My brother begins chemo tomorrow. He had a port installed last week and says it hurts like hell. I can't imagine.
How?
How is this the way he starts his week now? How can he be so sick, so quickly? And how can it be so...unpromising.
Of all that I've known, faced, run from, or dodged, this is the thing that I cannot do. And I'm just in the bleachers. How silly, right?
But still.
I don't know how.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
I Hate School
How many lessons, Lord? This subtraction is breaking me.
No, I get that the answers will not show themselves, nice and tidy, in my Saturday inbox.
I know that. God is God and He's got plans and I don't get called into the meetings.
I know all this.
And yet.
What am I to ask, given the circumstances?
("the only stupid question is the one we don't ask"--don't you think God is a bit pissed with whoever came up with that? Seems like it would take up a whole lot of His time, don't you think?)
I'm tired of learning through loss. Am I so thick that this is what it takes to get through? Is this jagged loss my only path to understanding?
That just so sucks.
And I'm just not sure I'm learning anything, to be honest. I am numb, empty and exploding at the same time, reaching dumbly into the dark to find a reason. So far, I've got nothing, btw.
My heart is breaking for my beautiful brother. He is too much to be lost so easily, so painfully. I don't understand.
I wonder if there is a remedial class to help me make sense of this constant thrum of grief that runs through my thick head. And where would one find such a thing? What bulletin board?
Jesus.
Then again, maybe some lessons are just shit. Necessary, yes, but shit just the same. Maybe that's the best I can hope for.
How sad is that?
So here's what I learned in school this week:
I learned Hurt.
No, I get that the answers will not show themselves, nice and tidy, in my Saturday inbox.
I know that. God is God and He's got plans and I don't get called into the meetings.
I know all this.
And yet.
What am I to ask, given the circumstances?
("the only stupid question is the one we don't ask"--don't you think God is a bit pissed with whoever came up with that? Seems like it would take up a whole lot of His time, don't you think?)
I'm tired of learning through loss. Am I so thick that this is what it takes to get through? Is this jagged loss my only path to understanding?
That just so sucks.
And I'm just not sure I'm learning anything, to be honest. I am numb, empty and exploding at the same time, reaching dumbly into the dark to find a reason. So far, I've got nothing, btw.
My heart is breaking for my beautiful brother. He is too much to be lost so easily, so painfully. I don't understand.
I wonder if there is a remedial class to help me make sense of this constant thrum of grief that runs through my thick head. And where would one find such a thing? What bulletin board?
Jesus.
Then again, maybe some lessons are just shit. Necessary, yes, but shit just the same. Maybe that's the best I can hope for.
How sad is that?
So here's what I learned in school this week:
I learned Hurt.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Crying Uncle
My brother has cancer.
Pancreatic cancer, to be exact, and this is pretty much all I know of the medical side. I suppose I will know more in the upcoming days, and I suppose that I'll wish I didn't know so much by then.
He is quite simply the best of us. He is brilliant and talented and grounded and sane (no small feat in our end of the gene pool). He has raised beautiful, brilliant, talented and grounded children to the cusp of adulthood. He has walked through more fire than I could begin to explain.
He is 48 years old.
My sons adore him from afar. He sends perfect gifts--he sends vast numbers of flashlights and geodes and hammers and goggles (very glad for that last part, I would forget to do that). My children think him exotic and multi-talented and magical. And he is. These boys will need him, want him in their lives, and he will spark interests and talents in them, simply by his example. I need him, if just to look at our family portrait and point and say, "he's not crazy. He's really amazing."
I have too many words in my head right now to make much sense. Words about unfairness and loneliness and fear and grief. Words about my ache for him, for his family, for everything he's made, built, touched. Words about losing too much, too goddamn much, and for why?
My sons' most beloved uncle. My brother.
I should stop now.
Pancreatic cancer, to be exact, and this is pretty much all I know of the medical side. I suppose I will know more in the upcoming days, and I suppose that I'll wish I didn't know so much by then.
He is quite simply the best of us. He is brilliant and talented and grounded and sane (no small feat in our end of the gene pool). He has raised beautiful, brilliant, talented and grounded children to the cusp of adulthood. He has walked through more fire than I could begin to explain.
He is 48 years old.
My sons adore him from afar. He sends perfect gifts--he sends vast numbers of flashlights and geodes and hammers and goggles (very glad for that last part, I would forget to do that). My children think him exotic and multi-talented and magical. And he is. These boys will need him, want him in their lives, and he will spark interests and talents in them, simply by his example. I need him, if just to look at our family portrait and point and say, "he's not crazy. He's really amazing."
I have too many words in my head right now to make much sense. Words about unfairness and loneliness and fear and grief. Words about my ache for him, for his family, for everything he's made, built, touched. Words about losing too much, too goddamn much, and for why?
My sons' most beloved uncle. My brother.
I should stop now.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Pavlova Weeping
Tomorrow, I'll take my first ballet class since...oh, since way before Baryshnikov retired. Balanchine was still kicking the last time I did.
It's been a lot of years and babies and general decline since I last ronde de jambed. Tomorrow,though, I will look myself in the (oh shit) wall of full length mirrors and hope for the best. I figure if I look myself in the eye, then I won't look down at my 44 year old un-dancer-esque body. Maybe I could keep my eyes shut. That will render me invisible, right?
Man, this is scary.
My body remembers ballet, I know it. Port de bras...arabesque (ow just thinking about it)...barre work...floor work...the curves, the angles are all still here somewhere in this old body, but *my* curves and angles are not where they used to be, to put it nicely. Nor shall they go where they should anytime soon, I would think.
But yeah, it used to be my thing. Five times a week, burning through pointe shoes, or rather, bleeding through pointe shoes, sewing ribbons, rubber sweatpants (god, we were so silly), it was what I did, and what I wanted to do forever. My parents were patently horrified because back then, it meant cutting off education to get a career over and done with by hmmm...maybe 34? I think there was an NYCB dancer who was 34, and that was completely calcified in ballet years. It meant killing yourself to fit the mold. Let's see--I'm 5'5 3/4 inches tall. When I was thirteen, I was also 5'5 3'4 inches tall. You know why? Because dancers couldn't be taller than 5'6. My mother swore that I willed myself to stop growing. Yeah, probably. Along with the diuretics, and the acquired eating disorder, it was all part of ballet's powerful hold on me.
What happened? Why did I stop? Oh God, puberty struck with an absurdly early vengeance, and it left me surrounded by my breastless, hipless classmates. How come they got the good bodies? They didn't know the difference between a glissade and a pique turn! They didn't drool over Peter Martins, or study Gelsey Kirland's technique for breaking in her toe shoes (it involved a hammer. I still like hammers). Not fair not fair not fair.
So yeah, The "Good Bodies." Not like mine, replete with heavy, unwelcome femaleness. Lithe? not exactly. And no matter how well that sturdy body knew the joy of ballet and the subtle nuances of the art, that body had most likely already failed me. At 14.
And at 14, I had what was probably my first episode of depression, which sort of makes sense, and sort of explains how I spent the next decade self-medicating, no? Then, in my late twenties, come to find out, I did get a "good body," but I wasn't dancing anymore, and it was more like a rental because that good body was gone, baby, gone, with that first baby.
Maybe I'll have some sort of psychological implosion concurrent with that first plie. Wouldn't that be um...interesting? I can't imagine. Even facing this chunky, creaky old demon in the wall of mirrors (more like funhouse mirrors) I don't think big body-length capes are de rigeur for floorwork, do you?
Probably not. Oh God.
Well, putting aside tomorrow's pending and very public psychological trauma, I should go.
I need to find my solar plexis.
It's been a lot of years and babies and general decline since I last ronde de jambed. Tomorrow,though, I will look myself in the (oh shit) wall of full length mirrors and hope for the best. I figure if I look myself in the eye, then I won't look down at my 44 year old un-dancer-esque body. Maybe I could keep my eyes shut. That will render me invisible, right?
Man, this is scary.
My body remembers ballet, I know it. Port de bras...arabesque (ow just thinking about it)...barre work...floor work...the curves, the angles are all still here somewhere in this old body, but *my* curves and angles are not where they used to be, to put it nicely. Nor shall they go where they should anytime soon, I would think.
But yeah, it used to be my thing. Five times a week, burning through pointe shoes, or rather, bleeding through pointe shoes, sewing ribbons, rubber sweatpants (god, we were so silly), it was what I did, and what I wanted to do forever. My parents were patently horrified because back then, it meant cutting off education to get a career over and done with by hmmm...maybe 34? I think there was an NYCB dancer who was 34, and that was completely calcified in ballet years. It meant killing yourself to fit the mold. Let's see--I'm 5'5 3/4 inches tall. When I was thirteen, I was also 5'5 3'4 inches tall. You know why? Because dancers couldn't be taller than 5'6. My mother swore that I willed myself to stop growing. Yeah, probably. Along with the diuretics, and the acquired eating disorder, it was all part of ballet's powerful hold on me.
What happened? Why did I stop? Oh God, puberty struck with an absurdly early vengeance, and it left me surrounded by my breastless, hipless classmates. How come they got the good bodies? They didn't know the difference between a glissade and a pique turn! They didn't drool over Peter Martins, or study Gelsey Kirland's technique for breaking in her toe shoes (it involved a hammer. I still like hammers). Not fair not fair not fair.
So yeah, The "Good Bodies." Not like mine, replete with heavy, unwelcome femaleness. Lithe? not exactly. And no matter how well that sturdy body knew the joy of ballet and the subtle nuances of the art, that body had most likely already failed me. At 14.
And at 14, I had what was probably my first episode of depression, which sort of makes sense, and sort of explains how I spent the next decade self-medicating, no? Then, in my late twenties, come to find out, I did get a "good body," but I wasn't dancing anymore, and it was more like a rental because that good body was gone, baby, gone, with that first baby.
Maybe I'll have some sort of psychological implosion concurrent with that first plie. Wouldn't that be um...interesting? I can't imagine. Even facing this chunky, creaky old demon in the wall of mirrors (more like funhouse mirrors) I don't think big body-length capes are de rigeur for floorwork, do you?
Probably not. Oh God.
Well, putting aside tomorrow's pending and very public psychological trauma, I should go.
I need to find my solar plexis.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Mean Girls
As greatly as we may miss Lindsay Lohan's screen presence (go ahead and have a moment of silence here, if you are so inclined) this one isn't about the movie, but rather the archetype. Well, okay, and specifically (mumbling) I was recently, um...well, I think I was a...okay I acted like a Mean Girl.
Who am I kidding?
I was mean. I felt mean and I went with the feeling.
Sort of.
See, it didn't start out like that. It started out with desperation and brokenness and dependency and need and um...silence. And since I was swirling and dizzy in the desperation and the brokenness and the dependency, the silence was um...pretty goddamned silent. I didn't know--had no way of knowing, because I was consumed by the words I actually did have to hear. Not good words, lots and lots of not good words.
Consumed. Ever been consumed? It's pretty self-explanatory. Completely devoured, chewed up and gone. That was me. (Sit down if you must, but seriously, try to follow along a little better from now on because me being all that stuff should not surprise you one bit at this point.)
Anyway, that was me. And I leaned where I could, against whatever was there, because if I fell, it would be one big goddamned fall. So I um, I had a friend and I leaned on her and she let me and said nothing. I knew nothing, except, you know, Thank God For Her. Unfortunately, I should have known better. Should have considered that she could not, and in fact, should not yet have understood my pain. She was appropriately ill-prepared. Still, I didn't see. And this became an imbalance, an irritation, a resentment for her. But she was silent. And I couldn't figure how to get to bedtime without losing my mind, much less read her mind. See, communication (you know how I am about that) was synonymous with confrontation for her, and you know I don't get that shit (Talking. It's called talking--that really would be a lousy bumpersticker, wouldn't it?), so it was a bad mix. I never had a chance, a trial. We should have talked.
But we didn't. Until the day we stopped completely. I didn't know. She'd never mentioned the resentment, the anger, the stress. Call me out, call me names, but for God's sake, call me on it. Give me a chance. But nothing. So the break was nasty and sudden and sharp and shocking. One more shitty loss. To me. How could I mend something so hidden? And perhaps I couldn't have, but I should have had the fair opportunity. On that, I will not budge.
But I digress.
So this all happened a lifetime ago, and while I now understand that I put her in a place in which she had no business or capacity to understand, and hopefully, she never will, I think somehow, that I was recently mean to her. There's no way, no reason she'd "understand" and that made me mad, and it made me mean. Why my mother? my son? my family? No one could tell me, and it turned my grief hard and mean. Indirectly, sort of. Whispery and behind my hand. The worst kind. No better than her silent condemnation, at the very least. And when I was in that broken and dark place, I should have picked on someone my own age to hold my hand--yeah, I was reaching into oblivion because I had to, but couldn't I have known she wasn't able to hold on? Couldn't she have said?
Regardless, if I'm going to talk all about forgiveness like I know it up and down, all climbing mountians and similar crap, then I should probably confess myself and begin to forgive myself as well.
So yes. I think I was a Mean Girl. And I am sorry.
Moving on.
Who am I kidding?
I was mean. I felt mean and I went with the feeling.
Sort of.
See, it didn't start out like that. It started out with desperation and brokenness and dependency and need and um...silence. And since I was swirling and dizzy in the desperation and the brokenness and the dependency, the silence was um...pretty goddamned silent. I didn't know--had no way of knowing, because I was consumed by the words I actually did have to hear. Not good words, lots and lots of not good words.
Consumed. Ever been consumed? It's pretty self-explanatory. Completely devoured, chewed up and gone. That was me. (Sit down if you must, but seriously, try to follow along a little better from now on because me being all that stuff should not surprise you one bit at this point.)
Anyway, that was me. And I leaned where I could, against whatever was there, because if I fell, it would be one big goddamned fall. So I um, I had a friend and I leaned on her and she let me and said nothing. I knew nothing, except, you know, Thank God For Her. Unfortunately, I should have known better. Should have considered that she could not, and in fact, should not yet have understood my pain. She was appropriately ill-prepared. Still, I didn't see. And this became an imbalance, an irritation, a resentment for her. But she was silent. And I couldn't figure how to get to bedtime without losing my mind, much less read her mind. See, communication (you know how I am about that) was synonymous with confrontation for her, and you know I don't get that shit (Talking. It's called talking--that really would be a lousy bumpersticker, wouldn't it?), so it was a bad mix. I never had a chance, a trial. We should have talked.
But we didn't. Until the day we stopped completely. I didn't know. She'd never mentioned the resentment, the anger, the stress. Call me out, call me names, but for God's sake, call me on it. Give me a chance. But nothing. So the break was nasty and sudden and sharp and shocking. One more shitty loss. To me. How could I mend something so hidden? And perhaps I couldn't have, but I should have had the fair opportunity. On that, I will not budge.
But I digress.
So this all happened a lifetime ago, and while I now understand that I put her in a place in which she had no business or capacity to understand, and hopefully, she never will, I think somehow, that I was recently mean to her. There's no way, no reason she'd "understand" and that made me mad, and it made me mean. Why my mother? my son? my family? No one could tell me, and it turned my grief hard and mean. Indirectly, sort of. Whispery and behind my hand. The worst kind. No better than her silent condemnation, at the very least. And when I was in that broken and dark place, I should have picked on someone my own age to hold my hand--yeah, I was reaching into oblivion because I had to, but couldn't I have known she wasn't able to hold on? Couldn't she have said?
Regardless, if I'm going to talk all about forgiveness like I know it up and down, all climbing mountians and similar crap, then I should probably confess myself and begin to forgive myself as well.
So yes. I think I was a Mean Girl. And I am sorry.
Moving on.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
All Done: Part Deux
Nah, nothing to do w/marriage.
Amazing how a few stolen hours can remind even us who we were, and are, and what we do and why we do it. That our children are, absurdly funny and unquestionably ours, regardless of the mix. And That Smile, a little more tired maybe, but still that same smile--it is good and it is enough. Talking, even when it's hard stuff, even when it's Misguided chatting with Misunderstood, comes slowly, awkwardly, and sometimes still a bit on the late side, but we do it. Hurts, feels silly, seems like something we should have mastered by now, but, well, we loved so fast, so hard, that I think maybe we missed some steps.
No shame in retracing, right? It works for car keys, so why not give it a whirl? It works for talking, too.
And this "all done" isn't about LRHF. No, he had a great observation. He did back flips. Literally did back flips. Now, this is not an independant goal, you understand, but the laughter, the pride, the "hey did you guys see how amazing and cool I am?" engagement was positively prism-esque. That's my boy.
My Happy Boy
Nah, this "all done" is about forgiveness. Finally knowing that forgiveness is really kind of a puzzle that God leaves around for us figure out so He can get the Really Important Stuff done. It sounds massive and magnanimous. It sounds implausable and holy. It sounds like the the top of the mountain, and, oh, it feels like the top of the mountain when all you can do is consider that it is One More Goddamn Thing You Have To Get Done.
I don't think it's the top of the mountain. Not anymore. I think that it's more like finding that little bit of brave that will let you get closer to the mountain. And it's looking at what you have with you, and discerning how to leave the old stuff, the stupid stuff, the indignant and hurt stuff at the bottom of the mountain to consider the climb. Put all that crap down and then it's easier to stand up and breathe.
Breathing is good.
And man, I am so often (read: regularly) at the bottom of that mountain, all pissy, kicking the shit out of those first few rocks (which is a really good way to break a toe, btw) I absolutely spend way too much time worrying about whether to take this or that, or if I'll need this or that, or do I have enough of this or that...seriously, I can't pack a lunch without all that drama. But when the drama is done, when it's just plain old time to get going, then I think I'm learning a little. Not quickly or easily, or even willingly, but I'm learning that forgiveness is an exquisite and necessary Grace, a get-out-of-hurt-free-card, if you will, in that it is the difference between insisting on carrying all that crazy-weighing-down-stuff and discerning the Grace of simply lifting our eyes and moving forward.
Today I got all done with some crazy-weighing-down-stuff, I think. Yeah, it wasn't on the books for today, but I think it happened just the same.
All done. Lifting my eyes. Moving forward. Upward.
Now that's a gift. Thank you.
Amazing how a few stolen hours can remind even us who we were, and are, and what we do and why we do it. That our children are, absurdly funny and unquestionably ours, regardless of the mix. And That Smile, a little more tired maybe, but still that same smile--it is good and it is enough. Talking, even when it's hard stuff, even when it's Misguided chatting with Misunderstood, comes slowly, awkwardly, and sometimes still a bit on the late side, but we do it. Hurts, feels silly, seems like something we should have mastered by now, but, well, we loved so fast, so hard, that I think maybe we missed some steps.
No shame in retracing, right? It works for car keys, so why not give it a whirl? It works for talking, too.
And this "all done" isn't about LRHF. No, he had a great observation. He did back flips. Literally did back flips. Now, this is not an independant goal, you understand, but the laughter, the pride, the "hey did you guys see how amazing and cool I am?" engagement was positively prism-esque. That's my boy.
My Happy Boy
Nah, this "all done" is about forgiveness. Finally knowing that forgiveness is really kind of a puzzle that God leaves around for us figure out so He can get the Really Important Stuff done. It sounds massive and magnanimous. It sounds implausable and holy. It sounds like the the top of the mountain, and, oh, it feels like the top of the mountain when all you can do is consider that it is One More Goddamn Thing You Have To Get Done.
I don't think it's the top of the mountain. Not anymore. I think that it's more like finding that little bit of brave that will let you get closer to the mountain. And it's looking at what you have with you, and discerning how to leave the old stuff, the stupid stuff, the indignant and hurt stuff at the bottom of the mountain to consider the climb. Put all that crap down and then it's easier to stand up and breathe.
Breathing is good.
And man, I am so often (read: regularly) at the bottom of that mountain, all pissy, kicking the shit out of those first few rocks (which is a really good way to break a toe, btw) I absolutely spend way too much time worrying about whether to take this or that, or if I'll need this or that, or do I have enough of this or that...seriously, I can't pack a lunch without all that drama. But when the drama is done, when it's just plain old time to get going, then I think I'm learning a little. Not quickly or easily, or even willingly, but I'm learning that forgiveness is an exquisite and necessary Grace, a get-out-of-hurt-free-card, if you will, in that it is the difference between insisting on carrying all that crazy-weighing-down-stuff and discerning the Grace of simply lifting our eyes and moving forward.
Today I got all done with some crazy-weighing-down-stuff, I think. Yeah, it wasn't on the books for today, but I think it happened just the same.
All done. Lifting my eyes. Moving forward. Upward.
Now that's a gift. Thank you.
Dear Waiter at Red Robin:
I realize that it was a Monday evening and we needed lots of kids' menus...and really, really, I'm not one bit mad or annoyed, it's just that I think you should probably know this one teensy thing for future customer service-type reference:
When Mama orders a bourbon up with twist of lemon, she is most definitely not kidding. Mama doesn't kid about bourbon. She fully means she wants a bourbon up with twist of lemon. Please do not ask her "what she really wants to drink." Write it down that first time and everyone lives another day.
Bless your heart.
It's just fine to bitch to to the bartender about the shoddy mothering going on at table eleven when you're at the bar getting the bourbon, but just get the bourbon.
Are we clear?
Great.
Check, Please.
When Mama orders a bourbon up with twist of lemon, she is most definitely not kidding. Mama doesn't kid about bourbon. She fully means she wants a bourbon up with twist of lemon. Please do not ask her "what she really wants to drink." Write it down that first time and everyone lives another day.
Bless your heart.
It's just fine to bitch to to the bartender about the shoddy mothering going on at table eleven when you're at the bar getting the bourbon, but just get the bourbon.
Are we clear?
Great.
Check, Please.
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