faded feathers

I had been there a few times already this morning, a result of trying to make sure I drink the water my body "requires", but when I entered the bathroom this time, it was a completely different place altogether.

She was standing at the counter with her over-flowing cosmetic bags placed here and there like paints being readied for the pallet hoping to finally make the artist's canvas. I saw the eager green and blue eye shadow among the countless tubes of lipstick and other things. I was overwhelmed by the vast amount of cosmetics she was considering and thought of my own small bag hidden in my purse. The perfume baked into the powders to add a layer or two of glamor was as heavy as the patina she had already applied.

"Hi.. You're Carmen, aren't you?"

I knew her instantly. This was not a new scene to me, but an ancient one that I would have never thought of again had I not entered into it unsuspectedly. She furrowed her brow, taking a quick inventory of faces she knew to determine where I fit in. I couldn't bear to watch the struggle.

"I used to work here, about 12 years ago."

I was ashamed of myself for announcing the number of years I had been gone like some badge of how long I'd been away from that hellhole, knowing she had spent those 12 years right here in the bathroom doing exactly what she was doing right then.

"Oh.. Yes, I remember you! Did you lose weight or something? Are you married? Do you have children? How many?"

I was a little shocked that these questions came so readily and in a row, but I answered them graciously.

We continued to exchange pleasantries, bridging the gap between us with the names from the past and present that we had in common, and I mentioned my father. He was more of a fixture in that place than I was and I knew she knew of him.

"I'm so sorry he died. He was gorgeous, like a movie star. I wondered why I haven't seen him around. Does he have any brothers? Are they married?"

Another round of quirky questions, which I kindly answered... yes, he had brothers and yes they are married.

"Oh."

She said with a shrug and went back to her mirror to apply her face.

Still in the dress she used to wear, faded feathers in her hair

Count on it...

The sun will always rise tomorrow morning, and set tomorrow evening...

Life will always find a way to go on, even when it seems an impossibility...

Love always finds a way...

and...

My mother will send me an emotionally barbed letter (bomb) this time every year. Not even the recent death of my father has deterred this annual event. Amazing.

(New reader? Want to know what I'm talking about? Read this.. and then this... if you have a lot of time to kill)

This year the letter was a bit different and instead of repeating what it said and then explaining it, I thought I would just paraphrase it and entwine my psychological explanation throughout.

Dear Elle,

It is that time of year again (your wedding anniversary, your husband's and son's birthdays, and your birthday) when instead of wishing you happiness and offering you congratulations, I have decided to lob an emotional bomb your way. This time, instead of actually writing out a letter, I have opted to photocopy a letter you had written me, full of loving sentiment, and write "fool" across the body of the letter, and simply add the statement, "what has happened to these feelings?"

The message being that you once apparently loved me a great deal, but have lost your way in your adoration of me and should analyze why this has occurred for surely there is something faulty in your thinking. See? I was adored by you, and should be again, for I have done nothing wrong to diminish these feelings you had for me, so please figure it out and crawl back to me at once! No, I do not think it necessary to ask myself that same question I scrawled on the bottom, as I do not see that I have ever done anything wrong in the years since those sentiments were written to me, clearly it is all within you....

signed,

Your mother, aka the Unibomber

Oh... did I mention the sarcasm I was also going to add throughout?

This is not here.... and this is not a rant...

And just for the record.. I hate rants.. (even though I rant all the time)...

I think them ridiculous and childish and annoying but I have a lot to rant about and keeping it bottled up inside of me is giving me a stomach ache, so I need to spew before it turns to cancer and fucking kills me, although at the moment that is a tempting prospect...... well not really..

because it is cancer I hate..

and not that anyone in this world loves cancer.. but I hate everything to do with cancer and cancer wards.... I hate the smell of the cancer ward and those ridiculous gowns you have to put on and pull off every time you leave the room and come back in.. which is constantly.. I hate the way the treatment kills your dignity and hopefully the shit that is killing you along with every other fucking living thing in your body.. Lest not forget the way it robs you of your precious hair.

It had to take his hair... What? Was it too beautiful for this world?? The universe was jealous that his hair was thick and luscious and beautiful.. it had to take it little by little.. Falling all over his pillow and onto the floor. How dare they let it touch the floor! Imbeciles. They couldn't take it all, though.. nope... he died with more hair on his head than many a living man is sporting now.... so fuck off, chemotherapy.

And the promises... of how this will work and how this will help. Lies.. I know they don't want you to lose hope, but do not tell a dying man he is not dying. Let him decide how he wants to leave this earth and what he wants to say on his way out. Don't make him think he is crazy for asking the question. Be a man, doctor, look him in they eye and tell him that YES he is dying.. And YES that is why his family is around him, and YES the priest has been called, and YES she is flying in from California, and YES I fucked up when I urged you to try this treatment and I'm sorry, I tried.

You can't get a straight answer in a hospital... not to your face. They tell you one thing and discuss the truth around the coffee pot.

So I am pissed.

Today is ok

There really is no linear path with grieving. This is something I know academically, and have told people with whom I am working, but now I really understand it from the inside. My father isn't the first person I have lost in my life, and not even the closest emotionally, but it is a much different kind of loss with him.

I feel so altered. He was such a strong and active part of who I am internally and in my world and now that he is gone there is a gaping hole beckoning to be filled or something. I looked to him for clues about myself. He was my connection to my past present and future for my sons as well.

"I was a skinny kid like your little guy and could eat and eat all day long." He would say.

Really? So that is where he gets that from! Or when he told me he stuttered until he was 13 like Jay does which offered so much insight and comfort about the situation.

It's these strands of personal history and connections between us that have been severed that hurts as well. Now we will have to keep the stories we have alive and look for clues in those among ourselves. And that too is an interesting thing. We have been sharing stories, and so much truth has been pouring out for all. Its almost a purging of any doubt or the answering of questions whose time has come.

It's emotionally draining trying to make sense of things, and reconfigure. But we are doing it, one day at a time and together.

Today is okay....

:)

quiet...

I feel like I've lost my voice here. The place where I found my voice. I am too fragmented. I need to start putting all these pieces back together. To reconstruct.

That is why it is so quiet here.

The only thoughts running through my head are thoughts of him. His face, his voice, his smell. I am clinging to these things in an effort to perhaps bring him back, or to not forget him. To keep him alive in some small way.

I am just heartbroken.

I have my moments....

Like on the way home from exercise class.

It just hits.. and hard. I try to pretend he is home and we are going about our lives as we do, or as we did. Me here, and him there. Calling each other occasionally to update one another on our lives.

I'm glad that we had that day together and we talked. There was so much more I wanted to say. So much more I should have said over the years. Now I will say them in my prayers and hope he hears me. I'm sure he will.

But oh... when it hits.... ugh.

i need to start feeling better....

We made it through the viewing and the funeral.... I even spoke... maybe later I will share with you what I said. I have cried and cried and cried.. and drank and drank.... and cried... and grieved... and I am still in the throws of it all... but I need to start feeling better. I need to start building back the skin, I'm tired of being so raw...

Thank you for all your kind words and emails... I truly appreciate your words...

I'm finding my way back. I always do.

I love you always...

and will miss you forever, Dad...

getting worse...

he is just getting worse...

there is so much i want to write.. about what is happening... but it is not ready to flow.. not yet..

be well..

This summer started with the anticipation of a wedding and is ending with the anticipation of a funeral. Such a strange season, indeed. I am starting to feel like around every corner an intense event lies in wait readying to pounce.

I understand this is just life.

This next season is going to be brutal. Just brutal, in about 1000 different ways.

I will look for the peaceful moments, and the quiet times. I will be aware of the little gems hidden among the muck that somehow keep us going. I will listen to the pearls that children seem to drip during tragedy. I will let myself feel every moment of what is happening without succumbing to quest for anesthetization. I will not be afraid to smile and laugh and bawl my eyes out and laugh again.

I will live, and he will die. And such is life.

it doesn't look good.....

He is not winning....

I should have never exhaled...

fuckedupness...

a sample....

"Hi.. how's dad today?"

"Oh.. terrific.. getting better and better... His friends came Sunday and it was just what he needed. Some great conversation and not about kids, or grand kids or dogs, and he was thrilled. It really was just what he needed...."

(Remember where I was Saturday? Guess what our conversation was mostly about... )

"heh... um...yea... that is great.... really..."

Am I the only one who sees the glaring fuckedupness in this???

I can already hear the shift in her voice. Things are getting back to normal, and that is not necessarily a good thing. Revelations and promises will most likely stay in that hospital room. She continues to amaze me... the push-pull of this relationship. I'm getting tired of it, but it will never change. She is almost as bad as the other mother.. the real deal... and ironically, my step-mother is the closest thing I have to a consistent functional parent. She is determined to keep us all compartmentalized and in control, and at the heart of all this is her addictions to so many things. Maybe that is why. If we all got together and compared notes, her truth would be revealed, and so would ours, which is why we allow this to occur.

We need it.

We need the fuckedupness....

Right...

I hated that flash of embarrassment that came across his face at his realization of how he must have looked through my eyes. I prayed it wasn't in response to the flash of shock I may have conveyed because I truly wasn't shocked by how he looked. It was just that the last time I saw him, he was on a ventilator and seeing him sitting up and talking was a pleasant surprise.

I was sad the pictures I had sent him of my sons weren't on his board next to the pictures of my nephews because he thought I didn't send them. I did. She just didn't put them up. She is still threatened by my participation in her family and I gift her my absence. I just want him to have a cohesive family, and my presence somehow prevents this.

We talked all morning, and all afternoon. It was a blessing like no other. So many revelations were made in that putrid smelling hospital room. I'd like to think of this as a new beginning for us. I'd like to think this whole experience held a higher purpose. I guess that is up to us to ensure.

Right, Dad?