In case you are wondering whether I gave my brother any money, here's how I responded to his request:
"That's a difficult situation. Thank you for and please continue to avoid further burdening mom. My focus has been on mom, my own health and keeping things in my own life going, which is challenging enough. I don't know what you're asking of me. If it's for money, that is not an option. Mom also is looking for money to meet her mounting medical expenses. If for advice, all I can say is prioritize. You are an educated adult (he is 10 year college educated, and graduated from Cal Poly) and can figure it out. Maybe now is not the time to be worrying about a car if you're facing eviction. Sounds like you have some tough choices to make."
We discussed the topic of human care at my last Buddhism class dharma talk. The abbot gave the example of two acrobatic performers who raised the question whether they concern themselves with how the other is performing in their duo act or if they focus solely on their own performance. It turns out the latter is what is most important. When one is self-reliant, they can then, and only then, also be a contribution to others in the world.
Nearly one year ago, long before my mom's cancer diagnosis, I flew my mom out for my surprise wedding. Another story for another time. She and my BFF, who was our officiant, had an opportunity to spend the day together. They talked quite a bit. My BFF shared with my mom how concerned I have been about her happiness. That I've been saddened to not hear from her nearly as much as I used to, and I realize she's not calling as much because she's so unhappy. She shared my concerns about her health and how it is also affecting mine. She told my mom that all I needed to hear her say is that she's content with her life with Al. My very wise BFF also told my mom that taking care of herself is taking care of others. My mom has never given the remotest indication of being content, nor is she taking as good of care of herself as she is capable of.
It is my understanding my mom will walk the path she walks, and I am to be supportive no matter what. Core to my nature is observing a situation, identifying where improvements can be made and then implementing said improvements. I have little if any tolerance for ignorance and inefficiency. I approach problems similarly, first assessing the situation by gathering information, then determine the most logical solution and lastly consider how I'm feeling about it. My mom approaches life completely contrary to this. She first gets completely wrapped up in her feelings about the situation and all other situations she's dealing with simultaneously, then gets overwhelmed and lastly shuts down before she realizes the problem is solvable. It is my understanding I will need to stretch very far outside of my natural personality to steady the proverbial boat with regard to my relationship with my mom. Now I'm overwhelmed ...
Comforting at the very least to have others who are on board to assist. Namely Mike, who is a Godsend. I suppose in some way this helps balance the vacuum that is Al. Mike checked in with me via text yesterday, wanting to know how my mom is adjusting to life at my place. To which I responded:
"So-so. She confessed to the social worker today she is only weepy with me. She's so emotional with me, Mike, and really resistant to responsibility at every turn. She's just not the person I've known most of my life. I can very much empathize with your frustrations around your dad. I brought her back to the Rosauers' today as we are preparing to leave town for a few days. Meanwhile, they need her there this week while they tend to their mom's final arrangements. So come next week will begin the interim adventure."
His reply:
"If it's any consolation, she's cried a bunch with me when we were looking (for housing) around the Greater Puget Sound. At times I had to be very direct with her and say 'I know you would love to live in Redmond Ridge but the rents are too high.' I worry that the longer she is at The Rosauer Resort (they have a beautiful 7,000 square foot home on the Sammamish Plateau) the harder it will be for her to accept what is the reality of the housing situation. It's a tough one. I would hope that she feels fortunate to have a son (you) who lives here; has the extra room and willingness to house her and assist her for a while. It still frustrates me that my dad and your brother are on the sidelines during all of this. But I've learned that, for whatever reason(s), Jeff seems to get a pass. I want you to know that I have a very high regard for what you have done and what you are doing to help your mom. It may be little solace in the heat of the battle but I think you are a stand up guy."
My reply:
"Thank you SO much, Mike! The feeling is mutual. I really appreciate all you've been doing. WAY above and beyond.
Please keep this between us. Jeff reached out to me last week about his money troubles and hit me up. I denied his request. My mom has always been protective of him and really goes to bat for the underdog for some reason.
My mom's first call after today's appt. was to Al. One would think he'd be standing by. No answer at home or his mobile. Wow. The Realtor called us this afternoon to let us know he's not heard back from Al for a key, walk through and photoshoot.
As for my mom, she seems to have developed quite a sense of entitlement. Maybe this is her subconscious way of counter balancing being so humbled by her medical condition. Regardless, she is living in an altered state of reality. My greatest concern for her mental/emotional wellness is her continual focus on what she doesn't have and what's not working, which makes it all the more challenging to assist her. Thank you for letting me vent."
His reply:
"Feel free to vent anytime. This whole situation is beyond trying at times ... I know I have to vent whenever I think about Al's actions/inactions. When I look at Al's situation and Jeff's I see 'self-inflicted misery.' Al went into semi retirement at about age 54 (my present age) thinking his investment wizardry would pull him through. Sure he had some physical ailments, but don't we all. All I know about Jeff is that he has a pretty solid degree from Cal Poly in what appear to be pretty marketable fields. Perhaps he wanted to work for himself ... That's fine but jeez ... if it ain't working, look at other options. And for Christ sakes, stop asking other people to put their $ into your money pit. In a lot of ways, Jeff and Al are similar. Thanks for letting me vent :) enjoy your time away ... hope you're feeling better"
On Sunday I told my mom I want her to be at peace and I want her to be happy. I asked her what she wanted. She said she just wanted the cancer to be gone. She shared with the social worker she didn't like the support group she went to a couple weeks ago. Said she hated sharing her story so many times. That the other patients all had breast cancer and told her she didn't look sick, adding that when she's out and about people don't see her and think she's ill. It makes me wonder if she really wants to wear that label. She also told the nutritionist yesterday she doesn't like looking at her own body undressed because she has so much hanging skin.
Because my mom's most common way of expressing herself is through emotions (mostly by crying), and when she does use her words she rakes up every topic she's grappling with within two or three sentences, it's really challenging to sort anything out with her. Her mind is so clouded. I've introduced her to meditation. She doesn't practice. I cannot reason with her because she just cries. So her shares occur for me like important clues in the mystery of how this seemingly alien being from another generation operates.
Through my own chronic illness I can absolutely relate to cursing my body at times or feeling like my body is working against me. Our bodies are vital to being able to live one's life. Quite an unsettling feeling when one feels their own body is on the attack and out to get us. It's awful. Then one learns that our body is another living being. It has thoughts and language of its own. Our bodies communicate to us via symptoms. A quiet body may not mean a healthy body, it could mean one is out of touch with one's body. A body that feels good and performs well is more indicative of a harmonious and happy body. So it becomes a matter of learning how to tune into one's body, recognize what it needs and then nurture it accordingly. This is the only way I have been able to go from having a body that didn't have enough energy to move much out of bed to being able to assist people with the single largest transactions most people engage in their lifetimes. My concern is this concept, which is truth, evades my mom. Even if she did understand, her actions have already spoken volumes. She just wants others to do things for her. Honestly this may all be too much for her. Is she getting ready to go?
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Monday, November 17, 2014
Update on Mom Nov. 17th
Hello, All,
Mom had a check-up with her
oncologist Dr. Martins today on the heels of new CT scans. There is no growth
and no spread of the cancer. In other words, mom is stable; smooth seas.
Would it be better if the cancer
retreated/decreased? Maybe. Dr. Martins cited cases where patients saw rapid
regression of the cancer only to have it rigorously grow back a short while
later. Further her oncologist explained he wants to get as much mileage as
possible out of her current treatment course before resorting to alternatives.
Of the patient cases with my mom’s cancer type, 50 percent have a secondary
mutation, which would make them eligible for a clinical trial of a new
generation pill. This pill has proven to be extremely effective, and is only a
secondary option.
The same message has been
consistent the past three visits. So long as mom is feeling better and able to
do more, the treatment is effective. Dr. Martins often remarks he treats patients,
not CT scans. Mom is able to eat better and her physicality is improving. She
met with a nutritionist today after her appointment, and they sent her home
with some great and very simple recommendations such that she can easily be
cause in the matter of further supporting her own wellness through good eating
habits.
Next week mom will be coming to
stay with Terry and I for the time being. We are putting her Coeur D’Alene home
on the market this week and are searching for another place for her around Greater
Puget Sound. If you wish to write to her, again our address is:
Mom’s next oncology appointment
is one month out followed by another CT scan two months out.
All my best,
Snap Out of It
Where to begin ... I've been back from my holiday home in Mexico for a little more than one week. Since returning we've been having a cold snap. My mom's best friend who is awaiting a double lung transplant, her mother-in-law just passed a short while after suffering a stroke. We put my mom's Idaho house on the market and began the daunting task of trying to find her something here that's somewhat affordable. In the meantime, it has also been agreed that my mom and her "partner" are coming to live with my husband and I until we can find and move them into housing.
I've spent the last four days with my mom. She's so incredibly fragile, emotionally and physically. At 5'8" she's barely 120 lbs., thankfully her weight is up from a low of 113 lbs. Even at the apex of summer she is cold when it's about 90 degrees outside.
For the past month and a half, my mom's so-called partner has been holed up a state away at her house in Idaho. For the past 18 years, my mom has waited on him hand and foot. In fact, I'm surprised he's lasted as long as he has without her feeding him and cleaning up after him. Al was her first phone call following her oncology appointment today. He didn't answer at the house nor his mobile phone. Guess he was busy doing something more important than being available to speak with her about the status of her stage four lung cancer. One would think he would be anxiously awaiting her call. Nope. Guess not.
Then there's the how my mom is handling everything, or finding every way not to. It's Saturday nearing the middle of the day. I made it public knowledge I had a client appointment in the early afternoon. While I was getting ready for it and having a quick bite before leaving the house, she decides that's the perfect time to bust out her weeks worth of insurance explanations of benefits and billing statements.
"I don't understand any of this stuff," she said.
I picked up the letter closest to me and gave it a five second look over.
"This one is just asking for proof of previous insurance. You can request this from your previous provider. What do you not understand about that?" I said.
"What about all these?" she inquired, looking around the moat of pages encircling her.
"Have you read through them?"
"I don't understand any of it, I need Mike to help me, he arranged all of this for me."
So Mike is my mom's "partner's" son. He lives in the region, and has been so incredibly helpful to my mom and subsequently to me by alleviating some of the responsibility from my shoulders as well as hers. From his perspective, he has little if any faith my 71 year old mom and his 76 year old dad are capable of doing much if anything for themselves. My sense is, if you allow someone to occur that way, and if they want to be helpless, then the situation will only further deteriorate.
My mom had an epiphany a few weeks ago. She confided in me her new-found frustrations with her "partner." Yes, the quotation marks are to overemphasize how loosely I'm using that term in relation to my mom's boyfriend Al. They're not married because if they married she would be saddled with all of his debts (we'll get to that in a moment), and she would lose her ex husband's portion of her social security benefits.
For the past several years, my mom's boyfriend has been avoiding settling a six figure IRS tax debt. Therefore the IRS has been garnishing his social security benefit by more than half. All Al has to do is go into the local IRS office and prove his inability to repay the debt. My mom did this some time ago, and they granted her forgiveness. Incidentally, they both now solely rely on social security as their exclusive source of income. They also both identify as Republican, yet I can think of no other two people who are more in need of social programs than they are (a very non-Republican position to be in). I digress ...
So my mom and I are sitting in my living room. She had just ended a call with Al, her "partner." It clearly didn't go well.
"He asks me where all the paperwork and bills are that I need him to bring over to me when he comes back," she said. "I tell him, repeatedly, write him texts explaining where everything is, and he doesn't remember. He can't remember anything. I've done everything for him - maybe I've done too much."
At this point she falls apart into a sobbing, blubbering mess. Mind you, I've been watching this co-dependency dance of theirs for the last 18 years. It's to the point Al in many ways has become like a child. We made tacos at my house one night, and my mom had to help him place the meat onto his. Then he tried to put a second soft corn tortilla on top of the tostada-esque looking taco on his plate and to eat it like a sandwich. That didn't go well. Actually, it went completely down the front of him.
I need to make this perfectly clear. I love my mom. I really, truly love her. She raised me with utmost devotion, tenderness and affectionate care. It's important I make this distinction because I am now going to vent my frustrations with her.
After the third time I explained to my mom the difference between billing statements and explanations of benefits, and that each of these organizations has an army of paid staff in their customer service departments waiting for the opportunity to answer her questions and make clear to her what's what, she says: "I just don't understand any of it."
In my head I'm wondering, does she just not want to understand? To me she's occurring as being dismissive. I explain to my mom that she would be most empowered as a patient to wrap her head around these things so she can make wise choices. No, insurance and medical expenses certainly aren't fun, uplifting and inspiring. The reality is, she is not working, has nothing but time on her hands and whatever she lets fall to the wayside someone else invariably will have to pick up. Like dear Mike, for example, who spent hours upon hours learning about the insurance system, and its numerous holes.
So my concern for her is her avoidance will soften her mind and wits. Additionally, becoming so reliant on others also has its pitfalls. I pointed out to her how this has impacted Al, and shared my worry about her following a similar path. I guess I expected her to hear this and take it to heart constructively. She just teared up and became visibly upset.
Actually, she seems to cry a lot. There is nothing at all wrong with crying. It's just from my vantage point she's been depressed for the past couple decades, ever since the divorce. She squandered 10 years of spousal support and settlement funds, and then found herself in the poor house at retirement age. Not only in the poor house, but working the concierge desk at a resort where on a daily basis she watched people living her old life. That made her wistful and full of regret. Now she's in dire health and her life is dramatically changing yet again. So she constantly asks, "Why is this happening to me?" Of course I can empathize with her losses. Like many, I too have known great loss. In more recent months, I have been learning about human attachment to impermanence as an all too common cause of suffering.
As I watch my mom's head spin with thoughts of how her life, how even she, continues to unravel, hear her comment repeatedly on what's wrong, what's not working, what she's upset about, I cannot help but ponder this. Can it all be bad? Can there be no good at all? I have to know, I want to hear it from her.
"So, mom, I hear everything you've said about what's not working in your life right now. Is there anything in your life that is working or even working well?" I asked.
After a few moments of pondering she said, "Well, when I went in for that CT scan they didn't keep me overnight in the hospital for a trapped lung."
"Anything else?" I asked.
"No."
"Um, what about your wealthy friends who have taken you into their home since July? Or your son and his husband who have been supportive since the beginning and have offered to take you and Al in?"
Then she gets "cross" with me and says abruptly, "Well I'm sorry I didn't say the right thing." Then she jumps to asking me whether she's supposed to be happy about everything she's going through. And then she cries, again.
My concern here is that my mom is solely focused on all that's negative. Additionally, what one focuses on expands, get's bigger. I gave her a gratitude journal shortly after her initial cancer diagnosis. She says she's written in it a few times. I gave her a wonderful book titled Mind Over Medicine. She started reading it. I've shared nutritional insights based on my own two year path of finding resolution to my chronic illness. She grabs onto none of it. Ultimately I'm left with the sense my mom doesn't really want to get better. Maybe she wants to die?
In the very beginning I asked her that very taboo and uber personal question, whether she wants to die. She said she wants to fight and be here with her loved ones. For me, especially since I have been an adult, actions are so much more impactful than words. Her actions occur for me as she's giving up and just resigned to being in a continual state of upset and fear about what she is going to face next.
Allow me to temper that statement by acknowledging the extreme amount of anxiety my mom must completely and totally understandably be experiencing as a result of her cancer diagnosis. I can only imagine how I would feel in her shoes. Even with my chronic illness there are some aspects of her cancer I can relate to. For one thing, I don't know what the underlying cause of my autoimmune disorder is, therefore there hasn't been any targeted course of treatment. Ultimately I don't know whether I may recover my health or ... There are times my body has experienced some awful moments and mind has thought the worst. Also, I know my husband would love for me to someday magically turn back into the person he fell in love with. My mom also has remarked similar about Al, that all he wants is for her to be the person she used to be. The person I was, the person my mom was, those people died. Our lives are forever altered.
Last Friday I sat down with my mom and carefully went through all the listing paperwork with her. At the end of it she remarks that her ex husband always took care of these things, then asks me if she's making the right decision. As I rationalize the scenario, spending 7.5 percent of her home's market value on closing costs to sell and another nearly three percent on loan closing costs and prepaids to purchase another home plus moving expenses and ultimately a higher monthly payment doesn't make much sense for someone who barely has two nickels to rub together. Combined, she and Al still exist on barely 35 percent of median household income. My response to her was simply, "I don't know. I cannot answer that question. Only time will tell ..." That is the truth.
So my husband and I are now attempting to make a new bedroom for ourselves in our mostly finished basement with money we don't have to be spending right now going into the holiday season. Our house is more than 52 years old with lots of big, single pane aluminum windows, not very well insulated and on oil heat, which is very expensive to run. No sooner had I dropped my mom off at her friends' and explained the current update post oncology visit, her bestie turns to me and asks, "Are you going to turn your heat on?"
It's no secret my mom runs cold. As mentioned she has gotten rather frail. So now I'm being questioned about the temperature at which I heat my home? It's 68, except at night we run it colder, just in case you were wondering. I wonder what her bestie would say if I had responded with, "You know what's really cold? Sleeping in a refrigerator box under a bridge in the dead of winter."
Again, instead of my mom simply being grateful she has a place to lay her head, she complains. She's also turning into her mother, God rest her soul, who instead of articulating her upset, would just scoff around hymming and hawwing. My mom is getting to be fussy like her mom was, too. The thing is, my mom really left the heavy lifting of my grandma's late life care to her sister and a hospice nurse. So I'm not sure if my mom is really present to what she's asking of others with regard to her own care. It's as though she has little to no self awareness.
Last week my brother reached out to me via FBPM (that's Facebook private message to those who don't read modern acronym) with the following:
"Hey hope you and mom are fine. I am in deep shit and need your advice. I think at some point in your life you have got a DUI. I got one about a year ago. I didn't realize it could affect me getting a job. I have been applying for jobs daily, even as a TAXI DRIVER and I was DENIED because i have had a DUI with in the last 3 years! So it is what it is. However, when you get DUI in Las Vegas at least, you MUST pay auto-insurance, a special auto-insurance called "SR-22" which I have been paying the last year. But if I dont pay it by tomorrow or the 12th actually is the VERY last date, it automatically gets reported to my DMV and my car gets impounded and licence revoked. My car payment is already 2 months behind. But my insurance is what I am most concerned about. I have not been able to pay rent, my car insurance, or my car payment. I continue to apply to jobs daily and is just a matter of time before I get one. I am freaking out about the insurance issue and they said if I miss it the 3 years STARTS OVER on my record meaning I need to carry the special SR-22 for 3 more years. eeek! Any suggestions?? I really dont want to bother mom with this stuff but I dont know what to do or say when I am in this situation. Yes, I have already asked dad for help he flat out said no, he can't."
Someday soon I will devote an entry all to my brother who is 43. Also a point of clarification, he and I were both adopted, from different families entirely. Even though we were raised by the same parents under the same roof, we could not be more different as people. I repeat, we do not share a bloodline.
Think I may just need to craft a part two of this post. It has been a long four days of pressing pause on my life to take on my mom's. It's after 10:30 p.m. and my eyes are burning. Good night.
I've spent the last four days with my mom. She's so incredibly fragile, emotionally and physically. At 5'8" she's barely 120 lbs., thankfully her weight is up from a low of 113 lbs. Even at the apex of summer she is cold when it's about 90 degrees outside.
For the past month and a half, my mom's so-called partner has been holed up a state away at her house in Idaho. For the past 18 years, my mom has waited on him hand and foot. In fact, I'm surprised he's lasted as long as he has without her feeding him and cleaning up after him. Al was her first phone call following her oncology appointment today. He didn't answer at the house nor his mobile phone. Guess he was busy doing something more important than being available to speak with her about the status of her stage four lung cancer. One would think he would be anxiously awaiting her call. Nope. Guess not.
Then there's the how my mom is handling everything, or finding every way not to. It's Saturday nearing the middle of the day. I made it public knowledge I had a client appointment in the early afternoon. While I was getting ready for it and having a quick bite before leaving the house, she decides that's the perfect time to bust out her weeks worth of insurance explanations of benefits and billing statements.
"I don't understand any of this stuff," she said.
I picked up the letter closest to me and gave it a five second look over.
"This one is just asking for proof of previous insurance. You can request this from your previous provider. What do you not understand about that?" I said.
"What about all these?" she inquired, looking around the moat of pages encircling her.
"Have you read through them?"
"I don't understand any of it, I need Mike to help me, he arranged all of this for me."
So Mike is my mom's "partner's" son. He lives in the region, and has been so incredibly helpful to my mom and subsequently to me by alleviating some of the responsibility from my shoulders as well as hers. From his perspective, he has little if any faith my 71 year old mom and his 76 year old dad are capable of doing much if anything for themselves. My sense is, if you allow someone to occur that way, and if they want to be helpless, then the situation will only further deteriorate.
My mom had an epiphany a few weeks ago. She confided in me her new-found frustrations with her "partner." Yes, the quotation marks are to overemphasize how loosely I'm using that term in relation to my mom's boyfriend Al. They're not married because if they married she would be saddled with all of his debts (we'll get to that in a moment), and she would lose her ex husband's portion of her social security benefits.
For the past several years, my mom's boyfriend has been avoiding settling a six figure IRS tax debt. Therefore the IRS has been garnishing his social security benefit by more than half. All Al has to do is go into the local IRS office and prove his inability to repay the debt. My mom did this some time ago, and they granted her forgiveness. Incidentally, they both now solely rely on social security as their exclusive source of income. They also both identify as Republican, yet I can think of no other two people who are more in need of social programs than they are (a very non-Republican position to be in). I digress ...
So my mom and I are sitting in my living room. She had just ended a call with Al, her "partner." It clearly didn't go well.
"He asks me where all the paperwork and bills are that I need him to bring over to me when he comes back," she said. "I tell him, repeatedly, write him texts explaining where everything is, and he doesn't remember. He can't remember anything. I've done everything for him - maybe I've done too much."
At this point she falls apart into a sobbing, blubbering mess. Mind you, I've been watching this co-dependency dance of theirs for the last 18 years. It's to the point Al in many ways has become like a child. We made tacos at my house one night, and my mom had to help him place the meat onto his. Then he tried to put a second soft corn tortilla on top of the tostada-esque looking taco on his plate and to eat it like a sandwich. That didn't go well. Actually, it went completely down the front of him.
I need to make this perfectly clear. I love my mom. I really, truly love her. She raised me with utmost devotion, tenderness and affectionate care. It's important I make this distinction because I am now going to vent my frustrations with her.
After the third time I explained to my mom the difference between billing statements and explanations of benefits, and that each of these organizations has an army of paid staff in their customer service departments waiting for the opportunity to answer her questions and make clear to her what's what, she says: "I just don't understand any of it."
In my head I'm wondering, does she just not want to understand? To me she's occurring as being dismissive. I explain to my mom that she would be most empowered as a patient to wrap her head around these things so she can make wise choices. No, insurance and medical expenses certainly aren't fun, uplifting and inspiring. The reality is, she is not working, has nothing but time on her hands and whatever she lets fall to the wayside someone else invariably will have to pick up. Like dear Mike, for example, who spent hours upon hours learning about the insurance system, and its numerous holes.
So my concern for her is her avoidance will soften her mind and wits. Additionally, becoming so reliant on others also has its pitfalls. I pointed out to her how this has impacted Al, and shared my worry about her following a similar path. I guess I expected her to hear this and take it to heart constructively. She just teared up and became visibly upset.
Actually, she seems to cry a lot. There is nothing at all wrong with crying. It's just from my vantage point she's been depressed for the past couple decades, ever since the divorce. She squandered 10 years of spousal support and settlement funds, and then found herself in the poor house at retirement age. Not only in the poor house, but working the concierge desk at a resort where on a daily basis she watched people living her old life. That made her wistful and full of regret. Now she's in dire health and her life is dramatically changing yet again. So she constantly asks, "Why is this happening to me?" Of course I can empathize with her losses. Like many, I too have known great loss. In more recent months, I have been learning about human attachment to impermanence as an all too common cause of suffering.
As I watch my mom's head spin with thoughts of how her life, how even she, continues to unravel, hear her comment repeatedly on what's wrong, what's not working, what she's upset about, I cannot help but ponder this. Can it all be bad? Can there be no good at all? I have to know, I want to hear it from her.
"So, mom, I hear everything you've said about what's not working in your life right now. Is there anything in your life that is working or even working well?" I asked.
After a few moments of pondering she said, "Well, when I went in for that CT scan they didn't keep me overnight in the hospital for a trapped lung."
"Anything else?" I asked.
"No."
"Um, what about your wealthy friends who have taken you into their home since July? Or your son and his husband who have been supportive since the beginning and have offered to take you and Al in?"
Then she gets "cross" with me and says abruptly, "Well I'm sorry I didn't say the right thing." Then she jumps to asking me whether she's supposed to be happy about everything she's going through. And then she cries, again.
My concern here is that my mom is solely focused on all that's negative. Additionally, what one focuses on expands, get's bigger. I gave her a gratitude journal shortly after her initial cancer diagnosis. She says she's written in it a few times. I gave her a wonderful book titled Mind Over Medicine. She started reading it. I've shared nutritional insights based on my own two year path of finding resolution to my chronic illness. She grabs onto none of it. Ultimately I'm left with the sense my mom doesn't really want to get better. Maybe she wants to die?
In the very beginning I asked her that very taboo and uber personal question, whether she wants to die. She said she wants to fight and be here with her loved ones. For me, especially since I have been an adult, actions are so much more impactful than words. Her actions occur for me as she's giving up and just resigned to being in a continual state of upset and fear about what she is going to face next.
Allow me to temper that statement by acknowledging the extreme amount of anxiety my mom must completely and totally understandably be experiencing as a result of her cancer diagnosis. I can only imagine how I would feel in her shoes. Even with my chronic illness there are some aspects of her cancer I can relate to. For one thing, I don't know what the underlying cause of my autoimmune disorder is, therefore there hasn't been any targeted course of treatment. Ultimately I don't know whether I may recover my health or ... There are times my body has experienced some awful moments and mind has thought the worst. Also, I know my husband would love for me to someday magically turn back into the person he fell in love with. My mom also has remarked similar about Al, that all he wants is for her to be the person she used to be. The person I was, the person my mom was, those people died. Our lives are forever altered.
Last Friday I sat down with my mom and carefully went through all the listing paperwork with her. At the end of it she remarks that her ex husband always took care of these things, then asks me if she's making the right decision. As I rationalize the scenario, spending 7.5 percent of her home's market value on closing costs to sell and another nearly three percent on loan closing costs and prepaids to purchase another home plus moving expenses and ultimately a higher monthly payment doesn't make much sense for someone who barely has two nickels to rub together. Combined, she and Al still exist on barely 35 percent of median household income. My response to her was simply, "I don't know. I cannot answer that question. Only time will tell ..." That is the truth.
So my husband and I are now attempting to make a new bedroom for ourselves in our mostly finished basement with money we don't have to be spending right now going into the holiday season. Our house is more than 52 years old with lots of big, single pane aluminum windows, not very well insulated and on oil heat, which is very expensive to run. No sooner had I dropped my mom off at her friends' and explained the current update post oncology visit, her bestie turns to me and asks, "Are you going to turn your heat on?"
It's no secret my mom runs cold. As mentioned she has gotten rather frail. So now I'm being questioned about the temperature at which I heat my home? It's 68, except at night we run it colder, just in case you were wondering. I wonder what her bestie would say if I had responded with, "You know what's really cold? Sleeping in a refrigerator box under a bridge in the dead of winter."
Again, instead of my mom simply being grateful she has a place to lay her head, she complains. She's also turning into her mother, God rest her soul, who instead of articulating her upset, would just scoff around hymming and hawwing. My mom is getting to be fussy like her mom was, too. The thing is, my mom really left the heavy lifting of my grandma's late life care to her sister and a hospice nurse. So I'm not sure if my mom is really present to what she's asking of others with regard to her own care. It's as though she has little to no self awareness.
Last week my brother reached out to me via FBPM (that's Facebook private message to those who don't read modern acronym) with the following:
"Hey hope you and mom are fine. I am in deep shit and need your advice. I think at some point in your life you have got a DUI. I got one about a year ago. I didn't realize it could affect me getting a job. I have been applying for jobs daily, even as a TAXI DRIVER and I was DENIED because i have had a DUI with in the last 3 years! So it is what it is. However, when you get DUI in Las Vegas at least, you MUST pay auto-insurance, a special auto-insurance called "SR-22" which I have been paying the last year. But if I dont pay it by tomorrow or the 12th actually is the VERY last date, it automatically gets reported to my DMV and my car gets impounded and licence revoked. My car payment is already 2 months behind. But my insurance is what I am most concerned about. I have not been able to pay rent, my car insurance, or my car payment. I continue to apply to jobs daily and is just a matter of time before I get one. I am freaking out about the insurance issue and they said if I miss it the 3 years STARTS OVER on my record meaning I need to carry the special SR-22 for 3 more years. eeek! Any suggestions?? I really dont want to bother mom with this stuff but I dont know what to do or say when I am in this situation. Yes, I have already asked dad for help he flat out said no, he can't."
Someday soon I will devote an entry all to my brother who is 43. Also a point of clarification, he and I were both adopted, from different families entirely. Even though we were raised by the same parents under the same roof, we could not be more different as people. I repeat, we do not share a bloodline.
Think I may just need to craft a part two of this post. It has been a long four days of pressing pause on my life to take on my mom's. It's after 10:30 p.m. and my eyes are burning. Good night.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Fortress of Solitude
Of course I'm no super hero as the title of this post might suggest. I am an American. Like my other 350-some-odd-million compatriots, I live in a oddly uncivilized, modern society, increasingly heroic to thrive in. How the wealthy tempt us with knowledge and flashy gizmos only for us later to discover these are actually devices of pure torture, used to shackle the proletariat to their jobs 24/7!
When I began coming to Mexico a dozen or so years ago, it was like that scene from the movie 9 to 5 when Violet fantasizes about freeing the workers from their dungeon chains. Clouds part, light beams through the windows, the shackles open and the workers slowly rise while looking heavenward.
In the early 2000s (was that not such a lost decade like the '90s were?), my boyfriend at the time introduced me to this marvelous place on the Mexican Riviera. His folks had been frequenting here since 1999, if memory serves. During my first visit we were without mobile/cell service, internet, newspaper (at least none I could read in English), no TV, not even a radio or cans connected with a piece of string. Nada. Eureka. Paradise found.
Actually, I think they did have an English version newspaper. Here's the thing. The newspaper was peddled by the "Crazy Chicken Man." This is going to sound horrible, and believe me I am really a compassionate human being. He's a wheelchair-bound local man who has a crazed look in his eye and an equally crazed smile on his face all the time. His expression seriously never changes. I'm probably going to feel even worse about myself to one day find out his face is somehow stuck that way. He carts around dead chickens and sells newspapers. I know, I know, one cannot judge a book by its cover. If the cover appears to have slaughtered livestock and is happy all the time, I'm either hearing folklore about '80s rock legends or I'm quite possibly in the presence of something sinister.
When I first began coming to Mexico, I imagine it may have been much like 1950's America. There is a sense of community here. People pass by one another on the street. They actually acknowledge one another's existence. Not only do they make eye contact, they say things to each other. "Buenos dias." "Buenos tardes." "Buenos noches." This comes in quite handy when you're twenty something, love to tie one on and sleep for hours upon hours. At the very least people let you know what time of day it is. Like it's a cultural habit formed after generations of people who enjoy leisure so much they chronically lose track of time. I just think this basic courtesy is incredible, miraculous even.
Long story short, in 2006 my then boyfriend and I bought a small house in this seaside village. Did you know it takes on average six months to close a real estate transaction in Mexico? Apparently they've only had a legitimate title system established since the 1990s (found decade for Mexico). So it takes them a little while to track down or perhaps just create official record out of thin air. Or maybe this has all been made up. Maybe there is no house and this is just some wild figment of my imagination and I'm actually in some half-state of meditation. I digress ...
We had fallen in love with this seaside village so much so that we begged, borrowed and in some case stole to make a go of it. I don't mean stealing in the conventional sense. I mean stealing in the noble, capitalistic sense. We borrowed cheap money from the bank. AND I WORKED MY FUCKING ASS OFF PR-ING THINGS FOR THE GAYS, WRITING AND SELLING HOMES IN THE STATES!
We closed in midsummer. A couple weeks later we broke up. Nearly nine years later we still own the house together. Just like our relationship I shoulder the brunt of responsibility and he enjoys the fruits of my labor. Only in this case, with this special place, it really is worth it. This is the one place I can truly unplug and just be.
For one thing, I can neither make nor receive calls thanks to Sprint's crappy mobile service. Thank you. No, really, I mean it. Because of the nature of my work, and because we tend to host many Americans (via vacation rental), I choked and got high speed DSL. High speed is relative. Remember dial up internet with all the buzzing, beeping and digital flatulation noises? Well, it's much quieter and faster than that. It's difficult to stream audio, video or even upload email. So one works less, which is smiled upon in more ingenious parts of the world. Take France for instance.
Everything here is different. The energy is different. There's something about being here that allows one to be absolutely content with few if any desires other than basic needs (shelter, food, water, love, etc.). Some may see this as boring or uncivilized. Contraire mon frere. I really don't know what it is. I just feel so fulfilled just being in this beautiful and lush tropical oasis.
The first time I visited here, people learned my name. They didn't just learn it. Upon returning about a year later, they remembered me, my name. I was greeted, and still am, with fond recognition. It's endearing. It's kind. It's communal. It's also completely reciprocal.
The warmth of being here is not just being situated in the humid heart of the Tropic of Cancer. It's a way of being. Friendly. My hometown in America's Pacific Northwest being the antithesis. There's a phrase I hear from time to time called "Seattle nice," or more appropriately "Seattle ice." It's not that my fellow Seattleites are unfriendly or rude. They're just very, uh, "insular." People just keep to themselves and their respective groups. It's said to be due to a Scandinavian cultural influence. That may be true. I went to Iceland once. If Seattleites are icey, Icelanders are frozen solid. That is until about 6:00 a.m. when the bars begin emptying out onto the streets. Then suddenly perfect strangers act like lifelong friends and want to buy you a hotdog.
I love this. You know, this right now. Sitting here at my kitchen table in Mexico. I'm wearing a pair of orange swim trunks and black Teva flip flops. Hurricane Vance is getting chummy with the coastline, so it has been raining this afternoon. Since I first began coming to this area of the world, I have dreamed of a lovely, tropical rain storm. Thought we might have one yesterday. What a tease. Then this afternoon the skies opened to a symphony of warm rain drops. The windows are wide open to let the fresh sea breeze waft through the house. More so for the reason I love listening to the rain, especially here. Maybe that's also the Seattleite in me. I've dreamed of sitting in my Mexican home, soft lights aglow, tropical rain falling, writing away. Here I am, living the dream. Well not just any dream, it's mine all mine. Oh, and half my ex's. Shit.
My husband and our guests have all retired for a post lunch siesta. So it's just me alone to my thoughts, the sound of rain drops falling on thatch, tile, dirt and palms with the occasional car sloshing by. Started to think to myself "I wish I could share this with the world." Then I caught myself realizing I already am. Silly me.
I named my home Casita Brisa del Mar. Probably got the grammar wrong. I only really officially began taking Spanish last year. Anyway, the dwelling name is supposed to mean Little House of the Ocean Breeze. Cute, huh?
Went to college in San Luis Obispo, California. Gorgeous place, absolutely lovely. I highly recommend a visit or a lifetime of joy there. My second year I shared a house with four others. It was a really fun year, crazy even. One of the best times of my life. We lived on Vista del Brisa or view of the breeze. I used to say it real faggy-like with lotsss of emphasssisss on the sss pronunciationsss. I also thought that particular meaning odd at first. I mean wind is invisible. Then again, you can watch its energy move objects. So, yes, one can watch the wind blow. OMG, of course you can. This is what happens when one allows one's mind to openly wander upon the web.
I don't even know if I've ever really realized exactly why I chose the word brisa to include in the name of my casita until this moment. Like literally right now as I'm writing this. It's a happy place for me. Many good memories have been made here, several I have yet to live down.
Winter/Christmas holiday of 2007 my BFF and I spent 10 days here. Within our first few days we met a couple of Canadian surfers. We'll call them Hibbs and T-Balls. Super cool guys who surfed during the day, ate dinner and partied with us at night. BFF and I thought we would try making dinner for us all Christmas night .
My tiny kitchen, with its little counter space/tiny quarters, tiny fridge and tiny range was even more poorly outfitted with cookware items than it is now. Even now I would be very hesitant to cook anything more than breakfast eggs, rice and beans, etc. OK, maybe a slight embellishment.
Still, BFF and I didn't even know where to really find main course meat. My sweet ex-pat next door neighbors saw us as they were heading into the big town's Costco and wanted to know if we needed anything. I think it's just something innate in me. I loathe the feeling of putting others out, want to always avoid being a burden. So I graciously declined and thanked them for their kind offer. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
BFF and I wandered through town until we saw a very cute sign that read "Carniceria." There were even happy little cartoon characters of animals, even a little egg, all were smiling. It looked innocent enough, like a really happy place. We could not have been more wrong.
We brazenly walk inside. We are both simultaneously struck by the interior juxtaposition. It was a large, open space with dingy, unpainted walls, dusty shelves, utility implements leaning on walls and a couple of refrigerated display cases which may or may not have actually been refrigerated. We turned to one another with a similar "let's get the fuck out of here" look on our faces when suddenly we were greeted by no less than the Crazy Chicken Man! BFF pressed some bills into my hand and literally disappeared. Like she was just gone, out of sight, in a flash.
I'm standing in this very poor excuse of a butcher shop now in the company of the loco local I feared most. I was petrified. At the same time I thought it would be rude to dash off like BFF did. He said something to me in Spanish, I pointed to the case, he wheeled over. As I drew closer, I saw cuts of ordinary meat I'd not seen before. They had no whole chickens, which is all we really wanted. They had a half of chicken with the legs and such. So I pointed to it. He smiled and nodded. The next thing I know he grabbs this raw, half chicken with his bare hand and puts it up onto a stainless steel scale with no liner and then puts it in a plastic mini-mart style shopping sack. I think I'm going to be sick. I hand him a bunch of bills, likely four times the actual cost of the salmonella I walked, er, darted off with, and fled.
Out on the street BFF was anxiously awaiting my return, concerned she may not see me alive again. Sorry to disappoint her. At the same time I was having very unkind thoughts toward her, leaving me there with my nemesis Crazy Chicken Man (even if the nemesis part was just a figment of my sometimes overactive imagination).
ME: What the fuck! Why did you leave me alone in there!?!
BFF: I thought you were also going to bolt.
ME: We couldn't have both run out of there, not after we were greeted. You saw him coming, didn't you, and you didn't say anything?!
BFF: I'm sorry, I just couldn't stay in there.
I could hardly blame here. It was pretty traumatizing ...
ME: You have to carry the bag home then.
BFF: Fine.
I remember physically shivering with disgust at what had transpired. I know, I'm probably sounding like a Prima Donna.
When we arrive home, we debated whether to even use what we both imagined was a disease-carrying-carcass. We had already promised dinner. We had no phone from which to call and change plans. Even if we did the guys were out riding waves somewhere up the coast. We didn't have a car. It just wouldn't be Christmas without some form of dinner. So we did what we do best, improvised.
I get out this big, ceramic pot with lid to cook the carcass in. Probably not the brightest idea, it was all we had. BFF got out the tequila. She poured it over the carcass and some into the pot. Here I thought she was prepping us to "deal" with the situation. BFF then enthusiastically named it "Tequila Sunrise Chicken." I could imagine Amy Sedaris wanting to include this recipe in her sequel cookbook "I like you, too." I suppose bathing the beast in booze was just as well, especially if we were considering actually ingesting this, this mystery meat. Not too much of a mystery, the ass end of it still had some rather thick "hairs" poking out of it, suggesting tail feathers. We pulled at them. They didn't give way easily. Did we need a razor? I mean this whole line of thought still repulses me, honestly.
It's getting to be late in the day. There's cooking to be done, house to be prepped/tidied. I cannot find a match or lighter for my gas range anywhere in the house. I was a bit befuddled by what BFF was doing, which appeared to be not much of anything. She senses my frustration, or rather I was back-handing her with it. She asks if everything is OK. Instead of using my big boy words to properly enlist support, I just continue to whirl around in obvious frustration and say in the most declarative manner,"I'm making a plan and I'm taking action! Do you think you could run down to the store and bring us back a lighter?" Admittedly I was being rather douchey, although I still maintain it wasn't completely unwarranted. This being one of several instances I have yet to live down. The "I'm making a plan" bit has become quite the mocking catch phrase between BFF and my husband.
BFF and I also created another saying from this experience. "?Como se dice jenk en Espanol? Carniceria." Jenk or jenky is Bay Area slang for nasty. How do you say nasty in Spanish? Butcher shop.
What happened with our Christmas dinner a la Mexicana? It turned out in the end. No one died. No one got sick, at least not from eating. We had a grand time. Actually, BFF insists the Canadians really loved my dressing. They did go back for second and third helpings.
The rain has let up. Just hearing a few randomly scattered drips. Thankfully none inside. We leave tomorrow and have guests arriving the day following.
This has been a good trip. For me somewhat triumphant in fact. I've not been to my casita for nearly two years. Not since the time I initially fell very, and since chronically, ill. My food sensitivity/reaction symptoms began to flare a few weeks prior to this trip. I wasn't sure I was still up for going. There have been a few unsettling moments during this visit. There have been so many more joyful and peaceful moments. I think this trip has done me good. This little house is still an idyllic place for me to unplug, decompress and let my worries wash away. It is still very much my fortress of solitude.
When I began coming to Mexico a dozen or so years ago, it was like that scene from the movie 9 to 5 when Violet fantasizes about freeing the workers from their dungeon chains. Clouds part, light beams through the windows, the shackles open and the workers slowly rise while looking heavenward.
In the early 2000s (was that not such a lost decade like the '90s were?), my boyfriend at the time introduced me to this marvelous place on the Mexican Riviera. His folks had been frequenting here since 1999, if memory serves. During my first visit we were without mobile/cell service, internet, newspaper (at least none I could read in English), no TV, not even a radio or cans connected with a piece of string. Nada. Eureka. Paradise found.
Actually, I think they did have an English version newspaper. Here's the thing. The newspaper was peddled by the "Crazy Chicken Man." This is going to sound horrible, and believe me I am really a compassionate human being. He's a wheelchair-bound local man who has a crazed look in his eye and an equally crazed smile on his face all the time. His expression seriously never changes. I'm probably going to feel even worse about myself to one day find out his face is somehow stuck that way. He carts around dead chickens and sells newspapers. I know, I know, one cannot judge a book by its cover. If the cover appears to have slaughtered livestock and is happy all the time, I'm either hearing folklore about '80s rock legends or I'm quite possibly in the presence of something sinister.
When I first began coming to Mexico, I imagine it may have been much like 1950's America. There is a sense of community here. People pass by one another on the street. They actually acknowledge one another's existence. Not only do they make eye contact, they say things to each other. "Buenos dias." "Buenos tardes." "Buenos noches." This comes in quite handy when you're twenty something, love to tie one on and sleep for hours upon hours. At the very least people let you know what time of day it is. Like it's a cultural habit formed after generations of people who enjoy leisure so much they chronically lose track of time. I just think this basic courtesy is incredible, miraculous even.
Long story short, in 2006 my then boyfriend and I bought a small house in this seaside village. Did you know it takes on average six months to close a real estate transaction in Mexico? Apparently they've only had a legitimate title system established since the 1990s (found decade for Mexico). So it takes them a little while to track down or perhaps just create official record out of thin air. Or maybe this has all been made up. Maybe there is no house and this is just some wild figment of my imagination and I'm actually in some half-state of meditation. I digress ...
We had fallen in love with this seaside village so much so that we begged, borrowed and in some case stole to make a go of it. I don't mean stealing in the conventional sense. I mean stealing in the noble, capitalistic sense. We borrowed cheap money from the bank. AND I WORKED MY FUCKING ASS OFF PR-ING THINGS FOR THE GAYS, WRITING AND SELLING HOMES IN THE STATES!
We closed in midsummer. A couple weeks later we broke up. Nearly nine years later we still own the house together. Just like our relationship I shoulder the brunt of responsibility and he enjoys the fruits of my labor. Only in this case, with this special place, it really is worth it. This is the one place I can truly unplug and just be.
For one thing, I can neither make nor receive calls thanks to Sprint's crappy mobile service. Thank you. No, really, I mean it. Because of the nature of my work, and because we tend to host many Americans (via vacation rental), I choked and got high speed DSL. High speed is relative. Remember dial up internet with all the buzzing, beeping and digital flatulation noises? Well, it's much quieter and faster than that. It's difficult to stream audio, video or even upload email. So one works less, which is smiled upon in more ingenious parts of the world. Take France for instance.
Everything here is different. The energy is different. There's something about being here that allows one to be absolutely content with few if any desires other than basic needs (shelter, food, water, love, etc.). Some may see this as boring or uncivilized. Contraire mon frere. I really don't know what it is. I just feel so fulfilled just being in this beautiful and lush tropical oasis.
The first time I visited here, people learned my name. They didn't just learn it. Upon returning about a year later, they remembered me, my name. I was greeted, and still am, with fond recognition. It's endearing. It's kind. It's communal. It's also completely reciprocal.
The warmth of being here is not just being situated in the humid heart of the Tropic of Cancer. It's a way of being. Friendly. My hometown in America's Pacific Northwest being the antithesis. There's a phrase I hear from time to time called "Seattle nice," or more appropriately "Seattle ice." It's not that my fellow Seattleites are unfriendly or rude. They're just very, uh, "insular." People just keep to themselves and their respective groups. It's said to be due to a Scandinavian cultural influence. That may be true. I went to Iceland once. If Seattleites are icey, Icelanders are frozen solid. That is until about 6:00 a.m. when the bars begin emptying out onto the streets. Then suddenly perfect strangers act like lifelong friends and want to buy you a hotdog.
I love this. You know, this right now. Sitting here at my kitchen table in Mexico. I'm wearing a pair of orange swim trunks and black Teva flip flops. Hurricane Vance is getting chummy with the coastline, so it has been raining this afternoon. Since I first began coming to this area of the world, I have dreamed of a lovely, tropical rain storm. Thought we might have one yesterday. What a tease. Then this afternoon the skies opened to a symphony of warm rain drops. The windows are wide open to let the fresh sea breeze waft through the house. More so for the reason I love listening to the rain, especially here. Maybe that's also the Seattleite in me. I've dreamed of sitting in my Mexican home, soft lights aglow, tropical rain falling, writing away. Here I am, living the dream. Well not just any dream, it's mine all mine. Oh, and half my ex's. Shit.
My husband and our guests have all retired for a post lunch siesta. So it's just me alone to my thoughts, the sound of rain drops falling on thatch, tile, dirt and palms with the occasional car sloshing by. Started to think to myself "I wish I could share this with the world." Then I caught myself realizing I already am. Silly me.
I named my home Casita Brisa del Mar. Probably got the grammar wrong. I only really officially began taking Spanish last year. Anyway, the dwelling name is supposed to mean Little House of the Ocean Breeze. Cute, huh?
Went to college in San Luis Obispo, California. Gorgeous place, absolutely lovely. I highly recommend a visit or a lifetime of joy there. My second year I shared a house with four others. It was a really fun year, crazy even. One of the best times of my life. We lived on Vista del Brisa or view of the breeze. I used to say it real faggy-like with lotsss of emphasssisss on the sss pronunciationsss. I also thought that particular meaning odd at first. I mean wind is invisible. Then again, you can watch its energy move objects. So, yes, one can watch the wind blow. OMG, of course you can. This is what happens when one allows one's mind to openly wander upon the web.
I don't even know if I've ever really realized exactly why I chose the word brisa to include in the name of my casita until this moment. Like literally right now as I'm writing this. It's a happy place for me. Many good memories have been made here, several I have yet to live down.
Winter/Christmas holiday of 2007 my BFF and I spent 10 days here. Within our first few days we met a couple of Canadian surfers. We'll call them Hibbs and T-Balls. Super cool guys who surfed during the day, ate dinner and partied with us at night. BFF and I thought we would try making dinner for us all Christmas night .
My tiny kitchen, with its little counter space/tiny quarters, tiny fridge and tiny range was even more poorly outfitted with cookware items than it is now. Even now I would be very hesitant to cook anything more than breakfast eggs, rice and beans, etc. OK, maybe a slight embellishment.
Still, BFF and I didn't even know where to really find main course meat. My sweet ex-pat next door neighbors saw us as they were heading into the big town's Costco and wanted to know if we needed anything. I think it's just something innate in me. I loathe the feeling of putting others out, want to always avoid being a burden. So I graciously declined and thanked them for their kind offer. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
BFF and I wandered through town until we saw a very cute sign that read "Carniceria." There were even happy little cartoon characters of animals, even a little egg, all were smiling. It looked innocent enough, like a really happy place. We could not have been more wrong.
We brazenly walk inside. We are both simultaneously struck by the interior juxtaposition. It was a large, open space with dingy, unpainted walls, dusty shelves, utility implements leaning on walls and a couple of refrigerated display cases which may or may not have actually been refrigerated. We turned to one another with a similar "let's get the fuck out of here" look on our faces when suddenly we were greeted by no less than the Crazy Chicken Man! BFF pressed some bills into my hand and literally disappeared. Like she was just gone, out of sight, in a flash.
I'm standing in this very poor excuse of a butcher shop now in the company of the loco local I feared most. I was petrified. At the same time I thought it would be rude to dash off like BFF did. He said something to me in Spanish, I pointed to the case, he wheeled over. As I drew closer, I saw cuts of ordinary meat I'd not seen before. They had no whole chickens, which is all we really wanted. They had a half of chicken with the legs and such. So I pointed to it. He smiled and nodded. The next thing I know he grabbs this raw, half chicken with his bare hand and puts it up onto a stainless steel scale with no liner and then puts it in a plastic mini-mart style shopping sack. I think I'm going to be sick. I hand him a bunch of bills, likely four times the actual cost of the salmonella I walked, er, darted off with, and fled.
Out on the street BFF was anxiously awaiting my return, concerned she may not see me alive again. Sorry to disappoint her. At the same time I was having very unkind thoughts toward her, leaving me there with my nemesis Crazy Chicken Man (even if the nemesis part was just a figment of my sometimes overactive imagination).
ME: What the fuck! Why did you leave me alone in there!?!
BFF: I thought you were also going to bolt.
ME: We couldn't have both run out of there, not after we were greeted. You saw him coming, didn't you, and you didn't say anything?!
BFF: I'm sorry, I just couldn't stay in there.
I could hardly blame here. It was pretty traumatizing ...
ME: You have to carry the bag home then.
BFF: Fine.
I remember physically shivering with disgust at what had transpired. I know, I'm probably sounding like a Prima Donna.
When we arrive home, we debated whether to even use what we both imagined was a disease-carrying-carcass. We had already promised dinner. We had no phone from which to call and change plans. Even if we did the guys were out riding waves somewhere up the coast. We didn't have a car. It just wouldn't be Christmas without some form of dinner. So we did what we do best, improvised.
I get out this big, ceramic pot with lid to cook the carcass in. Probably not the brightest idea, it was all we had. BFF got out the tequila. She poured it over the carcass and some into the pot. Here I thought she was prepping us to "deal" with the situation. BFF then enthusiastically named it "Tequila Sunrise Chicken." I could imagine Amy Sedaris wanting to include this recipe in her sequel cookbook "I like you, too." I suppose bathing the beast in booze was just as well, especially if we were considering actually ingesting this, this mystery meat. Not too much of a mystery, the ass end of it still had some rather thick "hairs" poking out of it, suggesting tail feathers. We pulled at them. They didn't give way easily. Did we need a razor? I mean this whole line of thought still repulses me, honestly.
It's getting to be late in the day. There's cooking to be done, house to be prepped/tidied. I cannot find a match or lighter for my gas range anywhere in the house. I was a bit befuddled by what BFF was doing, which appeared to be not much of anything. She senses my frustration, or rather I was back-handing her with it. She asks if everything is OK. Instead of using my big boy words to properly enlist support, I just continue to whirl around in obvious frustration and say in the most declarative manner,"I'm making a plan and I'm taking action! Do you think you could run down to the store and bring us back a lighter?" Admittedly I was being rather douchey, although I still maintain it wasn't completely unwarranted. This being one of several instances I have yet to live down. The "I'm making a plan" bit has become quite the mocking catch phrase between BFF and my husband.
BFF and I also created another saying from this experience. "?Como se dice jenk en Espanol? Carniceria." Jenk or jenky is Bay Area slang for nasty. How do you say nasty in Spanish? Butcher shop.
What happened with our Christmas dinner a la Mexicana? It turned out in the end. No one died. No one got sick, at least not from eating. We had a grand time. Actually, BFF insists the Canadians really loved my dressing. They did go back for second and third helpings.
The rain has let up. Just hearing a few randomly scattered drips. Thankfully none inside. We leave tomorrow and have guests arriving the day following.
This has been a good trip. For me somewhat triumphant in fact. I've not been to my casita for nearly two years. Not since the time I initially fell very, and since chronically, ill. My food sensitivity/reaction symptoms began to flare a few weeks prior to this trip. I wasn't sure I was still up for going. There have been a few unsettling moments during this visit. There have been so many more joyful and peaceful moments. I think this trip has done me good. This little house is still an idyllic place for me to unplug, decompress and let my worries wash away. It is still very much my fortress of solitude.
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