Somewhere over the rainbow
Blue birds fly
And the dreams that you dreamed of
Dreams really do come true
Writing about tofu and the blisters I’ve gotten from walking feels silly today. I want to be able to write some magical phrase that will make society realize THINGS HAVE GOT TO CHANGE.
But more eloquent people than I have spoken, and it just keeps happening. People keep dying at the hands of some angry dude with a gun. And I can’t just blame the guns. I wish I could. I hate guns. But it’s not just the guns.
It’s something bigger, more widespread. Something that probably lives in all of us. And I worry society is losing its filter. The filter that keeps you from acting on every crazy thought you have.
We all get angry. We all feel our needs are ignored at some point. We all feel alone sometimes. We all feel there are people in the world making choices we don’t agree with.
But see, right there.
WE ALL…
When you get down to it, we all have so much more in common than we think. And I guess I just really especially hate that this latest tragedy happened in a gay club. Because I’ve always thought the commonality among all humans was sex. And here are people embracing their sexuality against some pretty difficult societal crap at times.
WE ALL…
Just drive down the road and instead of judging the bad driving of another soul, just think about how they have probably wanted to get laid at some point in their life. Not so angry at them now, are you?
Everyone needs love.
Everyone needs affection.
And these people were out at a club, looking for fun. Maybe looking for love. And that should have ended much, much differently than it did.
I’m so scared that our world is so focused on our individual needs, we don’t take the time to recognize, rejoice in, and defend our common humanity.
And if you don’t like my sex POV, think about anything else.
Think about tripping. Everyone has probably tripped. And felt embarrassed. Maybe turned a little red.
Think about rejection. Everyone has been rejected–for a job, for a date. And it sucks and is disappointing. But we have all felt it.
So why do we try to hide it? The embarrassing stuff? The personal stuff?
Because that’s being human.
And we desperately need to see that we are all human.
Except when I really don’t. Except when it’s pretty much the exact opposite.
I hate to hate my child.
But sometimes I do. When he’s bratty and whiny and asks a million questions. Especially repeatedly asking me about Star Wars. And like the tough shit, where an honest answer would require discussions on death.
Today is that day. It’s been Spring Break and we’ve traveled. Basically I’ve been locked up with him for a week.
And I’m done.
Done with the tantrums. Done with the illogic. “Don’t cut my pancakes. Put it back together!!” “I can’t eat my pancake, it’s too big.”
I want to scream.
And as often as I like his cuddles, I feel super over touched right now. Super at my wits end. Super like I might throw him against the wall.
And I hate to hate my child. I feel like a terrible mother and all those articles that tell me to cherish these days when he wants to snuggle because someday he will be sixteen and push me away, don’t help. I just feel extra guilty.
Or I don’t. At this moment, I am beyond guilt. I am so enraged and fed up that I have somehow conquered the fear I had about writing again after a week off and have picked up the old Chromebook and am madly writing away on my porch. Dreading that at any minute he and the papa unit will be coming around the bend and I will have to be mom again.
Is becoming a mother the worst thing I have ever done? Because part of me just keeps yearning for the days when it will be normal again. And that is just never going to happen.
Part of me thinks I am too selfish and fucked up to parent somebody else. I can’t even parent myself. I can’t calm myself down. I can’t let go of this anger. I can’t stop feeling like I just need some goddamn time to myself.
I remember when the hubby and I were dating, not yet engaged, and he asked me during one of my own tantrums how I would ever be a mother to someone else. How would I take care of another being when I was such a hot mess myself, basically. And I said something along the lines of I guess I’d have to grow up.
And he admitted later that his private response was, get this girl pregnant STAT because he was so tired of dealing with my emotions.
So perhaps my overly emotional child is just karma. I get to see what’s it’s like to try to take care of someone, tend to the feelings of someone, who just doesn’t want to feel better. Who doesn’t make any sense.
I would’ve dumped my ass.
Or perhaps not. Because love is funny and I will sit here and hate my child, but still give him a hug and snuggle him to sleep at naptime. And it will all pass. Maybe not today. But it will.
In the meantime, I’m going to try not to punch the little bugger.
Not. It’s been raining a ton, so this song has been in my head.
But I am so tired of the figurative rain in my life.
This was written last night, but I think it pretty much sums up where I’m at, what’s been going on, why I haven’t posted much this week.
It’s raining it’s pouring
I wish that I was snoring…
It’s 11:30 pm, which I know for many isn’t horribly late, but it is for me.
I need my 9 hours of sleep.
But I can’t sleep because today has been the most depressing day. Ok, not really.
But the most depressing in quite awhile.
My grandmother has been in the hospital with an angry gallbladder etc. for a few days now. It’s not too… I don’t know the word. But she’s 96 and shit breaks.
What surprised me today was how much being in a hospital, listening to chances of recovery, listening to talk of quality of life, made me think about, and hurt for, my mother-in-law.
And it’s all just so poorly timed because we are leaving this weekend to go to Toronto to see the in-laws, minus one.
Minus the one who was… the life of the party. The engine of the family. The queen.
And what an empty court without its queen.
And I must be watching too much Downton Abbey because I’m writing this with a snobby English accent.
Anyway. I sit here hurting for two Nana’s. My kiddo’s, who left too soon. And mine, who’s really grandma to me, who may be dying at a ripe old age, with years of memories and a large family to leave behind.
And I don’t know which to write about.
Because it’s all just tied up into one big mess of hating mortality, disease, and having to say goodbye.
And my grandma isn’t dead yet. So it seems bad juju to write as if she is. But she’s not getting better. And she’s 96.
So. Nana.
I’ve slowly been dreading this trip to Toronto more and more. Not because it’s awkward (it will be). Not because it’ll still be cold in Canada when I’ve been enjoying 80 degree weather. But because there is going to be this big gaping hole. Like, a physical lack of Nana in this tiny apartment where every corner used to scream “Nana’s shit. Don’t fuck with it.” That shit will all be gone. I helped put some of it away (in the trash) after the funeral.
But this is the first time we are going back since last June when she died.
And she won’t be there, feet curled under her on the couch. She won’t have her crazy tray of pencils, notepads, calendars and pill boxes beside her.
Where will that tray be?
She won’t be passed out in her super inclined bed. She won’t even be down the street at the hospital, wishing she could come home and make sure every piece of her fabulous jewelry would have a good home after she was gone.
It will just be empty without her. And without all her shit. All the signs of her living, day in, day out in a hoarding, pack-rattish sort of way that makes me realize my husband married his mother. And makes me want to run home to clean.
But that apartment will be so much cleaner this time. So much neater. So much emptier.
Fuck. I don’t want to go. I do, but I don’t want the sadness that it is, and will be bringing.
And my grandmother just makes it hurt all that much more. I may be facing the death of another family queen.
Though my grandmother would deny being it.
Nana fucking rocked that role.
P.S. I just got home from seeing my grandma, and for any family that is reading, she is actually seeming much better. Much more alert.
Wake up, wake up, wake up it’s the 1st of the month
I remember the BFF and I used to sing “It’s that time of the month…”
Which for me, today… it’s both.
Which I wouldn’t normally share. But it’s not good news and is going to really jack my family for the next week.
We weren’t trying to get prego or anything–I’ve been a happy pill taker for a while now. And lately I’ve been a constant pill taker to avoid my period and the emotional meltdowns that come with it.
My period didn’t used to be this bad. But when you get on multiple meds, things get strangely dependent on each other. At least for me.
It used to be that “my monthly visit” just meant intense chocolate cravings. Maybe a tear or two at a car commercial.
But then I got on prozac. It was last year during the whole mother-in-law-dying-of-cancer time and I was just getting nonfunctional. Like, drive to work, cry in front of the school for 20 minutes, then drive home and call in sick.
And the worst part was not being able to enjoy my kiddo. Like ever. And he’s a sweet kid. He’s not actually THAT challenging. But I could never play with him. I’d lie around. Often crying. He spent more time comforting me than I did him.
Or worse, I’d be holding my feelings in for the sake of the hubby and then just treat the kid in a really cold, distant manner. Or an angry manner if I’m going to be brutally honest. I started yelling at him. For nothing.
So Prozac it was.
And it eventually leveled my moods some. It helped me be the calm one for the family. It helped me be the leader.
But somewhere in there, it was time for the sugar pills in my birth control pack. And I didn’t get the chocolate cravings. Or the tears. And I was all, “Yay. This shit is amazing!”
But then the next week came. And it was not amazing. It was grumpy, grouchy, anxious, panic attacks.
My body was not having it. It had managed to find a nice balance between my innate lack of serotonin, the Prozac, and my birth control hormones. And then my period ruined it. Goodbye hormones, goodbye happiness.
Yes, it took two medications, two chemical adjustments, to make me feel normal. And that feels very wrong and embarrassing.
But it was an easy choice. No more periods. My lady doctor agreed, got me a new RX sans sugar pills, and I never looked back.
Except that I am HORRIBLE with keeping on top of shit. I mean, if my husband wasn’t paying the bills, I would probably be writing this with my own blood on a leaf due to lack of electricity or a home.
Ok, I’m not that bad. But I am often late about… everything. Paying bills. Scheduling doctor’s appointments. Reordering medications…
Which is how I find myself in my current predicament. I didn’t realize I was running out of birth control, but I’m out. And I’m having to wait for doctor approval for a refill since the whole RX is out since I am overdue for my annual exam.
I am an infantile idiot. It is amazing I am a mother, responsible for caring for another human, because I sure can’t care for myself.
Which brings me back to the point of this blog.
When people ask me what I am writing about, or why I quit my job, I say “getting healthy”. And I think they often have the impression I quit because I have some mildly serious physical ailment. Which I sometimes feel is true. Being overweight and so dreadfully out of shape starts to feel like an ailment.
But really, getting healthy probably means, in huge part, fixing my brain so I can get off the Prozac. It means finding a counselor and working out my shit. It means learning to be kinder to myself and not always beating myself up, like for that one time five years ago, when I put my foot in my mouth at a party. Ok. It was five days ago. But still.
It means learning to enjoy life and not always inventing shit to worry about.
Because I CAN’T be this dependent on meds to hold me together. One, it seems unnatural and god knows what the long term side effects will be of putting weird, mood altering chemicals in my body. And it’s not even pot, so I can’t make myself feel better about it by saying “it’s natural, it’s from the earth.” No. It’s in a little pill and comes from some laboratory that has had recalls on their products.
Two, I am clearly a dingbat and this is just too much for me to keep track of. I even have one of those old-people weekly pill boxes and can’t keep this shit straight. So I am just not responsible enough to handle my drugs.
But really, I just want to feel healthy. And maybe it’s social stigma, but I just don’t feel healthy knowing I’m on Prozac.
It took forever for me to agree to get on it because of this stigma. Which sucks. Because I clearly needed help and I just made myself and my family suffer way longer than they needed to.
Wanna know what finally convinced me to put mind altering drugs in my body?
A kindergartner.
The year of the dying mother-in-law, I had a student named M who was super ADHD. Like, uncontrollable. Unbearable. He couldn’t do shit in school. He hid in closets, ran around the room, touched people. Not inappropriately or anything. But it really seemed like he was on speed and X all at the same time. Manically rubbing people’s arms and heads.
Now he wasn’t always like this–he sometimes had meds. And my realization of the power, the necessity, of helping yourself with meds happened in a five minute walk down the hall.
One day, as I picked up my kindergarten group for reading intervention, M was being so… M. Just touching, dancing, skipping down the hall. Rubbing the wall if he couldn’t find a human to rub. It was nuts. And I was grimacing and screaming in my head about what a horrible teaching session I was about to have.
But we got to the room, took our seats, and M looked up at me quietly. He raised his hand to answer my question. He listened when someone else had their turn to answer.
His meds had kicked in.
And it was life-changing. For him, but also for me. All of a sudden I saw how much I was standing in my own way. Meds truly helped M perform and learn at school. What if meds could help me perform at life?
And they have.
I really, really wish our society could get over this whole mental health being too hard to talk about thing. Because there’s help out there for people who are hurting. And why would we want it to be hard for people to ask for help? You would fight cancer. You would take medication for your high blood pressure. So why is it so hard to ask for an antidepressant?
Why am I still so uncomfortable taking one when I know the good it has done for me and my family?
And I think society has to answer that, not just me.
But in the meantime, I want to work towards more permanent solutions for myself. Work towards changing some of my habits in how I view the world and myself in it. In how I treat myself when I make mistakes or am learning something new. And there’s that word again. Habits.
Perhaps I can become whoever I want to be, if I just practice enough.
So first I was going with It’s So Hard to Say Good-bye To Yesterday. But that’s about death.
And silly me, I worry about jinxing my child into an early death.
My kid just ripped out my fucking heart when I dropped him off at daycare, and now it’s all I can write about.
Which I think is telling. It’s really hard to stick to your goals, stay focused on health, when there is emotional drama in your life.
But anyway.
This kid. I kept him home yesterday to go to the ENT (his ears are awesome, yay), so this morning he was all flabbergasted to be going back to daycare.
And he pulls that “don’t go, mommy” shit a lot. At daycare. At bedtime. When I have to go poop…
Aww puff daddy, pdiddy, diddy, sean combs. You’re so young!
So I digress. Already. But this blog is about the physical AND figurative weights of life. And death is a damn f-ing heavy weight. Fear of it coming. Fear of it happening unexpectedly to self or loved ones. And the heaviest of all- actually watching someone you love die.
My mother-in-law was not my best friend. We honestly hardly knew each other. I spent more time with her as she died from cancer than I did all the 5 years before that. She lived in Toronto- so lay off with the judgement.
But holy fuck her death. Her path to death. It really just leaves me wanting to write ‘fuck’ over and over. But I’ll try to be more constructive than that.
This woman. Her family called her ‘Baby’. She was the youngest girl of NINE children and she always got her way. Or at least, you were way better off if you just let her have her way. She was firey. Spirited. And you knew you were in for it when the lower jaw came jutting out. My son makes the same face when he’s trying to figure out the bullshit around him.
The first time I met her was at a family wedding. I had been dating Daniel for about a year at this point. We had moved in together, but his family didn’t know. Which was super bizarre to me. My parents know EVERYTHING. But I was determined not to let my big mouth get me in trouble. Yet somehow at a dinner, when it’s just me and her at the table, I start talking about gardening. Now, she thinks I live in an apartment, so she understandably starts asking where on earth I am growing a garden. I quickly say some shit about Daniel letting me use his backyard since I have no space of my own. She gives me this “ohhhhh” with a slow bobbing of her head. Then she smiles. Looks me up and down. And I know I am completely busted.
But that is one of my favorite memories. That she clearly judged me and weighed me. That her little boy was worth that to her. I’m not sure he sees that- that all her criticism and worry was love. That she just wanted what was best for him. And she was going to take every opportunity to figure out if I was the best.
Over the years I felt like I became the listener. She would talk on and on about her weight and health. She even felt open enough to talk to me about my husband’s ex-wife, and how sad she was when they divorced. Well, I’m telling myself it was openness and trust, even if it might have just been tacky and rude.
And then the cancer came.
Surgeries and chemo were had. The fiance (at the time) cried. I couldn’t believe we were facing something so serious just a couple of years into our relationship.
But she made it through. And to our wedding. Gorgeous as ever despite her post-chemo hair. Cuz did I mention? This woman was gorgeous.
Beat up picture, beautiful lady.
At our wedding.
So marriage. Pregnancy. Baby. She was now Nana, which was great since I never knew what to call her before that. Three years and some months pass from the end of her chemo and then… It’s back.
The discomfort in her abdomen she’d been feeling for months is another tumor. Making itself at home on her bladder.
We don’t cry. We are confident that since she beat it once, she’ll beat it again. Now, shh, don’t quote me any statistics on the chances of surviving recurring cancer. I’m sure our optimism was stupid. But that’s what she needed- optimism. She couldn’t stand for people to cry around her. Ever.
Again, chemo happened. Once or twice. We were all prepared to go see her for the next round of chemo because she just seemed so down. Apparently poisoning your body to kill cancer cells doesn’t feel too good.
But the next round never came. The tumor actually grew over the course of her chemo. It grew. Science is actively trying to kill it and it grew. All her hair is gone, she’s sick all the time. But the damn thing grew. Like “fuck you chemo. You can’t stop me. I’ve got mutant cells to grow. Get out of my way.”
So surgery gets put on the table. And oh. my. god. I’m going to have to bitch about Canadian health care here for a minute. Yay it’s “free”. Yay everyone has access. But how the FUCK did it take from late October to early December to figure out this surgery shit? We sat here for a month and a fucking-half on pins and needles, poised at any moment to buy a plane ticket to Toronto to be there for this surgery. Ya know. In case she didn’t make it.
But the surgery never came.
Early December we find out the doctors have decided that it isn’t safe to operate. That the tumor is too big and has invaded too much to be successfully removed.
And here’s how THAT phone call went:
Nana is crying, but doing that whole “I’m not crying” thing. She tells us the news. My husband has this visceral, body-wrenching spasm that I realize is him allowing himself to cry for like, a millisecond. Nana now cries, but she’s apologizing because we’d already bought plane tickets to come for the now nonexistent surgery. The woman has been handed her death sentence but she’s crying over plane tickets. Now, we all know that’s not REALLY why she’s crying. But that’s the excuse she picks.
I don’t even know how to encapsulate the next 6 months that lead to her death. These are crazy, uncertain times. My family basically stops living or making plans. We are never sure if we can leave town or make plans to see friends because most weekends are waiting to see if she’s going to keep living another week. Every other week feels like it’s going to be the end. And then it’s not. Which, yay. I guess. Because her quality of life is just getting worse and worse and she’s really starting to suffer.
But we, my immediate family, are suffering too. I am having panic attacks at least once a week on the way to work. I switch to a half-time position so I can at least provide my family with a good dinner and a somewhat clean house. But I end up cowering on the couch a lot watching Netflix. I start taking Prozac. And then Klonopin for the anxiety. And I just miss my husband. No blame here- he’s clearly devastated and working his way through a whole shit-ton of emotions built up from his childhood. But I miss him. I’m usually the depressive one. And now I’m being asked to lead the way, keep the family on track. And that is fucking exhausting.
And through all that, we are on the cancer roller coaster. What do I mean by that? Let me illustrate.
We get home from our Christmas in Canada on the 29th. The day we leave, Nana seems very tired and confused. And super unsteady on her feet. Soon after, she is taken to the hospital. Her calcium levels are high and making her brain not work right.
Now I know milk does a body good, but did you know too much calcium puts you in a coma? Probably hard to do by drinking milk, but when your cancer is leeching it from your bones, your calcium levels can get out of hand. At least this is my non-doctor understanding of the situation.
So it is December 31st. New Year’s Eve and my best friend’s birthday. We are hosting a small party for her. And then Daniel’s brother calls to inform him that Nana is doing terribly in the hospital and that he should come to say goodbye. This is TWO days after we just left Canada. Mind fuck. And a bit of a wallet fuck too.
So New Year’s/birthday party consists of my husband packing, buying plane tickets. And all of my friends quietly whispering about what the fuck is going on. Happy Birthday!
But Nana doesn’t die here.
She gets better and goes home. Amazing. So we go see her in February in case this is one of her last good times. Which, in hindsight, it kind of was. Then Daniel goes again in March when she’s back in the hospital and not looking well. Then we all go in April when she’s talking about stopping the fight. We go to say our goodbyes.
I remember we all sat in the living room with the doctor and Daniel’s brother on the phone, and we talked about quality of life and if she should keep fighting. Her meds were keeping her alive- but alive meant barely eating and sleeping most of the day. Alive meant dealing with catheters draining both her kidneys into bags she had to drag around the house. Alive meant a lot of frustration for everyone involved.
The doctor seemed to think we wanted to kill her off. Which is not the spirit behind what we were feeling. We wanted her to stop suffering. But in the end we all agreed she should move back into the hospital where she would at least be safer and have more support to care for her.
It was during this time, this sad, sad time, that she and I really bonded. She didn’t think she could talk to Daniel about death, about questioning what the purpose was of continuing to live. But she could talk to me. Because I could hear it without crying. Well, I cried later in private. But she didn’t know it. We could talk about quality of life and she could tell me how angry she got sometimes that this was happening. She could cry about not seeing her grandchildren grow up.
And I felt useful. The thing with unbeatable cancer, with just waiting for death to come, is how out of control you feel. Nothing you can do will help or change things. You just have to BE. And how many of us are good at that? So it was nice, in these few moments, to feel like I was helping.
So to the hospital she went. And the day came for us to fly back home. I felt like we wouldn’t see her again- we were all preparing for the end. She asked about the dress she wanted to wear for her funeral- apparently she wore it to my husband’s first wedding. (Do you see a pattern here?) But this time she asked if I was ok with it. She wanted my ok. Who got to judge who now? But of course I wasn’t judging. I was flattered she thought of me and my feelings during this dreadful time. I mean, when else is it ok to be super selfish if not when you are dying?
We said goodbye. But like, in an everyday, see you later, kind of goodbye. But all knowing it was more than that.
But it’s not goodbye. She keeps fighting. We Facetime. Which is weird to see someone and talk to them after you’ve said THE GOODBYE. As the weeks go on, she’s clearly getting very weak and starts having hallucinations.
And then at some point at the end of May, things stop working. Her drugs can’t fight the rising calcium levels any more. So they stop the drugs. And she falls asleep.
And doesn’t ever really wake up.
Our life becomes this wretched guessing game of “how long can Nana live without water?” When should Daniel go back to be there for the end? We have to maximize his time at work, but not have him miss her death. These conversations are morbid and tacky. But they are reality.
After several days, the doctor finally says she only has a couple of days left. Husband buys yet another ticket to Canada, leaving behind instructions for his funeral attire. Which we have been getting ready for months. I pretend to work, feed the kid, and hyperventilate often about when I should head to Canada. When she dies? Several days after since funeral arrangements take a while?
The two days the doctor predicted stretch into 4. I have no idea how the body does this. You always hear how imperative water is, but this woman is lasting day after day with no water. No IV. Just lying in her bed unconscious.
Eight Days.
That’s how long she lay there. That’s how long her family kept vigil. That’s how long I waited at home wondering if I should go to Canada or not. And finally I couldn’t take it any more and just bought tickets and went up there.
She died while we were in flight.
Lucky timing on my part I guess. Got to be there with the hubby that night, yet didn’t have to watch her go. ‘cuz I’ve seen that, and it wasn’t nice.
I think at first we all felt relief. Relief she wasn’t suffering, relief we didn’t have to WAIT any more. Which I know sounds awful, but you try expecting someone to die at any time for six months. That shit is wearing.
And then we all had tears. And breakdowns. And my almost-3-year-old is just really trying so hard to process all this. “Where’s Nana? Why’d she die? Oh….” with his head hanging and a sense of sadness I’m sure he can’t even make sense of.
He came to the funeral, but sat in the back with my parents. They are amazing by the way- coming all that way to pay respect and help watch the kid. When they brought him, he wanted to see Nana. Ya know, all laid out in the casket. It made everyone cry. Like everyone. The poor little kid looking at his dead grandmother. He of course cries- but mainly because everyone is looking at him, not because he understands what is going on.
But we make it through. And we make it home. And we cry more and have more breakdowns. And we try to keep moving.
This weekend is her first birthday since her death. So we are all thinking of her. Mourning her.
My son is even in on the action, asking about Nana at least twice a day. He wants me to recite the story of why and how she died. My mistake I guess for trying to be open and honest with him about death.
But he’s gotten stuck at the point of the story after the funeral. He remembers them pushing her casket out. And putting it in a car. “And then what mommy?” He wants to know where her body went next.
And I can’t say it. I can’t say that they threw Nana in a fire and burned her up until she was just ashes. Or however the fuck cremation works.
So I’ve finally come up with that Otto (grandpa) took her body back to the Philippines so she could be buried with her mommy and daddy. But then that is just a ton of questions about “who are Nana’s mommy and daddy?” And of course Daniel is traveling and I don’t know the answer to this.
