it was so fun.
Rick is a great person to introduce to any family. I have seriously in the 20+ years I've known him never heard anyone say that they don't like him. He makes a great first impression and I really admire that about him. Sometimes what I do is just watch him be him. As sad as that is it can be enough fun for me!
Supper came and we, of course were the first person to get to that big pig. Of course we were because my mother idolized Rick and whatever she could do to please him - like feed him - she would! We got our plate filled - loved it and....... hey - what was wrong with the pig? Well, apparently you need to cook a pig a hell of a lot longer than my family did! We and about 6 other people got the only edible cooked pork. The rest was a jellified jiggly salmonella filled mess. It ended up being mostly a vegetarian reunion. This in my family qualified as an unmitigated DISASTER!
We got back in the car, back on the train and home again - that part I know happened but don't really remember well. The thing about that weekend that makes it one of those times that I never forget is the sheer joy of being just who I was with just who I was with. My family and my very best friend.
That road you are given and the opportunity to make the choices - it is well worth travelling. Do we ever find love often enough that we should ever turn it way? Whatever form it takes whatever its length or its intesity, it is always worth taking that risk.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Laundry List
Bone Scan
Mammogram
Pelvic Ultrasound
Transvaginal Ultrasound
Pelvic and Abdominal Cat Scan
Chest xray
Colonoscopy
Excision
MRI
Mammogram
Pelvic Ultrasound
Transvaginal Ultrasound
Pelvic and Abdominal Cat Scan
Chest xray
Colonoscopy
Excision
MRI
Sunday, April 29, 2007
The Big Dilemma
So. The Big Dilemma. Do I talk about it? Do I not talk about it? Then I figured, hey its my blog. Its where I am allowed to express myself. I don't want my friends to be overwhelmed by me whining or being afraid. I don't want my husband to know how worried I am. And I need to kind of "let it all out". So. There you are.
I have this thing on my leg. Started as a freckle. Morphed into a bump the size of a nickle, purple and scaley. Yep. Its attractive. And its also skin cancer. Truth be told I knew it was skin cancer from the second it started to get all gross. Even then, it was Rick who had to force me to tell the doctor about it. I knew he was right. I knew I had to say something. But I also knew it wasn't going to be good. Just today I found a note that I wrote for myself in a book that said "DON'T FORGET LEFT LEG".
Well now, I can't forget it. The fucking thing has turned out to be more than I bargained for.
I went to see the dermatologist. The 12 year old Doctor explained it all to me. I went there expecting that the worst thing that they could tell me was that it was the bad kind of skin cancer. I'd need radiation and it would hurt and I would be fine but I'd have to wear SpH100 for the rest of my life.
What she told me was that the extrammary paget's disease is the skin cancer part. Its just the secondary cancer. Actually what I heard her say was the extra mammary patches - thank god for google sorting me out! I swear when she started explaining to me that this cancer doesn't usually occur without a primary cancer being present - the voices inside my head started to scream...."help me help me"! As she started explaining what kind of cancer it could possibly be: bowel, colon, gyne, breast - my head just screamed "no no no no no no no no no".
I didn't cry. I kept joking with her. She brought in Doctor Cold Hands. We should do your excision today - we need to do it right away. "fuck off - no way - no no no" But there isn't time. Go book the surgery - next available appointment.
Turns out next available is May 10th. I have weeks to wait. In the mean time - I shall be tested up the wazoo - quite literally - to see what kind of host cancer I have. I have cancer. Or do I? I do. Do I have to have a host? Not according to the internet.
Oh yes. I looked it up on the internet. I gave myself one day. One day to look stuff up on the internet. One day to panic. One day to cry. One day to freak the fuck out. Okay, I have had a few extra episodes, but for the most part I've been okay.
I've told people. At first I didn't want to. To tell you the truth, I was kind of ashamed. Its just one more lousy thing that has happened to me because I have not taken care of myself. I have done something else to fuck up my health. I have done something else....I have done it...
The people I told were amazing. I have the most amazing friends. The ones I didn't expect to cry with me did. The ones that I thought would be supportive weren't. The right people told me the right things. People are great. But people have their own lives. They only get to be so invested in yours.
My husband hates sickness. If one of our kids has a cold he demands to know how they caught it and who's fault it is. He has been mercifully NOT like that with this. He does think that is was a mistake in the lab and it is the incompetance of others that are causing me this stress. God I hope he's right. But last night he took me for Flaming Saganaki on the Danforth. If I could eat only one food for the rest of my life it would be sheeps cheese fried in olive oil, set on fire with ouzo and put out with lemon juice. He knows what makes me forget my troubles.
What's the plan?
The plan is to vent here - so if that sucks for you don't read it.
The plan is to write my stories until they are done - because IF and IF is a big IF something is really really wrong, I want to make sure its all documented.
And I need to make some plans - in a just in case kind of way. It would be stupid not to because - my kids. My kids. Goddamn it. My little kids. I don't want them to see me sick and I damn well don't want them to see me die. My heart hurts just thinking about it.
That's my dilemma and I've solved it. This blog is my new release - to help me work it out and sort out my head.
I have this thing on my leg. Started as a freckle. Morphed into a bump the size of a nickle, purple and scaley. Yep. Its attractive. And its also skin cancer. Truth be told I knew it was skin cancer from the second it started to get all gross. Even then, it was Rick who had to force me to tell the doctor about it. I knew he was right. I knew I had to say something. But I also knew it wasn't going to be good. Just today I found a note that I wrote for myself in a book that said "DON'T FORGET LEFT LEG".
Well now, I can't forget it. The fucking thing has turned out to be more than I bargained for.
I went to see the dermatologist. The 12 year old Doctor explained it all to me. I went there expecting that the worst thing that they could tell me was that it was the bad kind of skin cancer. I'd need radiation and it would hurt and I would be fine but I'd have to wear SpH100 for the rest of my life.
What she told me was that the extrammary paget's disease is the skin cancer part. Its just the secondary cancer. Actually what I heard her say was the extra mammary patches - thank god for google sorting me out! I swear when she started explaining to me that this cancer doesn't usually occur without a primary cancer being present - the voices inside my head started to scream...."help me help me"! As she started explaining what kind of cancer it could possibly be: bowel, colon, gyne, breast - my head just screamed "no no no no no no no no no".
I didn't cry. I kept joking with her. She brought in Doctor Cold Hands. We should do your excision today - we need to do it right away. "fuck off - no way - no no no" But there isn't time. Go book the surgery - next available appointment.
Turns out next available is May 10th. I have weeks to wait. In the mean time - I shall be tested up the wazoo - quite literally - to see what kind of host cancer I have. I have cancer. Or do I? I do. Do I have to have a host? Not according to the internet.
Oh yes. I looked it up on the internet. I gave myself one day. One day to look stuff up on the internet. One day to panic. One day to cry. One day to freak the fuck out. Okay, I have had a few extra episodes, but for the most part I've been okay.
I've told people. At first I didn't want to. To tell you the truth, I was kind of ashamed. Its just one more lousy thing that has happened to me because I have not taken care of myself. I have done something else to fuck up my health. I have done something else....I have done it...
The people I told were amazing. I have the most amazing friends. The ones I didn't expect to cry with me did. The ones that I thought would be supportive weren't. The right people told me the right things. People are great. But people have their own lives. They only get to be so invested in yours.
My husband hates sickness. If one of our kids has a cold he demands to know how they caught it and who's fault it is. He has been mercifully NOT like that with this. He does think that is was a mistake in the lab and it is the incompetance of others that are causing me this stress. God I hope he's right. But last night he took me for Flaming Saganaki on the Danforth. If I could eat only one food for the rest of my life it would be sheeps cheese fried in olive oil, set on fire with ouzo and put out with lemon juice. He knows what makes me forget my troubles.
What's the plan?
The plan is to vent here - so if that sucks for you don't read it.
The plan is to write my stories until they are done - because IF and IF is a big IF something is really really wrong, I want to make sure its all documented.
And I need to make some plans - in a just in case kind of way. It would be stupid not to because - my kids. My kids. Goddamn it. My little kids. I don't want them to see me sick and I damn well don't want them to see me die. My heart hurts just thinking about it.
That's my dilemma and I've solved it. This blog is my new release - to help me work it out and sort out my head.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
And the Oscar goes to...
For someone who is used to doing things half-assedly and never truly completing anything to the best of their ability, I am finding my recent completion of stuff quite disturbing. I feel an "episode" coming on!
I've managed to do my taxes not only from 2005 but from 2006 as well. On time. Sent in. Refund received. Off the hook until next year. This is unprecidented.
I've finished the course I was taking and found out that I am a solid B student. I was a B student in high school, a B student in University and now I'm a B student in Adult Continuing Ed at College. Woo hoo for consistency!
I've paid my bills, done some projects for the PTA and even started and finished a scarf for someone for Christmas NEXT YEAR!
I'm feeling a bit out of sorts though - and that tends to happen to me when this very extremely rare phenomenon of achievement occurs. Unless I have a dozen half done projects on the go, I get panicky about what to do and what to do next. Its the same reason that I read 3 novels at a time - what would I do if I finished one?!?!
What generally will happen next is that I will start to shirk thinks - you know - make plans and cancel them. Unless I feel like I really HAVE to do something or that it involves the kids - that I am obligated to do it - I won't.
I become the dreaded cancelling friend. You know what that is and you all have one. Admit it. You ALL have a cancelling friend who makes plans and then cancels at the last minute. I have one friend who I actuall make bets with myself how they will get out of the plans that we've made and let me tell you, I'm VERY good.
I don't mean to be this way. It could be part of my charm. It could be part of my mental illness. Who knows.
There are a bunch of things coming up that I actually want to do - I hope I don't fuck up and cancel them. I am taking bets that I will. My fear of something will win out. That niggling inadequacy will creep in. The overwhelming sense of not belonging that I fight against will tip me over and pour me out. My imagination will run wild.
All of this just so that I have more to worry about. I wouldn't want to make anything too easy on myself now, would I?
I've managed to do my taxes not only from 2005 but from 2006 as well. On time. Sent in. Refund received. Off the hook until next year. This is unprecidented.
I've finished the course I was taking and found out that I am a solid B student. I was a B student in high school, a B student in University and now I'm a B student in Adult Continuing Ed at College. Woo hoo for consistency!
I've paid my bills, done some projects for the PTA and even started and finished a scarf for someone for Christmas NEXT YEAR!
I'm feeling a bit out of sorts though - and that tends to happen to me when this very extremely rare phenomenon of achievement occurs. Unless I have a dozen half done projects on the go, I get panicky about what to do and what to do next. Its the same reason that I read 3 novels at a time - what would I do if I finished one?!?!
What generally will happen next is that I will start to shirk thinks - you know - make plans and cancel them. Unless I feel like I really HAVE to do something or that it involves the kids - that I am obligated to do it - I won't.
I become the dreaded cancelling friend. You know what that is and you all have one. Admit it. You ALL have a cancelling friend who makes plans and then cancels at the last minute. I have one friend who I actuall make bets with myself how they will get out of the plans that we've made and let me tell you, I'm VERY good.
I don't mean to be this way. It could be part of my charm. It could be part of my mental illness. Who knows.
There are a bunch of things coming up that I actually want to do - I hope I don't fuck up and cancel them. I am taking bets that I will. My fear of something will win out. That niggling inadequacy will creep in. The overwhelming sense of not belonging that I fight against will tip me over and pour me out. My imagination will run wild.
All of this just so that I have more to worry about. I wouldn't want to make anything too easy on myself now, would I?
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
The long and winding road
When I was a kid my parents used to force my brother and I to go for endless long car rides all over hell's half acre. They just loved nothing more to sit in the damn GMC Suburban for hours on end and just "look at the colours". I hated it more than life itself.
As a matter of fact, I still hate to drive anywhere and look eagerly ahead to the star trek teleportation phase of the future.
On this particular weekend we were headed somewhere US bound - more than likely Port Huron Michigan as this was my Mom's favourite place for shopping at Target and going to the Sweden House all you can eat buffet (but I think we covered that one in an earlier blog!)
My parents piled our suitcases into the back of the giant ass 1970s suburban - this must have been about 1976 - and hurried us in to the car.
Brush your teeth! Comb your hair! Put your coat on! Tie your shoes! Get in the bloody buggery car!!!!
So we got in the car - didn't fasten our seatbelts because there were none - and headed off on the St. Clair family road trip.
When we hit London, the car had heated up to boiling and my sullen 7 year old brother was still sitting there with his coat on. I remember that coat - it was plaid with a corduroy beige collar - what a weird thing to remember.
"Take off your coat" my Mom said.
"No." my brother said.
"Take off the damned coat"
"No - I'm cold"
"You are not. Take off that coat NOW!"
And off came the coat.
Under the coat, my brother wore no shirt.
He cried and cried and insisted that my mother had told him to put his coat on but mentioned nothing about a shirt.
We ended up stopping in London at Kmart that day. And my brother got a nice new shirt. A cowboy shirt as I remember it.
Rewarded for being just that little bit dumb. But funny. Oh so funny.
As a matter of fact, I still hate to drive anywhere and look eagerly ahead to the star trek teleportation phase of the future.
On this particular weekend we were headed somewhere US bound - more than likely Port Huron Michigan as this was my Mom's favourite place for shopping at Target and going to the Sweden House all you can eat buffet (but I think we covered that one in an earlier blog!)
My parents piled our suitcases into the back of the giant ass 1970s suburban - this must have been about 1976 - and hurried us in to the car.
Brush your teeth! Comb your hair! Put your coat on! Tie your shoes! Get in the bloody buggery car!!!!
So we got in the car - didn't fasten our seatbelts because there were none - and headed off on the St. Clair family road trip.
When we hit London, the car had heated up to boiling and my sullen 7 year old brother was still sitting there with his coat on. I remember that coat - it was plaid with a corduroy beige collar - what a weird thing to remember.
"Take off your coat" my Mom said.
"No." my brother said.
"Take off the damned coat"
"No - I'm cold"
"You are not. Take off that coat NOW!"
And off came the coat.
Under the coat, my brother wore no shirt.
He cried and cried and insisted that my mother had told him to put his coat on but mentioned nothing about a shirt.
We ended up stopping in London at Kmart that day. And my brother got a nice new shirt. A cowboy shirt as I remember it.
Rewarded for being just that little bit dumb. But funny. Oh so funny.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Easter Dinner
Eleven years ago on Easter Wayne and I took the obligatory road trip from our apartment in Toronto to Goderich where my parents were. The had moved from their house in the metropolis of Stratford to a mobile home in a trailer park outside of Goderich – which is actually crowned “Canada’s Prettiest Town”. My family had morphed into actual trailer trash!
Wayne and I slept in the tiny back bedroom that barely fit a double bed. It was right beside the somewhat stinky toilet. Whatever. They loved the place.
My family is not religious. Not in the least. I have often joked that Easter is the holiday where we celebrate the day that the Easter Bunny killed Jesus and then came back to life to curse the bunny by hiding all his eggs every year. I think I’m right.
My brother hadn’t come home for Easter that year. He and his wife were living in Alberta at the time while he explored his inner cattle rancher. They did call though during Easter dinner.
Now, my Mom, in her tradition as the world’s worst cook, had prepared a fiesta of ham, scalloped potatoes, mixed veg, cabbage salad and rolls. MMMMMMM. Okay, not really mmm but okay. She never really cared to try, God bless her.
Anyway, my brother called during dinner. We passed the phone around the table and everyone talked to Craig. It is my opinion that my parents sincerely believed that the sun shone out of my brother’s ass and lit up the world. Whatever.
My Mother inevitably started to cry. She missed having my brother around so much and it was especially hard at a holiday – any holiday. She hung up the phone, and came back to the table. She kept crying and we were all just trying to be supportive, “you’ll see him soon” “at least he’s doing something he loves!”
And then we all turn and look at Wayne. My husband is eating his dinner. Not saying a word. And he has two baby carrots – one shoved up each nostril. And he’s just eating his dinner. My Mother laughed and laughed and laughed. We all did. And Wayne just looked at us and said, “what?”
Its an especially happy story for me because it was the last time we spent with my Mom. Shortly after dinner, we left to head back to Toronto. We never saw her again. I’m glad we left her on an insane note. It just makes sense that way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)