Fragile as Hope
We’re all set for the party. The family loves an excuse for a get-together. Chocolate cake. A must for this family. All the party foods lined up on the buffet. Finger sandwiches with paprika. (Why? Can you really taste it?) Chips, dip, squares of cheese, crackers, ham, pork roast, beans, chili (with a disclaimer about the bear meat for the squeamish). Birthday decorations, but no black, even though she’s sixty. No black.
Here she comes! Surprise! I hope she doesn’t mind. I would. I hate surprises, even good ones. I need more control over my life. God, she’s thin. Tears in her eyes as she sees all her friends and family, but laughing. I put my arm around her. Feel her bones under my hand. Guide her into the room. Point out friends from the campground. Somebody get her a glass of wine. I’ll have one with her.
Here we are for the pictures. Old Dad with his cane. Happy to have so much of his family in one place. The crazy brother. Already with his hat on backwards and huge crazy sunglasses he found somewhere. The quiet brother, happy to be in the background, drinking soda, knowing he will once again drive the crazy, fun loving brother home. The other two sisters and me, smiles plastered, making sure the food is set, the people are having drinks, the cake candles are lit.
And the birthday girl. Thin. Hair just starting to fall out. Each breath an audible drawing in.
I should be able to help her with this. I’ve survived it. I’ve helped her through other things in our life. She’s older, she’s smarter, she’s always been more talented. But she’s fragile. As fragile as hope. Always has been. I’m the strong, tall, athletic one. She’s mentally fragile. There's a medication for Failure to Cope. We laughed when the doctor put her on a pill for that. She's physically fragile. She’s never been healthy. Always smoked too much, drank too much. Chased demons that I never understood.
Tomorrow, she’ll do the next round of chemo. She’ll call me. We’ll talk of hair and eyelashes. And fragile hope.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Week 9 Theme, Vignette, Pointillism
Because I Can
I make supper like it’s any other day. I’ve talked to friends and family. Convinced them that I’ll be fine. Try not to say cancer, just say lump. My husband comes through the door. Green Dickie work clothes laced with welding holes, lunch pail on counter. Dirty, tired like any other day. I drop the tomato-y spoon. I point to my neck, words yip out that make no sense.
******
In my mind think I’ll ski full and strong as I’ve done for years. Close to home this time in case it doesn’t go well. Weak and not admitting it. The skis slip ahead of the body and down I go. Terror strikes as my head falls back. Terror all out of proportion to the fall. Thirty stitches across the front of my throat hold. What did I think, that my head was going to fall off?
*****
Head strapped to the table. Nurses caring, touching, loving my hair. They are happy for me that I won’t lose it. They are more accustomed to older and balder. Or little bald children, children must be the worst. The nurses like me. I look healthy and happy. A nice break from their normal. Strange green and red lights. Hard to believe lights will kill cells.
******
Midnight all the time. Never have been so tired. People expect things I can’t deliver. Just too tired, can’t even explain how tired a strong, always been fit, in the prime of her life woman can be. Everyone so kind, but needing things. Needing me to be healthy. Needing me to be happy. Needing me to pretend. Just go, let me be. Let me be tired.
******
Skiing across the lake, heading for beautiful, snow capped Mt. Katahdin. Won’t really make it to the mountain, but I can ski toward it. Skiing hard and fast and alone, celebrating the fact that I can. Healthy sweat steaming up from the jacket, working too hard, going too far, because I can.
I make supper like it’s any other day. I’ve talked to friends and family. Convinced them that I’ll be fine. Try not to say cancer, just say lump. My husband comes through the door. Green Dickie work clothes laced with welding holes, lunch pail on counter. Dirty, tired like any other day. I drop the tomato-y spoon. I point to my neck, words yip out that make no sense.
******
In my mind think I’ll ski full and strong as I’ve done for years. Close to home this time in case it doesn’t go well. Weak and not admitting it. The skis slip ahead of the body and down I go. Terror strikes as my head falls back. Terror all out of proportion to the fall. Thirty stitches across the front of my throat hold. What did I think, that my head was going to fall off?
*****
Head strapped to the table. Nurses caring, touching, loving my hair. They are happy for me that I won’t lose it. They are more accustomed to older and balder. Or little bald children, children must be the worst. The nurses like me. I look healthy and happy. A nice break from their normal. Strange green and red lights. Hard to believe lights will kill cells.
******
Midnight all the time. Never have been so tired. People expect things I can’t deliver. Just too tired, can’t even explain how tired a strong, always been fit, in the prime of her life woman can be. Everyone so kind, but needing things. Needing me to be healthy. Needing me to be happy. Needing me to pretend. Just go, let me be. Let me be tired.
******
Skiing across the lake, heading for beautiful, snow capped Mt. Katahdin. Won’t really make it to the mountain, but I can ski toward it. Skiing hard and fast and alone, celebrating the fact that I can. Healthy sweat steaming up from the jacket, working too hard, going too far, because I can.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Theme Week 8 Vignette
What a Job
Here they are. All on one side of six years old or the other. Most with at least one tooth missing. The one whose mom spent hours French braiding her hair, the one who slept and peed in the clothes he wore yesterday, got up this morning and got himself off the school in those same clothes. The one sitting quietly waiting for the next direction, the one crawling under the table and the one tapping me on the butt for attention. There is a little group of boys at the cubbies exchanging Sponge Bob stories. One sitting with his hands over his ears, over-sensitive to a sound I can’t hear and he can’t tolerate. It may be a toilet flushing down the hall or a train too far away for me to hear.
Suddenly it’s there welling up from somewhere under my heart. Not a hot flash, but they can bring it on. Not anger, but the butt tapping may put me over that edge. No, a wave of love. Suddenly I absolutely love every child in the room. A love that extends out the window to the white birches against the blue sky.
I still for a breath, letting the children’s voices take over while I enjoy the feeling.
The door opens and the classroom teacher walks in. We look at each other and take a deep breath.
Here they are. All on one side of six years old or the other. Most with at least one tooth missing. The one whose mom spent hours French braiding her hair, the one who slept and peed in the clothes he wore yesterday, got up this morning and got himself off the school in those same clothes. The one sitting quietly waiting for the next direction, the one crawling under the table and the one tapping me on the butt for attention. There is a little group of boys at the cubbies exchanging Sponge Bob stories. One sitting with his hands over his ears, over-sensitive to a sound I can’t hear and he can’t tolerate. It may be a toilet flushing down the hall or a train too far away for me to hear.
Suddenly it’s there welling up from somewhere under my heart. Not a hot flash, but they can bring it on. Not anger, but the butt tapping may put me over that edge. No, a wave of love. Suddenly I absolutely love every child in the room. A love that extends out the window to the white birches against the blue sky.
I still for a breath, letting the children’s voices take over while I enjoy the feeling.
The door opens and the classroom teacher walks in. We look at each other and take a deep breath.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Theme week 7, Character
Crazy Lou
“Why is my sister friends with this man!” That was my first impression of Lou. A big, loud, Italian that I initially thought may have been abusive to his wife and children. It was not long before he won me over with his obvious love of his family, the worry and responsibility masked by loud gruffness. Won me over with his loyalty to my baby sister (closer to fifty that any of us want to think about, but still the baby) that included her family and friends. Won me over with his “Let me cook you a meal.” I learned about the real man as he watched his wife die of lung cancer. A man who does not do well alone, he married a friend of mine, helped her raise her girls and his two boys. Then, in far too short a time, watched her die of breast cancer. Through it all he is still big, loud, crazy Lou. Loves big, gets mad big, lives big.
But trouble started when the California sister came home for a visit. The newly divorced, never going to do it again, had it with men, sister. The baby sister and I saw it coming from a mile away. Just like a freight train and just as impossible to stop. The California sister and Crazy Lou were madly in love before nine days had gone by. We tried to head it off. We tried to get them to listen to reason. We said it could never work. He could never make it in California. How could a federal fire arms dealer who likes to target practice from his front porch live in Southern California?
She could easily come home. After having her too far away for twenty-six years, we would love that, but what about the children? An almost adult child living with his father and a twelve year old living with her. Her boys both loved Maine. The youngest especially understands the joy of extreme changes in weather. But there is a big difference between visiting Maine in the summer and surviving winter. The in-love adults were beyond reason. Obstacles fell out of the way and there was no stopping them.
The California sister moved home with her youngest, a beautiful, sensitive, mixed race child. She moved directly into marriage with Crazy Lou, both of them ready to laugh, love and heal. She could survive most anything, she had proven that, but I had concerns about the mocha boy. I was in closer contact with his home room teacher than anybody knew, wanting to make sure he was happy and safe. Moving from upscale Yorba Linda to rural Maine would be a real culture shock for most anybody. There is a redneck element here that definitely filters to our schools. We could not let him be hurt. He seemed to be doing all right. He slowly and steadily made friends. Friends from all walks of life. He evolved from a child who sat for hours in front of games to a child who loved the outdoors and team sports. The child who had never known rough physical contact that did not involve his big brother even joined a football team. His asthma became a non issue as he breathed in the fresh Maine air.
Life in school was one thing, life at home with Crazy Lou was something else. It became sport for the nephew to shoot decorated pumpkins after Halloween and undecorated Christmas trees after Christmas - from the front porch. He and Lou even shot partridge from the back deck and sent the Springer to retrieve them. Many reasons for our new saying, “You’re not in California anymore.” The step dad that he called Coo Coo Lou turned out to be all about safety under that anything goes attitude. He taught his new charge, loudly, about four wheelers, guns and snow sleds and then let him enjoy them safely. One young visitor who mishandled a gun got such a loud lesson in safety that he has never been back. That young man did not know that it is a common saying around three towns, “That’s just Lou being Lou.” Still, I saw no sign of unhappiness in the growing nephew. He missed his brother and father, but he loved it here.
One day we stood on his porch with a view that looks over miles of trees from Brownville to the K.I. mountain range. Mocha boy takes a deep breath, smiles slightly, obviously enjoying the view and says, “I just got an e-mail from my buddy in California. He says they just planted a tree in his back yard.”
The day I really stopped worrying about the major change in this boy’s life was the day he and his mom let me read a piece of writing he had done for a school assignment. He titled it, “My Mother Married a Madman, A Love Story.” It was a wonderful story about the big changes in his life. He was happy. He was going to be fine. Crazy Lou will make sure of that.
“Why is my sister friends with this man!” That was my first impression of Lou. A big, loud, Italian that I initially thought may have been abusive to his wife and children. It was not long before he won me over with his obvious love of his family, the worry and responsibility masked by loud gruffness. Won me over with his loyalty to my baby sister (closer to fifty that any of us want to think about, but still the baby) that included her family and friends. Won me over with his “Let me cook you a meal.” I learned about the real man as he watched his wife die of lung cancer. A man who does not do well alone, he married a friend of mine, helped her raise her girls and his two boys. Then, in far too short a time, watched her die of breast cancer. Through it all he is still big, loud, crazy Lou. Loves big, gets mad big, lives big.
But trouble started when the California sister came home for a visit. The newly divorced, never going to do it again, had it with men, sister. The baby sister and I saw it coming from a mile away. Just like a freight train and just as impossible to stop. The California sister and Crazy Lou were madly in love before nine days had gone by. We tried to head it off. We tried to get them to listen to reason. We said it could never work. He could never make it in California. How could a federal fire arms dealer who likes to target practice from his front porch live in Southern California?
She could easily come home. After having her too far away for twenty-six years, we would love that, but what about the children? An almost adult child living with his father and a twelve year old living with her. Her boys both loved Maine. The youngest especially understands the joy of extreme changes in weather. But there is a big difference between visiting Maine in the summer and surviving winter. The in-love adults were beyond reason. Obstacles fell out of the way and there was no stopping them.
The California sister moved home with her youngest, a beautiful, sensitive, mixed race child. She moved directly into marriage with Crazy Lou, both of them ready to laugh, love and heal. She could survive most anything, she had proven that, but I had concerns about the mocha boy. I was in closer contact with his home room teacher than anybody knew, wanting to make sure he was happy and safe. Moving from upscale Yorba Linda to rural Maine would be a real culture shock for most anybody. There is a redneck element here that definitely filters to our schools. We could not let him be hurt. He seemed to be doing all right. He slowly and steadily made friends. Friends from all walks of life. He evolved from a child who sat for hours in front of games to a child who loved the outdoors and team sports. The child who had never known rough physical contact that did not involve his big brother even joined a football team. His asthma became a non issue as he breathed in the fresh Maine air.
Life in school was one thing, life at home with Crazy Lou was something else. It became sport for the nephew to shoot decorated pumpkins after Halloween and undecorated Christmas trees after Christmas - from the front porch. He and Lou even shot partridge from the back deck and sent the Springer to retrieve them. Many reasons for our new saying, “You’re not in California anymore.” The step dad that he called Coo Coo Lou turned out to be all about safety under that anything goes attitude. He taught his new charge, loudly, about four wheelers, guns and snow sleds and then let him enjoy them safely. One young visitor who mishandled a gun got such a loud lesson in safety that he has never been back. That young man did not know that it is a common saying around three towns, “That’s just Lou being Lou.” Still, I saw no sign of unhappiness in the growing nephew. He missed his brother and father, but he loved it here.
One day we stood on his porch with a view that looks over miles of trees from Brownville to the K.I. mountain range. Mocha boy takes a deep breath, smiles slightly, obviously enjoying the view and says, “I just got an e-mail from my buddy in California. He says they just planted a tree in his back yard.”
The day I really stopped worrying about the major change in this boy’s life was the day he and his mom let me read a piece of writing he had done for a school assignment. He titled it, “My Mother Married a Madman, A Love Story.” It was a wonderful story about the big changes in his life. He was happy. He was going to be fine. Crazy Lou will make sure of that.
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