Showing My Age

Spending so much time in the hospital recently has made me aware of my age in relation to the majority of the working professionals.  The staff at the hospital was all SO young.  I expected the nurses to be young, but I swear some of them look like teenagers to me.  Even the doctors were young. From the dashing young intern to the oncologist, all were much younger than I would have expected.  Even the surgeon, a renowned and published surgeon, director of several departments, professor at Harvard Medical School, and on the Who's Who list of surgeons for not only Boston but for the entire U.S., is one year younger than I am.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I'm not so old yet that I don't trust those young whipper snappers to know what they're doing.  I am impressed and amazed by the whole operation of Massachusetts General Hospital.  There are a lot of great minds working there, so what if a lot of them happen to be younger than me.  But, it does hamper the use of pop cultural references and movie quotes.

One morning during rounds at the hospital, the doctor was attending to Scott's incision, etc., and it was obviously causing pain.  At one point, Scott cried out "Candy bar!"  The group snickered but I could tell they just thought it was a silly thing to say; not one of them got the reference.  I said to Scott jokingly that they were all probably too young to be familiar with "Little Shop of Horrors." Their blank faces told me I was right, and we didn't bother trying to explain Bill Murray's masochistic character...

"I definitely need a long, slow root canal" 

...or even attempt to describe Steve Martin's brilliant portrayal of the crazy, sadistic dentist.  

"You'll be a dentist, 

you have a talent for causing things pain.  

Son be a dentist, 

people will pay you to be inhumane."

"Oh that hurts, wait I'm not numb."

"Open wide, here I come!"

A few days later, not to give too much information, but Scott was having the normal difficulty getting things "moving" after surgery.  The doctors had told him he couldn't be released from the hospital until there was movement. His very young and cute little nurse, Meghan, offered a laxative. She assured him it would be mild, to which Scott replied, "Well if I'm going to take one, give me one that's sure to do the job.  Like Gallagher said, 'rough me up!'"  Meghan smiled an indulgent nurse smile, but again, it was obvious she didn't get the pop culture reference; she had no idea who Gallagher was.  I laughed and once again said as much, and she confirmed she had never heard of him.  This time, we decided not to just let it go.  So, we started trying to explain Gallagher to her. Of course, we thought she would have heard of the sledge-o-matic.  Nothing.  

"The handiest and dandiest kitchen tool you've ever seen...and don't ya wanna know how it works?  The tool that is not a slicer, not a dicer, not a chopper in a hopper. What in the hell can it possibly be?  It's Sledge-O-Matic!"

We described it in detail, "So, he would take a sledge hammer and smash watermelons with it, and it would spray all over the crowd!  And the people in the front row would wear plastic because they knew they were going to get covered in pulverized fruit!"  Etc., etc.  We were laughing just talking about it.  But Meghan looked at us in all perfect seriousness and said just one word.  "Why?" Absolute silence in the room.  Why indeed.

Later when Scott was trying to get out of bed and walk around for the first time, we didn't even try to explain to the sweet young nurse on duty why we laughed when he told himself "Wiggle your big toe."  Didn't even mention that we had watched both Kill Bill movies the night before his surgery or clue her in that it was the reason for the catchy little tunes we were both constantly whistling or humming.  (For me, it was Elle Driver whistling "Twisted Nerve" as she walked through the hospital resplendent in her nurse uniform and matching white eye patch with the little red cross on it.  Classy creepiness.  For Scott it was Bill's haunting pan flute rendition of Zamfir's "The Lonely Shephard."  I think I need to get the movie soundtrack.  Who can resist singing along with the 5,6,7,8's..."who who, who who who. who who, who who who..."  Tarantino always has the perfect quirky music.)

"You didn't think it was gonna to be that easy, did you?"

"You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did."

"Silly rabbit."

"Trix...are...for kids." 

My favorite quote from the Kill Bill movies, but apparently the younger generation doesn't get that one either.  I saw a Quentin Tarantino forum recently where someone wrote:  Just wondering what the phrase "Trix are for kids" refers to. Is it perhaps from a past QT movie or is this only explained in Vol.2?

Of course, it's a play on words of the name Beatrix, but what got me on the forum was how many were clueless that it was an old cereal ad.  I really didn't even know it wasn't still a current ad. Do they even make Trix anymore?

So, for at least the remainder of the hospital stay, we just kept our pop culture references and jokes between ourselves, and felt superior to and a little sorry for the poor younger generation because they just don't know what they missed.

_________

Drowning My Sorrow Blues

With every glass of wine that I drink

These thoughts of you are all I think

With every shot of whiskey that I sip

Can’t help but dream of your sweet lips

And if I’m crying in my beer

It’s just because you’re not here

I’m just trying to ease the pain

Of missing you again

Every day I’m more confused

Feeling worried, scared and used

Wish you would call me on the phone

So I wouldn’t feel so all alone

Wearing my feelings up close to my skin

What used to be tough is wearing thin

Killing a bottle in an alcohol haze

Helps numb the pain of better days

I’ll lay here and wallow

Drowning my sorrow

Rum really makes me mellow

And Vodka makes me very slow

Wine used to make me sleepy

Now it seems to make me weepy

Brandy made me lazy

Then Tequila made me crazy

Gin just makes me want to fight

While Sambuca made me see the light

With Absinthe I think I can fly

But Bourbon...Bourbon makes me cry

I’ll lay here and wallow

Drowning my sorrow

So raise a glass to promises spoken

Swallow the poison of promises broken

For better or worse our choice is made

Some vows once taken can’t be unsaid

But I got a bottle to drown my sorrow

I’ll crawl inside at least 'til tomorrow

Might come out, might just stay

And drink my way to a better day

With every glass of wine that I drink

These thoughts of you are all I think

With every shot of whiskey that I sip

Can’t help but dream of your sweet lips

And if I’m crying in my beer

It’s just because you’re not here

I’m just trying to ease the pain

Of missing you again

__________

The Scent Of You

Your scent lingers on my mind

Perfume in the cavities of my brain

Defying limitations of space and time

Teasing me like a children’s game

I smell your skin and feel your breath

Every moment of every day

Years, distance, not even death

Will change the way I feel today

I remember your lips

Imagine myself in your embrace

Dream of the taste of your kiss

And long for the sight of your face

From your forehead all the way to your feet

The many hours and the kisses spent

How can someone smell so sweet

Skin usually doesn’t have that scent

The smell of you lives in my memory

Your taste, your voice, your laugh familiar

Clouding my perception of all that is sensory

Nerve endings tingling to be where you are

_________

Reflections In The Rear-view

I love to drive. Always have. Even before I could drive, I loved to ride.  I always wanted to go somewhere. My Daddy used to say that my middle name was Go.  When I was in my late teens/early twenties, I would take off and drive around on Lookout Mountain just to pass the time.  When I was 26, 1993, my career as a road warrior began.   From that year on, I have averaged about 30,000 miles a year.  I spent four years pretty much constantly on the road in Tennessee, Georgia and Alabama.  For the last 17 years I have come to know the state of Florida like an old friend.  

Saw a t-shirt on a guy in a bar recently that read, "If life is a book, those who don't travel only read one page."  Over the last month I had the opportunity to read a lot of pages.  The circumstances of the trip are unfortunate, but always one to try and make the best of things, find the silver linings and all that, driving from Key Largo FL to Boston Mass was quite an experience.  I saw the most beautiful scenery; majestic mountains, valleys that belonged in paintings, picturesque towns, and I even got to make a side trip to the rugged coastline of north-eastern Massachusetts.  In all it was almost 23 days from the morning I locked up my house and got in my Pilot with husband and cat, loaded up with a couple months worth of provisions, to the night I unlocked that same door, all alone, and unloaded my measly 2 suitcases, and the guitar.  The Taylor was my traveling companion to avoid shipping trauma later on.

3,893.5 miles, and 12 states, in 23 days.  The first 2,000 miles or so were with company and shared driving, and broken up in a week plus of travel. The last 1,700 miles were done in 3 solid days, 27 hours, of nothing but driving alone.  I tried the books on tape/disc years ago, but it's just not me. When Scott and I drive together, we read a book aloud (lately the Odd Thomas series,) and I'm good with that.  But, when I'm alone, I prefer to listen to music and sing.  I sing for hours and hours.  I stare out a windshield and into a rear-view mirror, and I sing.

The drive up through Florida and Georgia to Chattanooga is one I could almost do in my sleep.  I swear I know every bump in the road on I-75 through Georgia.  Driving east through Tennessee was very familiar even though it had been a while.  I've spent a lot of time around Knoxville and in the Smokey's, and used to drive up I-81 and spend a lot of time working in Morristown TN, and occasionally worked up in Johnson City and Bristol Tennessee.  But, on this trip I stayed on 81 all the way to Pennsylvania.  In Scranton PA, the road turned east on I-84, across the length of PA, a portion of New York and Connecticut, where I picked up I-90, the Mass Pike all the way to Boston.  When I left Boston to head home, I will admit that I was a great big bak bak chicken and didn't take the suggested quickest route straight down I-95 because it would have taken me right through the heart of NYC, Philly, and DC.  It wasn't really the size of the cities or the traffic or worry about my safety or any of that really, just simple laziness.  I didn't want to have to worry about navigation that much.  If backed in a corner, I would admit that with all the worry and the dislocation, I don't feel my sharpest.  And, I am not in a position to take any chances with my own self...can't afford for something to happen to me.  I'm needed.  So, I took the easy interstate only way, back across PA on 84, down through VA on 81, then cut over to Richmond on 64 and picked up 95 which took me most of the way home.  Only added about 2 hours to the overall trip... 25 vs 27 hours, really, what difference does it make?

Virginia is the most beautiful state I have been in.  And, believe me, I'm pretty partial to Georgia and Tennessee.  But VA was breathtaking.  I wasn't in West VA or Maryland long, but what I saw was nice, I kept thinking that the people who live there have that incredible mountainscape in the distance every time they walk out their front door.  I know it's like that when people imagine what it must be like for me to see the ocean every time I walk out my door.  It's always been a toss up for me.  I miss the mountains so much, but I think I would miss the ocean more.

Pennsylvania was quite lovely itself.  But, I have to say, PA has the worst roads.  Period.  There was one section east of Scranton when I thought the front end might fall off my car, it was shaking so much from the rough pavement.  And I saw more dead deer per square mile than I have seen in my life.  I was pretty paranoid.  I know how those Pennsylvania deer stake out innocent travelers and strike when least expected.

Another interesting observation made in traveling the width of the country was the courtesy or lack thereof in different geographic latitudes.  Several years ago, we drove to Chicago.  I remember a moment on the road when I was amazed that when presented with a sign announcing the left lane was closed in 2 miles, every single motorist immediately got over into the right lane.  Not one car sped up through the left and forced their way in at the last minute.  I remember that I just didn't know what to think about that.  

Over the last month, I really hadn't given too much thought to the traffic, but on deeper reflection, I realized I hadn't really cussed at other drivers in a while.  (All of this narrative excludes Boston.  Boston traffic is a phenomenon unto itself and by far, bar none, the worst drivers, worst traffic I have ever seen.)  But other than Boston, I have found northern drivers to be courteous, rule abiding and refreshing.  All that shit about southern hospitality, it clearly doesn't apply to the road.  It wasn't until somewhere in North Carolina that I found myself cursing another driver, and it actually surprised me because it had been so long since I had been pissed on the road.  It got steadily worse the further south I drove.  But, I am here to testify, loudly and with no coercion or prejudice, that Florida drivers are the rudest I have ever encountered.  Hands down. Period.

Next week I will need to travel to some Florida towns to visit clients, and I will be ready to drive again by then. At the end of the month, I will return to Boston, but it will be (literally) planes, trains and automobiles, and I won't be driving any of them.  Mass transit is the only way to go in Boston.  But I still love to drive and always will.  My Daddy knows me, Go is still my middle name.

Sad Girl On A Mountaintop

I watched her pull off at the interstate scenic mountain overlook somewhere in central Virginia.  She drove past the RV and the families with kids running around their cars, and chose a spot down at the end of the row of parking spaces.  I'm not sure what it was that caught my eye or made me pay so much attention to her.  Perhaps it was the impressive number of bugs adorning the front of the otherwise nice SUV.  Maybe it was the stuffed pelican on the dash or maybe the Florida tag.  She was a long way from home, and alone. But, I'm pretty sure it was her sad face that drew me in.

As she sat there in her car, releasing her seat belt and removing her sunglasses, she stared at the vista before her with the most melancholy expression.  She opened the door and stepped out, stopping for a moment to look around at her fellow overlookers.  When her face turned towards me it was obvious she had been crying.  Her eyelids were swollen and red, cheeks streaked with tear tracks.  Brown eyes large and liquid, softened by heavy sadness.  Dressed casually in denim capris, a t-shirt and keds, no jewelry, no make up, she looked to be mid- 40's'ish.  She must have noticed me, or maybe the family of 6 lined up for a group photo, staring at her, because she put her sunglasses back on and turned to close and lock her door.  She walked toward the overlook and I noticed the slightest wan smile, as if she was mildly amused by what the staring strangers must think of her, the lonely tourist.  

She stopped at the rail and began taking pictures with an iPhone.  What I could see of her face behind the sunglasses was a mix of awe and wonder at her surroundings and worry, loss and loneliness.  As she walked from one end of the overlook to the other, stopping to take pictures every few feet, she removed her sunglasses again.  Thumbing through the pictures, she seemed pleased with the results because she put the phone in her front pocket and just stared out at the beautiful valley and layers of mountain peaks in the distance for a few more minutes.  Then she turned and started walking back toward the parking spaces. Again, her eyes, still heavy with recently shed tears, swept the parking scene, alert and wary of the group of guys getting out of a van and watching her.  Again she put her sunglasses back on and walked hurriedly to her car.  I was struck by the contrast of the quiet beauty in the sad girl and the majestic awe inspiring mountain beauty all around.  

She got back in her car and I watched her lock her doors, start her engine, fasten her seat belt and fiddle with her phone or some other device for a few minutes before backing out and driving off.  My eyes followed the Florida tag until it was out of sight, heading down the other side of the mountain, and I wondered where she had been, where she was going, what sad story had hung those lines of care on her face.  I found myself wishing safe travels and a lighter load for that sad girl on the mountaintop. 

Living In Hope

Living at The AstraZeneca Hope Lodge is like nothing I have ever experienced.  It's the most interesting mix of people; all ages, colors, accents, but all with one thing in common: cancer.  And there are many types of cancer here, all types of treatments, people in many different stages and conditions, and a lot of stories. There is a lot of sadness here, but also a lot of resolve and strength, and a lot of hope.

The first person we struck a connection with was a much older guy, here as caretaker to his wife, who we never met because she never left her room.  She was on a breathing machine and a feeding tube.  They had been here a while when we met him and they left a few days after we arrived.  But, his advice to us was to talk to people, get their stories and take hope from them.  He said to find hope in every story, even the seemingly unhappy ones.  That's the hardest part for me.  When I see the pain in the eyes of the guy dealing with two different types of cancer at once, or hear the lady with half a tongue answer the question of how are you doing with "They are burning me," or hear the sweet little woman talk about beating cancer 12 years ago just to have it come back as radiation induced cancer, it is hard for me to find a lot of hope.  But, I have to remember that each one of them is here, doing what it takes to live.  They have hope in the midst of the suffering.  Right now, Scott doesn't even seem sick.  He has some pain and fatigue, but overall he appears healthy.  I think it helps him to realize how fortunate he is compared to others, but also shows him that no matter how bad things get for people, they continue to fight and hope and he can gain strength and hope from that himself.  Hope is where the heart is.

The place itself is wonderful.  Very comfortable and homey.  So far we've spent a lot of time in our suite, which is very nice and comfy, but there are a lot of areas to hang out when the walls start closing in. Morning news and coffee out in the shared living room is becoming routine.  I think my neighbors are getting used to seeing me in my jammies and fuzzy slippers getting coffee in the mornings.

Cooking meals in the shared kitchen is kind of weird, but kind of cool too. There are 4 kitchens, each one with 2 stoves, 2 microwaves, 3 sinks, lots of cabinets, 2 refrigerators and a large freezer.  Each room has an assigned shelf in the fridge and freezer, and a cabinet for food.
Eating in the large communal dining room is social time.  One night a guy played harp.  One night volunteers came in and cooked Italian food for everyone.  And Scott has even played a little guitar down there while I cooked a few evenings.

They have movie night in the theater room once a week.  There is a library with a fire place, an art room, a game room, and a lovely little garden area that will be nice when it warms up.

Today I found myself a great little quiet space while Scott naps.






I haven't had much opportunity to explore Boston yet.  It's been cold and rainy much of the week.  And the trips to and from treatment take a good chunk of the day.  I am doing my best to avoid driving and parking downtown, so we are taking various forms of transportation each day.  The Hope Lodge provides a free shuttle to treatments, so we've been taking it to the hospital each morning.  That ride is a trip!  I'm very thankful that I'm not drinking here because if I was even the slightest bit hungover in the morning I would definitely hurl all over the van.  Since right now Scott is still one of the visibly healthier people here, we usually volunteer to crawl all the way into the back seat of the van so the ride is rougher, kind of like being in the back seat on a roller-coaster.  The roads from here into town are very narrow and hilly.  We've been catching either the 8 or 9 o'clock shuttle so traffic is pretty heavy heading into downtown.  The driver, Cheresa (like Teresa but with a K) drives that bus like she is driving a little sports car.  She takes curves so tight and so fast, and forces her way into traffic, I just hold on and hope we make it.

Three of the days this week we weren't able to catch her for the return trip, so we took the train.  Riding the "T" is an interesting experience too. The first day I felt like such an idiot trying to figure it out...had to ask for help 3 times.  I'm sure I'll be a pro before this is all over.



We found out this week that after his surgery in August, Scott will have to come back for another round of radiation in September.  We are very hopeful that he/we will be able to get back in here at that time.  This is THE place to be, living in HOPE.

The Murder Of The Dolls

Tonight I'm going to share a funny story.  Well, morbidly funny.  In fact, it's kind of a horrific story, but I bet you laugh.

Several months ago, my parents sold the house they had lived in for 40 years.  My brothers, sisters-in-law and I did all the packing and moving, and in the process, we came across some treasures from childhood. Among the loot, there was Ken's 4-H trophy, Mark's Star Wars figures and Commodore 64, and my dolls. Years ago I had asked Daddy to get my dolls out of the attic so they wouldn't melt and ruin.  I'm not sure what I thought I was saving them for.  I knew they weren't collector items.  I played with my dolls.  Maybe I was still holding on to the idea that I would pass them on to someone one day.  So, on packing day, I found the box in the hall closet, carried it to the living room, sat down in the floor, opened the box and prepared for a walk down memory lane.

As I pulled each doll from the box, I realized that they were in pretty bad shape.  Like I said, I played with my dolls.  Not only were they not collector items, they weren't even something to be passed on to the most wide eyed little girl.  Their hair was matted and tangled, or missing all together.  As I removed each doll, I would say her name and state her special ability, such as, "Oh, it's Cathy Quick Curl.  She had hair you could curl with a little curling wand.  And, it's Peaches the Puppet Girl.  She had little puppets you stuck in her hand and when you pulled her string she made the different puppets talk.  This is Me Too Baby.  I think I named her that because she looked like the baby sister in a book I had called Me Too.  When you laid her on her back she made a little cooing sound and her eyes closed, and when you sat her up, her eyes opened. Oh, and look, it's Baby Tender Love. I loved her.  This was my third one.  She drank a bottle and peed." But, I noticed that not only was Cathy Quick Curl's hair mostly gone; all of Peaches puppets were missing and when you pulled her string, she did a sort of Darth Vader impression; Me Too baby's eyes were stuck closed; and Baby Tender Love, whose mouth used to make nursing motions when she drank her bottle, had a split lip showing metal like a little Terminator baby. When I pulled out the one legged Ken doll, my brother Mark exclaimed, with a look somewhere between horror and disgust, "Dolls are so creepy!"

I reluctantly packed the poor misfit dolls back into the box, and looked sadly at my mother who had been watching me closely through this whole process.  I really think she was seeing the little girl Suzi who dearly loved every one of those dolls and played with them constantly.  When I announced that I didn't think any of them were worth saving and were probably just trash, mom said, "But you can't just throw them away.  That would be like murder!"  She had me there.  So, I promptly carried the box out and loaded it into my car, with the intention of taking them home to throw in the garbage in order to save my mother the trauma of murdering my childhood babies.

Upon arriving back home, I carried the box of dolls into the house while Scott looked on in disapproval. While I had made a virtual pinkie swear to resist the urge to load up my car with lost treasures, here I was unloading a box of beat up babies, along with a big bag of my great-grandmother's needle point, a couple of children's books (including the above mentioned "Me Too" book which I loved so much as a little girl) and some clothes and shoes dating back to Mom's shop-a-holic days that I rescued from her closet.  Over all, I thought I held up my end of the bargain pretty well.

The box of dolls sat stacked in my guest room for several weeks.  Finally, on a ruthless cleaning day, I announced that the dolls just needed to go. But, I was still having trouble with simply throwing them in the trash, remembering my mother's use of the word murder.  Then I had the bright idea to just put the whole box up by the road and see if anybody took them. I guess it's a fact of life most places, that if you want to get rid of something you simply place it at the road and it will disappear.  So, we carried the box out and set it between the driveway and the road.  Scott even opened the lid to the box so passing cars or pedestrians could get a good look at the merchandise.  That's when it really got creepy.  There was a beat up cardboard box, with the lid thrown back, and all those nappy headed dolls staring vacantly at passersby.  Upon leaving and returning in the car at one point during the day, I noticed that the Me Too baby now had both eyes wide open, but one of them had bleached out white so she had one brown eye and one glowing white eye.  I realized at the moment that nobody was going to take that box of misfit toys.  I had to admit that they truly were bound for the trash.

Being the nice guy and good husband that he is, Scott volunteered to dispose of the pitiful collection for me, thus saving me the heartache.  He didn't even announce when he was going to take care of it, only promised me that they would go away and I wouldn't have to watch.  Much later that day, I was working, when I heard Scott come in from outside and exclaim loudly, "Well, that was horrific!"

Since I had last taken a peek at the box of horrors terrorizing the neighborhood, it had rained.  It seems that at that point, the dolls were all water logged, what hair that remained was plastered down to their little plastic heads, the ratty frills on their dresses made thin and even more threadbare by the soaking.  The poor stuffed Raggedy Ann doll was bloated with water.  And through it all, the Me Too baby with her big blind white eye was staring accusingly at the cruel world that had left her as no more than a pile of wet garbage on the side of the road.

Scott dragged the box back to the trash can, and Me Too baby was the first one thrown in.  As she hit the bottom of the can and landed on her back, she made her little signature cooing sound, and the eyes, which should have closed for the last time, remained wide open, one brown and one glowing white, staring up from the depths of the trash can.  Poor Scott.  The plaintive little cry coming from the bottom of the can was just the creepy finishing touch he needed on the whole macabre scene.  But, then it got worse.  As each and every water logged doll followed Me Too into the trash can and landed on her soft upturned belly, they caused her to make the coo or crying sound...every single doll, every single time.

The trash can is waiting by the road for trash pick up day, and I try not to think too much about its contents.  I admit that I'm afraid to get too close to the can for fear I will hear that little cooing cry coming from inside.  I hope the garbage men don't hear it and attempt a rescue only to find the creepy valley of the misfit dolls inside.  That is truly the stuff of nightmares.

One more for the road...

"So make it one for my baby, and one more for the road."  ~The Chairman Of The Board, Frank Sinatra

Yeah, well, so my good buddy alcohol and I may have to separate for a little while.  Since Scott is in the clinical trial for Nilotinib, he isn't supposed to drink alcohol after starting it today.  Dr. Cote was pretty funny when we were there last month and first discussed drinking while on the drug.  He started by asking if Scott drank alcohol.  I piped up and answered, "Well, doc, we do live in the Keys so it's kind of a way of life." That got a big laugh, but then they started asking if rehab was needed... I had to retract my joke, and I hate having to retract jokes.  Damn doctors for not being able to take a joke.  He said he would prefer that Scott not drink while on the drug.  "Prefer" doesn't mean "NO" but, after today, Scott probably won't be drinking. I know he drank rum in the hotel last night, but as of today, for all intents and purposes, he won't be drinking alcohol until treatment is finished.

What about Suzi?...you may be asking... I know I am!  Out of respect, I will be seriously cutting back on my drinking.  I told Scott that I wasn't going to promise to tee total during all this, but I would cut back, and try not to drink in front of him, much.  I'm not even sure if alcohol is allowed in the Hope Lodge....probably not. I would guess most of the patients aren't allowed to drink.  And while the caretakers might NEED to drink, it's not about us, it's about the patients.

So, tonight while Scott is still in Boston, I'm gettin my drink on.  Cheers!

Put on your big girl panties...

Sometimes it just sucks to have to be a grown up.  I tend to think I'm a super woman, but today I had to admit my limitations.  After many tears this morning, I had to admit to myself, and then to my girls, that I am physically not able to make DIVA Fest this week.  The only way to make it work would be pushing the drive up and back in one shot deals, almost 12 hours of driving each way, and cutting it down to just a few days.  That wouldn't give enough days to recover from the long drives, not to mention not allowing any time at home to pack and prepare the house to leave next Monday and be gone for a month.  It just isn't physically possible.  But, I can't believe I'm missing our 10th Anniversary.  So, I'll cry a little more...ok, probably cry a lot more; then probably get drunk...ok, I will definitely get drunk.  But I will do the responsible thing and admit that I am needed for other purposes this summer and I'll do what needs to be done and then life can get back to normal.

Staying home this week is the right thing to do for Scott too.  He has been so sweet insisting he wanted me to get the girl time in before everything started in Boston.  But, I really wasn't feeling right about leaving him all alone during his last week at home.  I feel much better about being home with him this week.

So, I'll pull up my big girl panties and be a damn grown up.
I'll be missing my girls this week; I'll miss dancing to the DIVA anthem. See you next year beautiful DIVA's!  All I wanna do is have some fun...

Please Come To Boston

“Please come to Boston for the springtime.”

Well, she might have said no, but yours truly will be going to Boston for the spring and summer.  Well, at least I hope it is springtime when I get up there.  When I was there at the end of April it was still wintertime.  Surely by the end of May it will be springtime.  Surely.  Maybe even summertime.

“Please come to Boston, she said no.”  I’ve always wondered about that song.  I mean, come on….

“We’ll move up into the mountains so far we can’t be found

And throw ‘I love you’ echoes down the canyon

And then lie awake at night until they come back around”

That’s one of the most romantic lines I’ve ever heard.  How could anybody say no to that?

____

  

Scott has insisted that I go to DIVA Fest next week.  He’s going up to Boston for another quick two night trip by himself.  I felt like I should have canceled the DIVA trip altogether, but he made a pretty big fuss over it.  But I am cutting it short.  Just feel like time is precious.  Especially healthy time.  He might be pretty sick before the treatment is over, and I feel like I need to be with him and help him make the most of every minute. 

Pretty much as soon as I get back, we will be packing the car, shutting up the house and hitting the road.  All three of us as far as Atlanta.  We will be leaving SugarBear in Atlanta with his foster family.
I’m going to miss that cat.  He has become the sweetest, funniest cat I’ve ever known.

I know that leaving him in a stable loving home for a few months is the best thing for him, but damn I’m really going to miss him.  And I worry that he will think he’s been abandoned again.  Poor little guy.  But it just wouldn’t be fair to subject him to the uncertainty of Boston.  And we will eventually end up in the Hope Lodge and they don’t allow pets anyway.  I know SugarBear will be fine, but it’s been a hard decision.  It’s going to be a weird summer, but then our life will get back to normal.

It should be interesting driving all the way to Boston.  I’ll be seeing country I’ve never seen.   It will be a lot of time on the road.  All by myself on the way back.  

I really hope the time in Boston is fun as it can be.  At least the first few weeks Scott should still be feeling pretty good, so I hope to spend time exploring the city.  His treatments will be every day, but only for 30 minutes or so, I think.  Looks like there will be plenty to keep us busy the rest of the time.

So, “Please come to Boston.”  

What else can I do but go to Boston?

“Now this drifter’s world goes ‘round and ‘round

And I doubt that it’s ever gonna to stop

But of all the dreams I’ve lost or found

And all that I ain’t got

I still need to lean to

Somebody I can sing to”

____

I Cry

I cry

Sometimes I cry

For you for me

What could have been, what might could be

I cry

Sometimes I cry

For him for her

For dreams denied, for what comes after

Tears drown reason

Regardless of season

You used to hate winter

Now you go on a bender

Meet each day in a daze

In an alcohol haze

I’m not gonna lie

Sometimes I cry

The future’s uncertain

Ignore the man behind the curtain

Home is yours indeed

If life gives you what you need

A heart or courage or a brain

The scene plays out again and again

Ask and you shall receive

See there’s nothing up my sleeve

Tears may be a blessing

A special kind of cleansing

You know you should embrace it

Admit you never could replace it

But at the end of the day

I got one thing to say

And I’m not gonna lie

Sometimes I cry

I cry

Sometimes I cry

For you for me

What could have been, what might could be

I cry

Sometimes I cry

For him for her

For dreams denied, for what comes after

I cry

___

Faith, Hope and Love

I just had an epiphany regarding the nature of faith.  I have to admit that I associated the idea of faith strictly with faith in god and, not being a religious person, never gave it much thought.  But, I think I now realize that faith doesn't have to be in god or a higher power or in anything specific.

Faith is simply believing.  Not just believing, but knowing.  Knowing in your heart that what you hope for will come to be.

My previous posts have been about hope.  Hope is something to look forward to, hope makes life worth living.  I think that faith is belief in hope; faith gives hope a chance.  I've said that hope is where the heart is. Then I think maybe faith is where the soul is.  If hope can make a heart soar, faith gives wings to the soul itself.

And love, well love...  "Now Faith, Hope and Love remain, these three things, and the greatest of these is love."

Several years ago I was asked by a therapist to write a short essay on what love meant to me.  It was a tough assignment.  I thought I would share.

What is Love?

How do you describe love?  Romantic love.  Poets, songwriters, authors and philosophers have tried for years to put words to the feeling of love. 

 “Love is a many splendored thing.” 

“Love lifts us up where we belong.”

“All you need is love.” 

“Love makes the world go ‘round.” 

“How do I love thee, let me count the ways.”

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

“The greatest thing in this world is to love and to be loved in return.”

I worried over this little project for days before I even started trying to write anything.  I began with the question “What is love?”  I puzzled over this, and every time I thought I had an answer, it was simply how love made me feel, or how it made me behave.  This soon made me realize that I don’t know how to define love itself; I can only describe what it means to me.  And, perhaps in doing so, it will help me come to a better understanding of the thing itself.

Loving someone means that I put their happiness above my own.  I realize that recent events may seem to imply the opposite.  But, hurting someone you love as a result of your own selfish or foolish actions, or even as a result of decisions they wish you hadn’t made, is not the same as intentionally causing them pain.  But, the heart is a precious thing, and loving someone, giving them your heart, requires so much trust.  If someone trusts you with theirs, and you accept it, you take the responsibility to protect it, to cherish it.

Loving someone means that I want the best for them.  The best of health, happiness, success…

Truly loving someone means loving them for who they are, accepting and loving everything about them, and not wanting to change them, not wishing they were different somehow.

Loving someone makes me want to be a better person.  Makes me want to be a person they would be proud to love, proud to be with. 

Of course, on the selfish side, I want to love and be loved by someone who makes me feel good about myself; someone who gives me positive energy, someone who shows me love and affection.  Someone who accepts and loves me for who and what I am and doesn’t want to change me or wish I was something I’m not.  I want to be cherished.

“Shouldn’t I have this, shouldn’t I have this?  Shouldn’t I have all of this, and passionate kisses… passionate kisses from you?”

Loving someone is so much more than physical, but physical attraction is important.  Beauty seen through the eyes of love creates a physical attraction that goes so far beyond simple lust. 

Loving someone is a physical chemistry, like electricity…their touch is like feeling that spark you feel when you shuffle your feet across the carpet in winter and then touch something metal.  Meeting their eyes across a room causes my heart to skip a beat.  The thought of their touch makes me shiver, makes my private parts flutter.

So, what is love to me?  Love is what keeps me from just being another lonely person living a solitary life.  Love connects me.  Love completes me.

I didn't write this next part, but I just saw it and thought it was so perfect I had to steal it.

Hope Is Where The Heart Is (2)

After writing the previous post, I have spent a lot of time thinking about my old friend Lisa.  It may seem funny that I am looking for hope from someone who didn't survive their battle.  Lisa was one of the best, most positive people I have ever known.  To this day, thoughts of her are accompanied by a soundtrack of Billy Joel singing "Only the good die young."  She inspired love and hope in everyone who met her.  When she was at Vanderbilt Hospital for leukemia treatment, she was an inspiration to every single person who came in contact with her.  The doctors and nurses would spend time in her room when they needed cheering up.  Even as they prepared her for the bone marrow transplant surgery from which she wouldn't wake, she was so full of hope and encouragement to everyone around her.  So, yes, I still look to her for hope and encouragement now, knowing that was perhaps her purpose in this life.  I still think about her and miss her, but I know what she would tell me if she was here today.  She would tell me to have an open heart, to love and to HOPE, always.


I've also been spending a lot of time thinking about how this "C" word has actually been more a part of my life than I was giving it credit for.  But, I also realized that my experiences have really been more positive than otherwise, so I find even more reason for hope.  Within my group of girl friends there are 2 breast cancer survivors.  One of those lovely ladies only recently completed her ordeal and came out the other end a survivor, complete with the most amazing positive attitude and love of life I have ever seen, along with a beautiful head of soft curly hair and the new "girls!"  The other wonderful breast cancer survivor is married to a colon cancer survivor, now both in their 70's and healthy and cancer free.


I love that word, "survivor."


While we are drowning in bureaucratic red tape this week, I know that Scott will soon be in the best hands possible.  It really is criminal how the insurance companies and so called medical specialists make you wait and fight, fight and wait, and go round and round before the proper approvals, tests and results can be scheduled and forwarded to the right places... all before the poor patient even gets to talk to the "experts."  All made even more difficult by the fact that said patient is probably scared, a little freaked out and extremely anxious to start getting answers and a plan of action for treatment. 


But, one fight at a time.  I have promised to keep Suzi Bitch under control and only let her off the leash when she is really needed.  My primary role needs to be companion and play mate, and focus on giving Scott something to hope for and look forward to.  I will also learn to be a better nurse/care giver.  If you know me, you know that is not my natural proclivity.  Poor Scott is so patient as I fumble my way through wound care and bandaging...I am getting better every day!  At least I can make him laugh with my inadequacies.  If I can keep him laughing then I am doing ok.


So, as long as we can fight our way through all the sticky tape this week, things get real next week.  The experts are ready and waiting for him at:
http://www2.massgeneral.org/chordoma/


This time next week, hopefully we will be in Boston getting answers and making a plan.  Scott will be a survivor.  I have no doubt.  I have HOPE.  Because HOPE IS WHERE THE HEART IS!

----

Hope Is Where The Heart Is

It seems the "C" word has come into my life.  I consider myself fortunate that I haven't been forced to become more intimate with the hated word so far in my 47 years.  I lost a friend and a grandfather to leukemia, and just lost a good friend/fellow DIVA very recently to what may or may not have been cancer...I really don't think they know what took sweet DIVA Sue, it was just sudden and tragic.  And, Dad had prostate cancer 5 years ago.  While it was big and scary at the time, surgery and some basically simple follow up treatment has left him cancer free and healthy.  As a matter of fact, I just got back from moving him and my mom into a new place and helping set them up for the next phase of their life.  So, while it has certainly touched my life, I hoped to never be on a first name basis with any type of "C."

Count your blessings when you can, because life can change in the blink of an eye.

The same week that I was rejoicing in the fact that my parents were finally in a better place, both physically and financially, and the fact that I wouldn't have to spend so much energy helping them and worrying about them, Scott's doctor calls and uses the "C" word.  Well, actually he used a completely unfamiliar "C" word, Chordoma, which Google revealed to be the damned dreaded hated familiar "C" word.

Now, as I begin to prepare myself for this next phase of our lives, trying to study and learn and figure out how to keep Scott positive and happy, I don't seem to have words.  The last words from my old friend and co-worker, Lisa Parker, who was lost to leukemia when she was only 32 years old have been echoing in my head.  So, for now, I will borrow words from someone so much stronger than me until I can come up with my own. 

Lisa's Journal Entry, 8/24/01 - "I have always been a big believer in P.M.A. (Positive Mental Attitude.)  ...It really works.  There are so many people that complain about things and go through life mad.  Those are the people that have it made and just don't know it.  I think that the happiest and most appreciative people in this world are the ones who have experienced trials and tribulations.  And the reason for that is they have known the greatest emotion of all... HOPE!  HOPE IS WHERE THE HEART IS!  If we don't have hope, then we have nothing to look forward to.  And can you imagine what kind of life we would have if there were nothing to look forward to?"

He will beat this and we will make it through to the other side and have a long and happy life ahead of us.  I know and believe that.  I have to.  I have to hope.  Because hope is where the heart is. 

----

Cliche's

My head is spinning round and round

Feet can’t seem to find solid ground

Old clichés cross my mind

How did I end up here this time?

Torn between two lovers or should I stay or should I go

Forsaking all others and don’t forget I told you so

Keep the promise for better or worse

Hope the words don’t become a curse

Love honor and obey

Keep pretending everything’s okay

Or cut the cord or sever the ties and admit it was already broke

Your actions speak louder than any words you ever spoke

My head is spinning like a top

Out of control can’t make it stop

Old clichés beat at my brain

Play themselves out again and again

Torn between two lovers or should I stay or should I go

Forsaking all others and don’t forget I told you so

It’s the classic story of the pot and the kettle

One calls it responsible and one calls it settle

Both holding on to what’s left of the love

But neither forgiving or sorry enough

So break the bonds admit defeat and finally take off the rings

After that it’s just about splitting up the things

My heart is breaking I’m petrified

Paying the price for having lied

Old clichés fill up my mind

I know exactly how I got here this time

Torn between two lovers and you can’t always get what you want

A rose is a rose and how in the hell do you eat an elephant

Torn between two lovers, best friends and into the mystic

I will always love you and never lose the magic

Torn between two lovers or should I stay or should I go

Forsaking all others and don’t forget I told you so

Old clichés cloud my mind

How did I end up here this time?

____

Fallen Angel

I heard a story ‘bout a girl

Who wanted to live in the world

Being an angel, you see

Just ain’t all it’s cracked up to be 

With legs that refuse to run

Lips that won’t carry a tune

Eyes that can’t seem to cry

And wings that forgot how to fly 

If heaven just ain’t enough

And you’d trade it all for love

Cut your wings down to a stump

And then you just have to jump 

Get a good running start

Jumping’s the easiest part

Let go and learn to forgive

The hard part is learning to live 

And she stands on the edge and says I have to try

Since you cut off my wings I’m not even sure I can fly

But if I jump on my own I might have a chance to survive

More than survive I might even end up alive 

More than survive, I might have a chance to end up alive

My halo fell from my head

It’s down around my feet instead

Shiny shackles are starting to rust

Tarnished metal will one day be dust


And she stands on the edge and says I have to try

Since you cut off my wings I’m not even sure I can fly

But if I jump on my own I might have a chance to survive

More than survive I might even end up alive 

More than survive, I might have a chance to end up alive

I heard a story ‘bout a girl

Who wanted to live in the world

Being an angel, you see

Just ain’t all it’s cracked up to be

My new song

Word Dancing

You hear what you want to hear

Filter my words with your own fear

You run when he comes near

I hear your silence loud and clear



We both live in our own mind

Looking for peace we never find

Life can be so unkind

I always feel one step behind

Can’t you just be happy for me?

I’m just trying to get my arms around me

Desperately trying to hold my breath

Living my life scared to death

If you happen to see a smile on my face

I’m sure there’s a line of a tear you can trace

But if you care so much about me

Can’t you just be happy for me?

Voice so cold it breaks my heart

Wall so thick can’t tear it apart

Word dancing is an art

Words withheld when teardrops start

Broken down trying to be tough

And anchored down by too much stuff

Might drown if seas get rough

Maybe love just ain’t enough

Can’t you just be happy for me?

I’m just trying to get my arms around me

Desperately trying to catch my breath

Living my life scared to death

If you happen to see a smile on my face

I’m sure there’s a line of a tear you can trace

But if you care so much about me

Can’t you just be happy for me?

Word dancing

Spin me round and round the floor

Word dancing

Always leave me wanting more

Word dancing

Spin my head, spin me around

Word dancing

Send me spiraling down

Why can’t you just say what you mean?

Why can’t you be happy for me?

Why can’t you just say what you mean?

Why can’t you be happy for me?

If you care so much about me

Can't you just be happy for me?

The Matriarch

I am woman

I am strong

Hard as I need to be

Soft as I can be

Without falling apart

Or breaking my heart

Mother, Matriarch, bitch

I’ll take the part, accept the script

Do what needs to be done

Knowing I’m the only one

Who’ll play the role

Who’ll pay the toll

Call me mother

Call me Matriarch

Call me bitch

I don’t care which

Those who will

And those who won’t

I can’t sit by

Can’t let sleeping dogs lie

If I cry when I’m alone

Or sometimes wish them gone

If the happy face slips

Or the smile leaves my lips

Nobody knows but me

Nobody knows me

So call me mother

Call me Matriarch

Call me bitch

I don’t care which

I know that I’m the only one

Who’ll do what needs to be done

I’ll play the role

I’ll pay the toll

Call me mother

Call me Matriarch

Call me bitch

I don’t care which