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.
Monday, November 17, 2014
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.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Update on Mom Oct. 28
Hello, All,
Hope this finds everyone well.
More good news to report. Mom continues to feel really well. This is the best
possible indication of how her treatment course is progressing. In fact, she
had another follow-up scheduled with her oncologist this coming Thursday. He
told her if she’s continuing to feel well she can cancel it, and he wouldn’t
need to see her back until the middle of next month. I just spoke with mom this
morning and she’s going to cancel. J
Additionally, I believe my mom
is over the initial psychological challenge of processing her diagnosis as well
as the physiological challenge of this current treatment regimen. She just gave
the green light today for people to be in touch with her directly. Feel free to
call and catch up with her, she’d love to hear from you. In case you need her
number, it’s (208) 512-2468.
I’ll continue to provide medical
updates via email as things develop because this info. is too cumbersome for my
mom to repeatedly relay. Also want to make a couple of acknowledgements. The first
being a HUGE thank you to Mike Crisp, Al’s son. He and his wife Lisa have been
so helpful with errands, facilitating new medical coverage, assisting with the
exploration of housing options and so much more. Yes, my mom intends to
stay in the Seattle area. I’ve also personally received kind words of support
from a few people on this list in recent weeks. As the saying goes it takes a
village; no one does it all on their own. Please know how grateful my mom and I
are, truly, for this wonderful sense of community you’ve provided. I am
absolutely honored to be my mom’s advocate.
All my best,
p.s. One other very important acknowledgement as my fingers have
clicked far ahead of my mind … I had previously informed my mom has been
staying, primarily, with her and Al’s dear friends the Rosauers
while she’s been in the Seattle area. I have acknowledged them in person, and I
also wanted this group to know how amazing they are for opening their home and
their hearts to my mom during this difficult time. English has yet to invent a
word to adequately describe the Rosauers’ generosity. Their love and support of
my mom is miraculous. Gratitude is a mere drop in the bucket. Thank you beyond
all measure …
Sunday, October 26, 2014
RETROGRADE
02/12: All the way back to Feb. '14 - the first of three Mercury retrograde cycles for the year - I get entangled in three back-to-back traffic jam ups from hell. A prospect sends me on - what turned out in the end to be - a wild goose chase to scout some Eastside properties in Newcastle. I figure I'd bang this out on my way to get my haircut in Seattle's Central District (CD). Every route from point A to B is a cluster fuck. I even find a bypass option to cruise back into Town only to have a shutdown on one of only two trans-lake routes, requiring me to double back and take an alternate, sluggish route across Lake Washington (at least traffic was moving). I arrived at my appointment surprisingly only 15 minutes late.
E. Smiley (yes, his real last name is Smiley) has been my tried and true stylist since 2000. In fact, I think his is one of the longest male relationships I've had in my life - healthy one anyway. Usually the stylist cuts and styles while the client yammers on sharing tales of woe. Our relationship has always been quite the contrary. Foremost, there is nary a tale of woe and usually a tale of WOAH!
Smiley has historically owned being an interesting human as well as knowing many others. When I saw him this last week he said, for the first time ever, "I live a multifaceted life." Sure, the context for this statement was really his way of rationalizing oversleeping and arriving 15 minutes late to open his business. Certainly forgivable, as was my tardiness, and nonetheless it's an uber true statement.
Some of his celebrity clientele have included Iceland's most famous human Bjork, the Indonesian Consulate in San Francisco's exclusive Pacific Heights, which hired him to style hair for a group of cultural dancers, and even the first sister. I digress ...
Smiley mostly works out of his salon in the CD. He also cuts hair in San Francisco once a month. When I saw him on the 12th of February, he had just returned from a very adventurous "trip" in The City.
Many of Smiley's stories begin with "I know this guy (blank), he's one of the most beautiful people you've ever seen." Then comes the interest-piquing description followed by the story of what occurred. In this case I already feel like I've over shared about my long time friend and stylist. Suffice to say after Smiley indulged me in his psychedelic interlude, I was reminded of a "trip" I took back in college, June 1995. So I indulged him in the following tale ...
My pal Mark phones me up out of the blue one day, asking if I want to go see a Grateful Dead concert with he and a couple of his buddies. I had never been to a Dead show before. Had only heard legends. So I say, "sure! When is it?" Tomorrow. Of course I'm going.
I hadn't met Mark's buds Jesse and Caleb before. They were decent enough guys, funny even. The three of them picked me up in some older two-door Japanese import hatch-back thing-a-ma-giggy. Soon after I piled in the back, a thick fog filled the car. As well as, fog clung to the coast, enshrouding San Luis Obispo under a soft, fluffy gray duvet. The fog remained along the California coastal interior during the three and some odd hour drive north to Mountain View.
We arrived to Shoreline Amphitheatre sometime in the middle of a gray, overcast afternoon. A huge area of the parking lot was somewhat of a renaissance festival-looking mecca. Like this medieval village of hippies and such frolicking around, selling goods, bartering and what not.
We're sitting in the car, taking it all in. Mark pulls out four plastic ziploc baggies with equal amounts of some dry, organic matter. Each weighing about a quarter ounce. The plan was to imbibe, get tickets, enter amphitheatre, enjoy concert. The first part of the plan was flawlessly executed, sort of. The organics were dry, chewy and tasted terrible like 1,000 year old moldy dirt. So flawless is all relative, we choked down our goal of finishing the organics.
It didn't take long for the organics to kick in. Somehow, between leaving the car in the parking lot and entering the ampitheatre Mark and I took an unexpected detour. We thought the four of us were wandering through the hippie village. It was so incredibly fun and festive. Makeshift tents, people all about with kind expressions on their faces. Whiffs of marijuana smoke. Edibles with a crystal, sugary finish. Vibrant paintings and other various artisan crafts. People playing music; guitars, flutes, harps. We took it all in, the colors, flavors - the incredible magic of it all. Suddenly we realize it's just the two of us, Mark and I. Neither Jesse nor Caleb are anywhere to be seen. They're our tickets into the show and our purpose for being there.
Suddenly our mood shifts as does the crowd of people passing by us. There's neediness in the air. People are talking to us, begging, hands outstretched to us. "Miracle me!" they said. They were on the same path as us, no ticket in and looking for help.
I'm not entirely sure why, Mark had left the car wearing a very native American looking blanket. I hadn't noticed this until I followed him up to the top of this hill on the far side of the hippie village. He stood there so purposefully, spread his arms out to each side such that the blanket was near fully deployed. It was almost as if he took the majestic form of an eagle. His eyes were in full focus and all his energy was now being honed in on one task; find Jesse and Caleb.
His gaze roamed slowly and then stopped. Mark was still like a statue. Then he drew his right wing, er, arm out in front of him and pointed. "There they are." We must have been a couple football fields away from the amphitheatre at this point. Even so, I looked right where he was pointing and saw them both standing near the entrance. We looked at one another and without uttering a word between us, we high-tailed it down the hill, across the hippie village and to a ticket booth area. Sure as the day was cloudy the two of them were standing there, looking as if they also had been searching for us.
Our reunion was a happy one. They had our tickets. We didn't need to join the hippie zombies wandering about asking for a miracle.
I don't recall whether there was an opening act. If there was, we missed it. Daylight was fading. Stage lights were raising. Shoreline Amphitheatre is general "seating." It's a bowl-like stadium of rolling lawn and a big stage. The Grateful Dead was jamming away when we entered, a sea of silhouette bobbing heads stretched out before us and on either side. It was like peering through a wide angle lens that blurred colors. You could see vibrations emanating from the crowd and the musicians. It was one of the most glorious, joyful experiences I've ever had.
We moved in closer to the crowd. I nearly felt hypnotized. The only thing that occasionally snapped me out of my stupor was the four of us exchanging glances from time-to-time with shit-eating grins etched into our faces. Time either sped up or at times no longer existed.
In the middle of the show, the band abandoned the stage. What appeared to be dozens of bald, red-robed monks lined up across the stage. They began a deep, guttural chant. If I felt hypnotized before, this was one of the most divine and soothing melodies my ears had ever known. The crowd started to sporadically gasp and point up to the sky. I drew my gaze heavenward. I couldn't believe what I saw.
Directly above the center of the amphitheatre, which had been blanketed by marine layer the entire day, a small opening to the night sky pierced through the clouds. I continued looking skyward as the hole opened wider and wider. The chanting continued steady, rhythmic, ancient and mystical. This continued for an unknown period of time. When the monks' chanting ended, a circle of clear, night sky just above and within the amphitheatre perimeter sparkled with stars. In every direction outside the amphitheatre perimeter, as far as the eye could see, the sky was a smokey orange reflection of Bay Area city light on overcast skies. Perhaps this was the miracle all those dirty hippies were asking for? In my all of barely being 21 years old, all I could manage to think about what we were seeing was "holy shit!"
Back at university the following Monday, I had spoken with some classmates who had also been to the concert. They had only had a few beers. They, too, saw what we did during the monks' chanting.
Smiley seemed to really enjoy my story. It's only taken till the end of the third retrograde cycle this year for me to jot this note about it. No matter what has become of me or my body during the past couple years that has restrained my ability to live life as fully as I once did, I know I have lived and lived more wholly than most. This is not a bragging right, or maybe in some metaphysical way it is (doubt it). I just feel so incredible grateful to have had such a truly remarkable experience in my life.
Each one of my amazing life experiences is somewhere in my mind waiting for me to mine it like a diamond. Maybe that's what my dearly departed Grandma was referring to a few nights ago in my dream, about waking up with a string of diamonds. Perhaps she intended it was me who would awaken and begin wordsmithing again.
Oh, I almost forgot. Because Smiley and I were wearing similar gray and black striped shirts that day in February 2014, I thought it would be fun to capture our realization of this moment.
As well, I really dug the painting that hung on the wall behind his workstation. Something about it also brought me way back to that gray June day in 1995 ...
Smiley has historically owned being an interesting human as well as knowing many others. When I saw him this last week he said, for the first time ever, "I live a multifaceted life." Sure, the context for this statement was really his way of rationalizing oversleeping and arriving 15 minutes late to open his business. Certainly forgivable, as was my tardiness, and nonetheless it's an uber true statement.
Some of his celebrity clientele have included Iceland's most famous human Bjork, the Indonesian Consulate in San Francisco's exclusive Pacific Heights, which hired him to style hair for a group of cultural dancers, and even the first sister. I digress ...
 |
| Smiley seen top right styling President Barack Obama's sister's hair at Blair House in preparation for the first inaugural ball in January 2009. They met through a mutual friend in Hawaii. At the time they met, Smiley was unaware of her relationship to the man who is our first person of color to become leader of the "free" world. |
Smiley mostly works out of his salon in the CD. He also cuts hair in San Francisco once a month. When I saw him on the 12th of February, he had just returned from a very adventurous "trip" in The City.
Many of Smiley's stories begin with "I know this guy (blank), he's one of the most beautiful people you've ever seen." Then comes the interest-piquing description followed by the story of what occurred. In this case I already feel like I've over shared about my long time friend and stylist. Suffice to say after Smiley indulged me in his psychedelic interlude, I was reminded of a "trip" I took back in college, June 1995. So I indulged him in the following tale ...
My pal Mark phones me up out of the blue one day, asking if I want to go see a Grateful Dead concert with he and a couple of his buddies. I had never been to a Dead show before. Had only heard legends. So I say, "sure! When is it?" Tomorrow. Of course I'm going.
I hadn't met Mark's buds Jesse and Caleb before. They were decent enough guys, funny even. The three of them picked me up in some older two-door Japanese import hatch-back thing-a-ma-giggy. Soon after I piled in the back, a thick fog filled the car. As well as, fog clung to the coast, enshrouding San Luis Obispo under a soft, fluffy gray duvet. The fog remained along the California coastal interior during the three and some odd hour drive north to Mountain View.
We arrived to Shoreline Amphitheatre sometime in the middle of a gray, overcast afternoon. A huge area of the parking lot was somewhat of a renaissance festival-looking mecca. Like this medieval village of hippies and such frolicking around, selling goods, bartering and what not.
We're sitting in the car, taking it all in. Mark pulls out four plastic ziploc baggies with equal amounts of some dry, organic matter. Each weighing about a quarter ounce. The plan was to imbibe, get tickets, enter amphitheatre, enjoy concert. The first part of the plan was flawlessly executed, sort of. The organics were dry, chewy and tasted terrible like 1,000 year old moldy dirt. So flawless is all relative, we choked down our goal of finishing the organics.
It didn't take long for the organics to kick in. Somehow, between leaving the car in the parking lot and entering the ampitheatre Mark and I took an unexpected detour. We thought the four of us were wandering through the hippie village. It was so incredibly fun and festive. Makeshift tents, people all about with kind expressions on their faces. Whiffs of marijuana smoke. Edibles with a crystal, sugary finish. Vibrant paintings and other various artisan crafts. People playing music; guitars, flutes, harps. We took it all in, the colors, flavors - the incredible magic of it all. Suddenly we realize it's just the two of us, Mark and I. Neither Jesse nor Caleb are anywhere to be seen. They're our tickets into the show and our purpose for being there.
Suddenly our mood shifts as does the crowd of people passing by us. There's neediness in the air. People are talking to us, begging, hands outstretched to us. "Miracle me!" they said. They were on the same path as us, no ticket in and looking for help.
I'm not entirely sure why, Mark had left the car wearing a very native American looking blanket. I hadn't noticed this until I followed him up to the top of this hill on the far side of the hippie village. He stood there so purposefully, spread his arms out to each side such that the blanket was near fully deployed. It was almost as if he took the majestic form of an eagle. His eyes were in full focus and all his energy was now being honed in on one task; find Jesse and Caleb.
His gaze roamed slowly and then stopped. Mark was still like a statue. Then he drew his right wing, er, arm out in front of him and pointed. "There they are." We must have been a couple football fields away from the amphitheatre at this point. Even so, I looked right where he was pointing and saw them both standing near the entrance. We looked at one another and without uttering a word between us, we high-tailed it down the hill, across the hippie village and to a ticket booth area. Sure as the day was cloudy the two of them were standing there, looking as if they also had been searching for us.
Our reunion was a happy one. They had our tickets. We didn't need to join the hippie zombies wandering about asking for a miracle.
I don't recall whether there was an opening act. If there was, we missed it. Daylight was fading. Stage lights were raising. Shoreline Amphitheatre is general "seating." It's a bowl-like stadium of rolling lawn and a big stage. The Grateful Dead was jamming away when we entered, a sea of silhouette bobbing heads stretched out before us and on either side. It was like peering through a wide angle lens that blurred colors. You could see vibrations emanating from the crowd and the musicians. It was one of the most glorious, joyful experiences I've ever had.
We moved in closer to the crowd. I nearly felt hypnotized. The only thing that occasionally snapped me out of my stupor was the four of us exchanging glances from time-to-time with shit-eating grins etched into our faces. Time either sped up or at times no longer existed.
In the middle of the show, the band abandoned the stage. What appeared to be dozens of bald, red-robed monks lined up across the stage. They began a deep, guttural chant. If I felt hypnotized before, this was one of the most divine and soothing melodies my ears had ever known. The crowd started to sporadically gasp and point up to the sky. I drew my gaze heavenward. I couldn't believe what I saw.
Directly above the center of the amphitheatre, which had been blanketed by marine layer the entire day, a small opening to the night sky pierced through the clouds. I continued looking skyward as the hole opened wider and wider. The chanting continued steady, rhythmic, ancient and mystical. This continued for an unknown period of time. When the monks' chanting ended, a circle of clear, night sky just above and within the amphitheatre perimeter sparkled with stars. In every direction outside the amphitheatre perimeter, as far as the eye could see, the sky was a smokey orange reflection of Bay Area city light on overcast skies. Perhaps this was the miracle all those dirty hippies were asking for? In my all of barely being 21 years old, all I could manage to think about what we were seeing was "holy shit!"
Back at university the following Monday, I had spoken with some classmates who had also been to the concert. They had only had a few beers. They, too, saw what we did during the monks' chanting.
Smiley seemed to really enjoy my story. It's only taken till the end of the third retrograde cycle this year for me to jot this note about it. No matter what has become of me or my body during the past couple years that has restrained my ability to live life as fully as I once did, I know I have lived and lived more wholly than most. This is not a bragging right, or maybe in some metaphysical way it is (doubt it). I just feel so incredible grateful to have had such a truly remarkable experience in my life.
Each one of my amazing life experiences is somewhere in my mind waiting for me to mine it like a diamond. Maybe that's what my dearly departed Grandma was referring to a few nights ago in my dream, about waking up with a string of diamonds. Perhaps she intended it was me who would awaken and begin wordsmithing again.
As well, I really dug the painting that hung on the wall behind his workstation. Something about it also brought me way back to that gray June day in 1995 ...
Oct. 23rd & 24th Dreams ...
Oct. 23rd: If I had taken the time to jot these two dreams down sooner, I may have recalled much more detail. I was cranking a grinder and some bright, pink meat was beginning to emerge from the spout. There was something else in my dream the shade of pink - can't recall. My dearly departed Grandma was present in this dream. That I'm certain of. In previous dreams where she appears, she seldom if ever speaks. In this one she said things that didn't make much sense to me. I forget the first sentence she uttered other than it was quite strange. The second sentence is pretty clear. She said "When I woke up this morning I was wearing a new string of diamonds." Next I vaguely recall either thinking or someone whispering that she's going senile. That's all I remember.
Oct. 24th: So I'm at this really funky bar/lounge in some city (likely an American city). The walls and ceiling of this joint are painted as black as outer space. I feel like the floor is covered with astroturf. The bar is white, kind of retro-atomic-modern looking and probably forged of metal. There are rows of high-backed, pleated upholstered booths lining the walls. I'm just to one side of the bar, chit chatting it up with Martin Gore and Dave Gahan or maybe it was Vince Clarke of Depeche Mode. I vaguely recall perhaps thinking my agent was in the process of arranging a formal interview for me with Martin. I also think David Bowie was a patron at this establishment while I was there.
After the conversation winds down, I move over to the bar. I'm deliberating beverage selection. I'm handed a very simple/elegant menu and then a smaller one with specialty cocktails. They were all quite exotic. At first I was going to order something with hard liquor. Then I'm suddenly also an observer of myself. (In real life I cannot drink alcohol as my body cannot process it properly and I easily dehydrate.) I'm consciously now in control of my beverage choice as though I'm conscious I'm dreaming and yet able to continue dreaming. I ask which of the specialty drinks are wine based. I don't quite recall the names, they were all intriguing, each one of them very alluring. I select a drink.
There's a woman next to me. She's I think drinking the same thing I just ordered. My drink arrives and I begin to imbibe, slowly, carefully. That's about all I can remember. I feel like there was another dream layered on this one. Alas my mind goes blank.
Interpretations
Pink: Represents love, joy sweetness, happiness, affection, kindness. Being in love or healing through love is also implied with this color.
Grind: To dream you are grinding something represents repetition. Your life is too much of a routine. The dream may thus be a metaphor for the "daily grind." Alternatively the dream could mean that you have "an axe to grind" with someone. Are you harboring any feelings of resentment?
Meat: To see raw meat in your dream signifies there will be many obstacles and discouragement in achieving your goals. Alternatively it may reflect your untamed, animalistic nature and raw emotions.
Grandma: To see your grandmother in your dream represents nurturance, protection and unconditional love. Consider the qualities and characteristics that exist in your own grandma. (Yep. That about sums it up)
Diamonds: To dream of owning diamonds is a very propitious dream, signifying great honor and recognition from high places. Diamonds are omens of good luck.
Bar: Seeing a bar denotes activity in communities, quick uplifting of fortunes and the consummation of illicit desires. This can also signify one's desire to escape from the stresses of daily life and retreat into a light-hearted environment where pleasure abounds. Or one is seeking for acceptance in some respect of one's daily life.
Musician(s): Music or a musician in your dream indicates you have the ability to channel. You can communicate with discarnate spirits. If you accept you are a body with a soul, then communication with spirit is not so alien. It is merely one soul communicating with another.
Menu: Studying a menu or bill or fare is an omen that you need not worry about having plenty for comfortable living. It may also indicate you are seeking some spiritual or emotional nourishment. Consider the type of items that were on the menu and the costs to determine how much value you are placing on each item.
Drink: To see someone drinking (anything) in your dream foretells years spent in academic learning. You will add many degrees after your name. To dream of drinking alcohol denotes you are seeking either pleasure or escape. Spiritually there is a belief that the drinking of wine is, or symbolizes, the imbibing of Divine life and power. To be drinking in a dream is to be absorbing or taking something in. What we are drinking is also important, e.g. fruit juice would indicate we are aware of the need for cleansing and purity.
Woman: To see a woman in your dream represents nurturance, passivity, caring nature and love. It refers to your own female aspects or may also represent your mother.
Oct. 24th: So I'm at this really funky bar/lounge in some city (likely an American city). The walls and ceiling of this joint are painted as black as outer space. I feel like the floor is covered with astroturf. The bar is white, kind of retro-atomic-modern looking and probably forged of metal. There are rows of high-backed, pleated upholstered booths lining the walls. I'm just to one side of the bar, chit chatting it up with Martin Gore and Dave Gahan or maybe it was Vince Clarke of Depeche Mode. I vaguely recall perhaps thinking my agent was in the process of arranging a formal interview for me with Martin. I also think David Bowie was a patron at this establishment while I was there.
After the conversation winds down, I move over to the bar. I'm deliberating beverage selection. I'm handed a very simple/elegant menu and then a smaller one with specialty cocktails. They were all quite exotic. At first I was going to order something with hard liquor. Then I'm suddenly also an observer of myself. (In real life I cannot drink alcohol as my body cannot process it properly and I easily dehydrate.) I'm consciously now in control of my beverage choice as though I'm conscious I'm dreaming and yet able to continue dreaming. I ask which of the specialty drinks are wine based. I don't quite recall the names, they were all intriguing, each one of them very alluring. I select a drink.
There's a woman next to me. She's I think drinking the same thing I just ordered. My drink arrives and I begin to imbibe, slowly, carefully. That's about all I can remember. I feel like there was another dream layered on this one. Alas my mind goes blank.
Interpretations
Pink: Represents love, joy sweetness, happiness, affection, kindness. Being in love or healing through love is also implied with this color.
Grind: To dream you are grinding something represents repetition. Your life is too much of a routine. The dream may thus be a metaphor for the "daily grind." Alternatively the dream could mean that you have "an axe to grind" with someone. Are you harboring any feelings of resentment?
Meat: To see raw meat in your dream signifies there will be many obstacles and discouragement in achieving your goals. Alternatively it may reflect your untamed, animalistic nature and raw emotions.
Grandma: To see your grandmother in your dream represents nurturance, protection and unconditional love. Consider the qualities and characteristics that exist in your own grandma. (Yep. That about sums it up)
Diamonds: To dream of owning diamonds is a very propitious dream, signifying great honor and recognition from high places. Diamonds are omens of good luck.
Bar: Seeing a bar denotes activity in communities, quick uplifting of fortunes and the consummation of illicit desires. This can also signify one's desire to escape from the stresses of daily life and retreat into a light-hearted environment where pleasure abounds. Or one is seeking for acceptance in some respect of one's daily life.
Musician(s): Music or a musician in your dream indicates you have the ability to channel. You can communicate with discarnate spirits. If you accept you are a body with a soul, then communication with spirit is not so alien. It is merely one soul communicating with another.
Menu: Studying a menu or bill or fare is an omen that you need not worry about having plenty for comfortable living. It may also indicate you are seeking some spiritual or emotional nourishment. Consider the type of items that were on the menu and the costs to determine how much value you are placing on each item.
Drink: To see someone drinking (anything) in your dream foretells years spent in academic learning. You will add many degrees after your name. To dream of drinking alcohol denotes you are seeking either pleasure or escape. Spiritually there is a belief that the drinking of wine is, or symbolizes, the imbibing of Divine life and power. To be drinking in a dream is to be absorbing or taking something in. What we are drinking is also important, e.g. fruit juice would indicate we are aware of the need for cleansing and purity.
Woman: To see a woman in your dream represents nurturance, passivity, caring nature and love. It refers to your own female aspects or may also represent your mother.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Oct. 18th Dream ...
Ever had a dream inside a dream? I think I may have last night. Not sure how long ago it was or whether I jotted it down. My sense is it may have been months back. I had a dream I spontaneously took an international trip for a couple weeks. Memory of exactly where I went and what I did while there is a bit fuzzy. My first port of call was somewhere in Asia, like Taipei or Singapore. My time there was brief, perhaps a day or two at most. So really a glorified layover. I then continued onto Europe. Paris, Berlin and I think Prague, not sure what order. I think I started in Prague, made my way by train to Berlin and lastly by train to Paris before returning home.
The reason I'm recalling this is because in last night's dream I shared the details about my travels to someone in my dream. The someone I believe was a guy I was in real life with on an exchange program to Germany in the summer of 1989. The details I shared with him in my dream seemed so real to me, as though I had actually in fact had the experience in real life; like an actual memory. When I awoke, I asked my husband if in the past few years I had taken a spontaneous trip to the Far East and Europe. He confirmed I had not.
In that same part of the dream, I recall emerging from a silver car, smoking a cigarette. I also recall having a negative judgement about it as though I was at the same time an on-looker. I recall a beautiful, old, moss-covered palace of a cathedral with huge, incredible and vividly colorful stained-glass windows.
I had another dream, this one a bit more disconcerting. I, too, was diagnosed with cancer like my mom in real life. In my dream, she received her diagnosis and I received mine shortly following. I recall this hollow feeling of hopelessness and helplessness. I also recall being on the hunt for medical answers and treatment at medical-looking facilities.
Since I'm notating this late in the day, I think it's about all I can recall from around 7 AM when I began stirring.
Cancer: To dream of cancer denotes illness of someone near you. Depressions may follow the man of affairs after this dream. To dream that you have cancer denotes hopelessness, grief, self-pity and unforgiveness. You feel you are wasting your life away. This dream also represents areas in your life which are bothering you, disturbing you and hurting you in some emotional way. To dream you are being treated for cancer signifies a positive change in your life. To dream that someone has cancer indicates you need to change your negative way of thinking before it creates a cancer in you. Start being more positive. Symbolically, Cancer represents the Moon, the Eternal Mother and the astrological sign of Cancer (which my husband is). Intellectually we may have worked through our fears but still be left with attitudes and beliefs that cannot be cleared away. Very often this appears as cancer or illness in dreams and equally can represent something 'eating away' at us - usually a negative idea or concept. Cancer is one of the prime fears that a human being has to deal with, so to dream of a cancer indicates we are out of harmony with our body. It also indicates fear of illness. In a man's dream his focus may be on his attitude to his mother or mothering.
Church: To see the outside of a church in your dream signifies sacredness and spiritual nourishment. It is representative of your value system and the things you hold sacred. It may also represent a need to be appreciated by those you love.
Dream: To dream you are dreaming signifies your emotional state. You are excessively worried and fearful about a situation or circumstance that you are going through.
Memory: To dream about a memory suggests you are ready to rid yourself of your old ways and undergo some sort of transformation and new outlook in life. Recalling a memory in your dream may also be less of a shock than if you had recalled the memory in your waken state. It indicates that you may have learned something from your past.
Silver: To see silver in your dream symbolizes the moon, intuition and the feminine aspects of yourself. This may be in the sense we are available, yet remote. It signifies tranquility and understated confidence. Silver color represents justice and purity. It is symbolic of some protective energy.
Smoking: To dream you are smoking indicates that you are trying to shield yourself and others against your emotions. You have trouble letting others in.
Travel: Travel is a dream that has several meanings and should be used in the dream as a stand alone as meaning a wish to leave your present environment. A dream of traveling in a car full of people usually means you will be making new friends and enjoying life more.
The reason I'm recalling this is because in last night's dream I shared the details about my travels to someone in my dream. The someone I believe was a guy I was in real life with on an exchange program to Germany in the summer of 1989. The details I shared with him in my dream seemed so real to me, as though I had actually in fact had the experience in real life; like an actual memory. When I awoke, I asked my husband if in the past few years I had taken a spontaneous trip to the Far East and Europe. He confirmed I had not.
In that same part of the dream, I recall emerging from a silver car, smoking a cigarette. I also recall having a negative judgement about it as though I was at the same time an on-looker. I recall a beautiful, old, moss-covered palace of a cathedral with huge, incredible and vividly colorful stained-glass windows.
I had another dream, this one a bit more disconcerting. I, too, was diagnosed with cancer like my mom in real life. In my dream, she received her diagnosis and I received mine shortly following. I recall this hollow feeling of hopelessness and helplessness. I also recall being on the hunt for medical answers and treatment at medical-looking facilities.
Since I'm notating this late in the day, I think it's about all I can recall from around 7 AM when I began stirring.
Cancer: To dream of cancer denotes illness of someone near you. Depressions may follow the man of affairs after this dream. To dream that you have cancer denotes hopelessness, grief, self-pity and unforgiveness. You feel you are wasting your life away. This dream also represents areas in your life which are bothering you, disturbing you and hurting you in some emotional way. To dream you are being treated for cancer signifies a positive change in your life. To dream that someone has cancer indicates you need to change your negative way of thinking before it creates a cancer in you. Start being more positive. Symbolically, Cancer represents the Moon, the Eternal Mother and the astrological sign of Cancer (which my husband is). Intellectually we may have worked through our fears but still be left with attitudes and beliefs that cannot be cleared away. Very often this appears as cancer or illness in dreams and equally can represent something 'eating away' at us - usually a negative idea or concept. Cancer is one of the prime fears that a human being has to deal with, so to dream of a cancer indicates we are out of harmony with our body. It also indicates fear of illness. In a man's dream his focus may be on his attitude to his mother or mothering.
Church: To see the outside of a church in your dream signifies sacredness and spiritual nourishment. It is representative of your value system and the things you hold sacred. It may also represent a need to be appreciated by those you love.
Dream: To dream you are dreaming signifies your emotional state. You are excessively worried and fearful about a situation or circumstance that you are going through.
Memory: To dream about a memory suggests you are ready to rid yourself of your old ways and undergo some sort of transformation and new outlook in life. Recalling a memory in your dream may also be less of a shock than if you had recalled the memory in your waken state. It indicates that you may have learned something from your past.
Silver: To see silver in your dream symbolizes the moon, intuition and the feminine aspects of yourself. This may be in the sense we are available, yet remote. It signifies tranquility and understated confidence. Silver color represents justice and purity. It is symbolic of some protective energy.
Smoking: To dream you are smoking indicates that you are trying to shield yourself and others against your emotions. You have trouble letting others in.
Travel: Travel is a dream that has several meanings and should be used in the dream as a stand alone as meaning a wish to leave your present environment. A dream of traveling in a car full of people usually means you will be making new friends and enjoying life more.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Oct. 15th Dream ...
One minute I'm shopping, browsing some elegant store for a formal tuxedo scarf. The next minute I'm driving my pet white Bengal tiger around. As far as dreams go, this one is pretty fabulous! Well mostly. Admittedly I had just a bit of apprehension being in the company of such a majestic and fiercely deadly creature. At the same time, I wholeheartedly admired this animal's ethereal beauty.
So I'm driving this beast of an animal around in an SUV. It's sprawled out in the back seat. A beautiful, vacant brick home catches my attention. My sense told me it was going to be listed for sale. I pulled into the driveway. I recall it may have been dusk, and there was ample daylight upon entry. We, the tiger and I, went in through the garage. I then recall an empty living room with beautiful, dark stained, wide-plank wood floors and somewhat rustic-finish, off white walls.
While this home appeared to have no inhabitants, I thought I would carefully investigate, especially considering I was trespassing. The tiger sprawled out on the wood floors, and playfully stretched out its front paws, one at a time, before coming to a rest.
I crept upstairs, which led me to a long, rectangular shaped room, flanked by a series of doors on one side which all appeared to lead to the same, large, master suite-like room. All the walls and woodwork were stark white. One of the double doors was slightly ajar, so I peered inside. A queen size bed with no frame laid on the floor. The mattress was dressed in hospital green bedsheets, which had been pulled back and were rippled as though someone had recently been occupying it. A Seahawks baseball hat rested on the far right corner at the foot of the bed. Someone is clearly living here, and I had the sense of not being alone. At the same time I also had the sense of not being noticed. I wanted to keep it that way.
I crept back downstairs to gather the tiger and make as quick and quiet an exit as possible. It had grown darker since I first entered, and I realized I had turned on a few interior lights. I switched them back off in an effort to leave things as they were before the tiger and I trespassed as to not cause anyone alarm.
My tiger was pleased to see me when I returned to the living room where it (not sure if male or female) had been resting. Upon seeing me, the tiger sprang to all fours in a manner which suggested it was feeling playful. I whispered sternly it wasn't play time and pointed with great intention toward the door we had first entered through. At that moment I felt great uncertainty about what the tiger was going to do next. Was it hungry? Would it rip an appendage from me and snack on it? The tiger lunged and then rubbed its head on me affectionately before turning toward the door. I exhaled with a heavy sigh of relief.
As quietly as I could, I led the tiger back toward the car. As I had to turn back around to gingerly pull the garage door closed, I had the sense the tiger continued wandering. With the door shut, I refocused my attention on it as it headed into an orange streetlight bathed street. There were no other cars, no people walking nearby in this moment. I called after the tiger in the loudest whisper I could muster as I opened the back car door to further assist with luring it back into confinement. It let out one roar of acknowledgement, turned tail and sprang into the backseat. That's pretty much all I remember before waking up.
Here are some interpretations:
Shopping: This generally means those things that you need (affection, friendship, spiritual support, quality time with people you care about) are available to you. However, you may need to learn exactly where to look, how to select what you need and how to ask for these things when you need them. This dream calls upon you to know yourself. Before you can ask for or get what you need, you need to figure out what it is that you want.
Tiger: To dream of a tiger advancing toward you, you will be tormented and persecuted by enemies. To see one running away from you is a sign that you will overcome opposition and rise to high positions. To see them in cages foretells that you will foil your adversaries.
House: Because I frequently dream of houses or homes, I know this is representative of one's soul. If the house is empty, then it indicates feelings of insecurity. To see a new house in your dream indicates you are entering a new phase or new area in your life. Being aware of someone else in the house suggests that we may be feeling threatened by an aspect of our own personality. Being outside a house depicts our more public side and how we relate to external interests.
So I'm driving this beast of an animal around in an SUV. It's sprawled out in the back seat. A beautiful, vacant brick home catches my attention. My sense told me it was going to be listed for sale. I pulled into the driveway. I recall it may have been dusk, and there was ample daylight upon entry. We, the tiger and I, went in through the garage. I then recall an empty living room with beautiful, dark stained, wide-plank wood floors and somewhat rustic-finish, off white walls.
While this home appeared to have no inhabitants, I thought I would carefully investigate, especially considering I was trespassing. The tiger sprawled out on the wood floors, and playfully stretched out its front paws, one at a time, before coming to a rest.
I crept upstairs, which led me to a long, rectangular shaped room, flanked by a series of doors on one side which all appeared to lead to the same, large, master suite-like room. All the walls and woodwork were stark white. One of the double doors was slightly ajar, so I peered inside. A queen size bed with no frame laid on the floor. The mattress was dressed in hospital green bedsheets, which had been pulled back and were rippled as though someone had recently been occupying it. A Seahawks baseball hat rested on the far right corner at the foot of the bed. Someone is clearly living here, and I had the sense of not being alone. At the same time I also had the sense of not being noticed. I wanted to keep it that way.
I crept back downstairs to gather the tiger and make as quick and quiet an exit as possible. It had grown darker since I first entered, and I realized I had turned on a few interior lights. I switched them back off in an effort to leave things as they were before the tiger and I trespassed as to not cause anyone alarm.
My tiger was pleased to see me when I returned to the living room where it (not sure if male or female) had been resting. Upon seeing me, the tiger sprang to all fours in a manner which suggested it was feeling playful. I whispered sternly it wasn't play time and pointed with great intention toward the door we had first entered through. At that moment I felt great uncertainty about what the tiger was going to do next. Was it hungry? Would it rip an appendage from me and snack on it? The tiger lunged and then rubbed its head on me affectionately before turning toward the door. I exhaled with a heavy sigh of relief.
As quietly as I could, I led the tiger back toward the car. As I had to turn back around to gingerly pull the garage door closed, I had the sense the tiger continued wandering. With the door shut, I refocused my attention on it as it headed into an orange streetlight bathed street. There were no other cars, no people walking nearby in this moment. I called after the tiger in the loudest whisper I could muster as I opened the back car door to further assist with luring it back into confinement. It let out one roar of acknowledgement, turned tail and sprang into the backseat. That's pretty much all I remember before waking up.
Here are some interpretations:
Shopping: This generally means those things that you need (affection, friendship, spiritual support, quality time with people you care about) are available to you. However, you may need to learn exactly where to look, how to select what you need and how to ask for these things when you need them. This dream calls upon you to know yourself. Before you can ask for or get what you need, you need to figure out what it is that you want.
Tiger: To dream of a tiger advancing toward you, you will be tormented and persecuted by enemies. To see one running away from you is a sign that you will overcome opposition and rise to high positions. To see them in cages foretells that you will foil your adversaries.
House: Because I frequently dream of houses or homes, I know this is representative of one's soul. If the house is empty, then it indicates feelings of insecurity. To see a new house in your dream indicates you are entering a new phase or new area in your life. Being aware of someone else in the house suggests that we may be feeling threatened by an aspect of our own personality. Being outside a house depicts our more public side and how we relate to external interests.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Life's Small Miracles in Two Cities
Have you ever been at your best and worst at the same time? Life keeps throwing proverbial curve balls, one after the other, sometimes simultaneous. You press on through the challenges head on. Overwhelmed often times, seemingly unable to catch a break.
In 20 days I will run out of thyroid medication, which has enabled me to live a normalesque quality of life. I'm supposed to be out of the country the week after next. My chronic symptoms, such as having reactions to basic foods I'm accustomed to eating, have flared up during the past few weeks.
My mom is battling stage four lung cancer, health benefits close to expiring, living on a small fraction of median income, desperately needing affordable housing and dealing with a life "partner" who is far less than uncooperative.
Then there's finding time to actually run my business amid giving what time I can to my mom. Sometimes it is all just a lot.
Yesterday as I was in the middle of phone calls trying in vain to find someone who can help me secure the medication I require, my mom started to cry. She looked down despairingly, shaking her head she said rhetorically, with such dramatic inflection in her voice, "What's happened to our lives?" Something about her including me in her pity party really struck a nerve.
"I'm good with my life, mom, just have some challenges," I said. "I don't have problems with my problems." This may have been more along the lines of wishful thinking yesterday as I was reaching a breaking point of frustration, understandably.
After this morning's oncology appointment, I was able to share some encouraging, positive news about my mom. I then received the following response from my dearest friend, who replied all to my mom's contact list:
xo M"
Have noticed this odd dovetailing between my mom's and my best friend's lives. My mom is diagnosed with cancer. My best friend gets engaged. My mom's health is improving. My best friend, who is "unofficially" pregnant (it's now just week seven), texts me tonight from the ER ...
Bestie: "Bleeding w/tissue. Taking blood, urine and doing ultrasound. Waiting for J. Keep u posted. Real possibility that the little guy wants to move on"
Me: "Oh shit! Are you OK, do you need anything? What can I do? Could mean more bed rest. Keep calm. God makes no mistakes."
Bestie: "Just send good thoughts and strength and vibes of acceptance. I think that there is something not right. Tissue in the blood."
Me: "Of course, have already shared with Terry. All our love & positive thoughts are on their way.
Bestie: "Emoticon of a winky face blowing a heart kiss."
Me: "Emoticons of hearts and lipstick kiss marks alternating in a single row. My mom, Terry & I just lit a candle. We all held hands around it and sent you infinite love, strength and positive thoughts. We all love you SO very much!"
Bestie: "Thank you. Had ultra sound and pelvic examine. Waiting for dr to review. Did see ultrasound and saw the baby. Tech said right where he should be and I saw his heart beating. Blood could be associated with embro burrowing. I feel positive but not out if woods yet. Love to u!!!!"
Me: "Still holding good thoughts, thank you for the update. Keep me posted, please. Love you!!!"
Bestie: "We will. It positive and I'm not cramping"
Me: "Our thoughts are with all 3 of you. XO"
Bestie: "Thank you!"
Besite: "We were released and they said pregnancy is normal and bleeding is Normal. Okay to wait for dr on Monday. Phew
Me: Thank God! We are so happy. You must feel such a sense of relief. You already have the perfect mommy instinct by immediately addressing concern. Love u!
Bestie: "Thank you! So relieved"
Me: "The ultra sound is amazing! I'm so glad all 3 of you are OK. We will all sleep well tonight. Rest yourself, my dear."
Bestie: "Xo"
Seeing this little miracle on screen, I'm awestruck and humbled. Life itself is so delicate, seemingly always hanging in some precarious balance. Yet it is resilient.
Despite the challenges I'm facing head on right now, I am so grateful for these magic moments when we can brilliantly illuminate life's dark, uncertainty. At times I have felt fragile and defeated only to be reminded I have someone great willing to be my champion, and me theirs. This gives me such strength and fills my heart.
I want to one day tell my best friend's beautiful child about the first trick they played, almost in time for Halloween even.
Earlier today my neighbor enthusiastically thinned out the giant magnolia tree in front of our home because he wanted to. When he was finished, he hauled the huge pile of branches away and re-raked. When I thanked him, he said it was just a good day to do it, the weather was right. It was clear out, calm. Today the sun shined favorably on us all ...
In 20 days I will run out of thyroid medication, which has enabled me to live a normalesque quality of life. I'm supposed to be out of the country the week after next. My chronic symptoms, such as having reactions to basic foods I'm accustomed to eating, have flared up during the past few weeks.
My mom is battling stage four lung cancer, health benefits close to expiring, living on a small fraction of median income, desperately needing affordable housing and dealing with a life "partner" who is far less than uncooperative.
Then there's finding time to actually run my business amid giving what time I can to my mom. Sometimes it is all just a lot.
Yesterday as I was in the middle of phone calls trying in vain to find someone who can help me secure the medication I require, my mom started to cry. She looked down despairingly, shaking her head she said rhetorically, with such dramatic inflection in her voice, "What's happened to our lives?" Something about her including me in her pity party really struck a nerve.
"I'm good with my life, mom, just have some challenges," I said. "I don't have problems with my problems." This may have been more along the lines of wishful thinking yesterday as I was reaching a breaking point of frustration, understandably.
After this morning's oncology appointment, I was able to share some encouraging, positive news about my mom. I then received the following response from my dearest friend, who replied all to my mom's contact list:
"I speak for everyone when I say, Thank you BW Davis! It’s comforting to know Patty has such an advocate in you.
I’m sending love and strength to you both as I know it must be challenging for you to manage your own
health, your business and your mom’s special needs. You’re an amazing son and I know your mom glows with
appreciation and pride
J Biggest Hugs in the world! Stay strong and positive and keep the updates coming.
xo M"
Have noticed this odd dovetailing between my mom's and my best friend's lives. My mom is diagnosed with cancer. My best friend gets engaged. My mom's health is improving. My best friend, who is "unofficially" pregnant (it's now just week seven), texts me tonight from the ER ...
Bestie: "Bleeding w/tissue. Taking blood, urine and doing ultrasound. Waiting for J. Keep u posted. Real possibility that the little guy wants to move on"
Me: "Oh shit! Are you OK, do you need anything? What can I do? Could mean more bed rest. Keep calm. God makes no mistakes."
Bestie: "Just send good thoughts and strength and vibes of acceptance. I think that there is something not right. Tissue in the blood."
Me: "Of course, have already shared with Terry. All our love & positive thoughts are on their way.
Bestie: "Emoticon of a winky face blowing a heart kiss."
Me: "Emoticons of hearts and lipstick kiss marks alternating in a single row. My mom, Terry & I just lit a candle. We all held hands around it and sent you infinite love, strength and positive thoughts. We all love you SO very much!"
Bestie: "Thank you. Had ultra sound and pelvic examine. Waiting for dr to review. Did see ultrasound and saw the baby. Tech said right where he should be and I saw his heart beating. Blood could be associated with embro burrowing. I feel positive but not out if woods yet. Love to u!!!!"
Me: "Still holding good thoughts, thank you for the update. Keep me posted, please. Love you!!!"
Bestie: "We will. It positive and I'm not cramping"
Me: "Our thoughts are with all 3 of you. XO"
Bestie: "Thank you!"
Besite: "We were released and they said pregnancy is normal and bleeding is Normal. Okay to wait for dr on Monday. Phew
Me: Thank God! We are so happy. You must feel such a sense of relief. You already have the perfect mommy instinct by immediately addressing concern. Love u!
Bestie: "Thank you! So relieved"
Me: "The ultra sound is amazing! I'm so glad all 3 of you are OK. We will all sleep well tonight. Rest yourself, my dear."
Bestie: "Xo"
Seeing this little miracle on screen, I'm awestruck and humbled. Life itself is so delicate, seemingly always hanging in some precarious balance. Yet it is resilient.
Despite the challenges I'm facing head on right now, I am so grateful for these magic moments when we can brilliantly illuminate life's dark, uncertainty. At times I have felt fragile and defeated only to be reminded I have someone great willing to be my champion, and me theirs. This gives me such strength and fills my heart.
I want to one day tell my best friend's beautiful child about the first trick they played, almost in time for Halloween even.
Earlier today my neighbor enthusiastically thinned out the giant magnolia tree in front of our home because he wanted to. When he was finished, he hauled the huge pile of branches away and re-raked. When I thanked him, he said it was just a good day to do it, the weather was right. It was clear out, calm. Today the sun shined favorably on us all ...
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