Today I got a box full of pictures from my dad's executor. One of them was a blow up I had done for father's day a few years ago. It shows him holding me as he leans over his birthday cake to blow out the candles. I'm six months old and he looks happy. Looking at that I could cry a little, something that I've not been able to so since I've been home.
There is also a little photo book of him and the people he worked with. He has his arm around some folks and he is grinning with all of his teeth. One shows him in a skit where he's dressed as a cowboy. On the back it says "Crazy Horse Craig". He had this picture on a shelf for a zillion years and I asked him about it but he would always joke it away.
And then there are the high school photos of me and my brother that occupied a place of pride on a shelf above his tv in the living room. Dis he wish we had stayed that age and remained the more pliant, less savvy people we were then? And of course my hairdo was terrible.
What was it that he hated so much in himself?
That grin haunts me.
There is another photo of him, one we were looking for but couldn't find for the memorial service, of him as a little boy, looking mischevious and wearing a fedora. And there is the grin.
A whole, big, ole life ended so small. That makes me so sad.
Don't let this be you. Live the love in your heart. Realize that forgiveness is up to you whether the offender apologizes or even acknowledges their wrong. Interact. Enjoy. Relish. Mustard. Tango.
Stuff--what?
Monday, January 31, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
My daddy
My daddy's dead.
I hated him--I didn't hate him, but I abhorred his behavior. He treated my brother, the one I love most in the world, like shit for no discernible reason. He often raged and screamed at me and lied to us and to other people about us. He seemed to hate our mother. In his last months he often said to me, "I have no family."
At his memorial service we met person after person who he helped, people who went to elementary school with him, and were his med students, people who worked with him for many, many years who spoke with me for minutes with tears streaming down their faces. So many doctors who trained under him, fraternity brothers who thought he was the smartest man they knew, warm, kind, considerate.
Strangers would call to ask to "borrow" money and he wouldn't send my brother to college.
And then his good friend got up and said "What he was most proud of was his children." That he was proud that I was trying to stay independent despite my medical problems. That my brother could translate his brilliance and business acumen into a position in a foreign country and thrive. That he had beautiful little granddaughters and a great daughter-in-law (ex) who made sure that we are family.
And here I am weeping my guts out because I loved him like the sun shone out of his ass.
I hated him--I didn't hate him, but I abhorred his behavior. He treated my brother, the one I love most in the world, like shit for no discernible reason. He often raged and screamed at me and lied to us and to other people about us. He seemed to hate our mother. In his last months he often said to me, "I have no family."
At his memorial service we met person after person who he helped, people who went to elementary school with him, and were his med students, people who worked with him for many, many years who spoke with me for minutes with tears streaming down their faces. So many doctors who trained under him, fraternity brothers who thought he was the smartest man they knew, warm, kind, considerate.
Strangers would call to ask to "borrow" money and he wouldn't send my brother to college.
And then his good friend got up and said "What he was most proud of was his children." That he was proud that I was trying to stay independent despite my medical problems. That my brother could translate his brilliance and business acumen into a position in a foreign country and thrive. That he had beautiful little granddaughters and a great daughter-in-law (ex) who made sure that we are family.
And here I am weeping my guts out because I loved him like the sun shone out of his ass.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Today
Old Grumble Guts (father) is back in the hospital, swimming in fluids. He gets too mad to talk so he's disconnected the phone in his hospital room. I'm never met anyone who resists doctor's orders as fully as he does. He's a doctor, of course. Maybe that means that doctors who are patients think they know better than the doctors who are treating them, so it's twice as hard to be a patient patient. Or maybe it's his GRANITE HEAD.
I was thinking, this morning, about granite heads. I have one, too, but it's got ear holes. Right now I'm going through yet more medical testing in my 15th year of diagnosis, because my new doctor thinks that there might be something going on other than Lupus. After the initial upset upon hearing this, I began to find the situation comical. Nobody knows nothin' fo' sho', which makes it even more interesting that they throw potentially harmful drugs at everything hoping one will work. Like throwing paint on a wall from a water cannon. Anyhoo...
Why is it that I continue to fight? And by "I", I mean most of us? Why can't I come to some acceptance of this level of illness just may be the way things will be for the rest of my days? I'm ambulatory most of the time, I push through pain and discomfort and wild vertigo when riding public transportation, I stay home with the kitty and boil like the Sahara when I'm feeling really unwell. Certainly my finances could be a lot better, but, overall, it ain't such a bad life. Except...IF YOU ARE A LIVING, BREATHING HUMAN BEING WITH MANY DESIRES TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD AND IN YOUR OWN PERSONAL LIFE. And you want to fucking walk around without feeling like regurgitating all the fucking time. Grrrr.
I realize that I think there is something wrong with being so angry about this, about fighting it so much and it is exhausting. It often isn't helpful. But I can't, or won't let go of the notion that I can get better, somehow, in the face of no evidence, no medical or alternative process hereforto attempted, consarnit, there's got to be a way!
Maybe it was reading "Camille"...a swan who wilted away so becomingly from consumption or some such...all those movies we see where brave people battle illness without sweating all over their designer sportswear--remember "Brian's Song"? I have this stoopid notion that one should suffer in silence, be a martyr to niceness. Grin and bear it. And that not being able to do that is some flaw in my character.
I met a woman at a Lupus support group once who didn't speak throughout the whole meeting. I was sitting next to her, and, after the meeting was over, we introduced ourselves and she asked me, very timidly, if she could ask me a question. "I have this rash," she began tentatively.
"Uh mmm."
"Its..."
"Yess? Don't worry. I have rashes, too."
"It's on...my bottom."
"Girrrrrrrlllllll...," I said, chuckling. "Me, too!"
She lit up like a Christmas tree. "I just don't want to talk about it with my doctor," she said, "It's too embarrassing."
And then we exchanged ailments, even talking about some things she had no idea were Lupus-related. And I realized that she could use some of my anger, my questioning, my self-advocacy that I learned from other Lupus patients. I didn't see her again, but I fervently hope I helped her as she helped me to some sort of understanding amidst the craziness.
So if you see me scratching my tushie....
I was thinking, this morning, about granite heads. I have one, too, but it's got ear holes. Right now I'm going through yet more medical testing in my 15th year of diagnosis, because my new doctor thinks that there might be something going on other than Lupus. After the initial upset upon hearing this, I began to find the situation comical. Nobody knows nothin' fo' sho', which makes it even more interesting that they throw potentially harmful drugs at everything hoping one will work. Like throwing paint on a wall from a water cannon. Anyhoo...
Why is it that I continue to fight? And by "I", I mean most of us? Why can't I come to some acceptance of this level of illness just may be the way things will be for the rest of my days? I'm ambulatory most of the time, I push through pain and discomfort and wild vertigo when riding public transportation, I stay home with the kitty and boil like the Sahara when I'm feeling really unwell. Certainly my finances could be a lot better, but, overall, it ain't such a bad life. Except...IF YOU ARE A LIVING, BREATHING HUMAN BEING WITH MANY DESIRES TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD AND IN YOUR OWN PERSONAL LIFE. And you want to fucking walk around without feeling like regurgitating all the fucking time. Grrrr.
I realize that I think there is something wrong with being so angry about this, about fighting it so much and it is exhausting. It often isn't helpful. But I can't, or won't let go of the notion that I can get better, somehow, in the face of no evidence, no medical or alternative process hereforto attempted, consarnit, there's got to be a way!
Maybe it was reading "Camille"...a swan who wilted away so becomingly from consumption or some such...all those movies we see where brave people battle illness without sweating all over their designer sportswear--remember "Brian's Song"? I have this stoopid notion that one should suffer in silence, be a martyr to niceness. Grin and bear it. And that not being able to do that is some flaw in my character.
I met a woman at a Lupus support group once who didn't speak throughout the whole meeting. I was sitting next to her, and, after the meeting was over, we introduced ourselves and she asked me, very timidly, if she could ask me a question. "I have this rash," she began tentatively.
"Uh mmm."
"Its..."
"Yess? Don't worry. I have rashes, too."
"It's on...my bottom."
"Girrrrrrrlllllll...," I said, chuckling. "Me, too!"
She lit up like a Christmas tree. "I just don't want to talk about it with my doctor," she said, "It's too embarrassing."
And then we exchanged ailments, even talking about some things she had no idea were Lupus-related. And I realized that she could use some of my anger, my questioning, my self-advocacy that I learned from other Lupus patients. I didn't see her again, but I fervently hope I helped her as she helped me to some sort of understanding amidst the craziness.
So if you see me scratching my tushie....
Monday, October 11, 2010
wait
in a hotel room
by the hotel pool
waiting
for a loved one to be drained of all blood
and sliced
and diced
(secretly hoping they will replace the old bitter liquid with a sweeter juice)
and made (sorta) new again
walking around
this hollow little town
(disguised as civilization)
thinking the big thoughts and
craving chocolate
trying not to be crushed and land locked and pulled back into the vortex
you grow while you are away from the person who constantly tries to box you up and stamp you into ash
And then you don't fit. No matter how much he stomps.
And I don't stomp anymore. My heart's never been in it.
So here I sit
and wait.
by the hotel pool
waiting
for a loved one to be drained of all blood
and sliced
and diced
(secretly hoping they will replace the old bitter liquid with a sweeter juice)
and made (sorta) new again
walking around
this hollow little town
(disguised as civilization)
thinking the big thoughts and
craving chocolate
trying not to be crushed and land locked and pulled back into the vortex
you grow while you are away from the person who constantly tries to box you up and stamp you into ash
And then you don't fit. No matter how much he stomps.
And I don't stomp anymore. My heart's never been in it.
So here I sit
and wait.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
cape horns
I have tried.
Really.
It seemed the human thing to do and I was a little curious, too. A good friend is a huge fan.
I have tried to watch the World Cup.
It was even slightly exciting when the African countries advanced.
The players are handsome, with a variety of interesting hair dos and their athleticism is undeniable as they run up and down the many, many, many times over the course of the game, and expertly use their feet like tennis rakets and their heads like...tennis rakets to move the ball around. They way they throw themselves dramatically to the ground when they are "fouled" and pretend to be injured is amusing and silly.
The fact that it's taking place in South Africa and is a boon to an economy that sorely needs it isn't lost on me.
The mania of fans from around the world is intriguing and impressive.
The commentary is imaginative, and it has to be because watching the games is
BLOODY BORING!
No wonder they get so excited when they score! Something actually happened other than the blowing of those annoying horns. (Sounds like geese mating.) They run up the field. They kick the ball. They "head" the ball. They get close to the goal and the goalie flings his body in front of the ball. A German dude with a head like a bowling ball grabs his giant shin, flings his head back in a grimace of pain as an Argentinian player, wearing a head band to hold back his great mane of hair, falls over him. The referee holds up a yellow card. The crowd groans through their vuvuzela engorged lips. Bowling ball head is instantly cured. Blah Blah.
I don't get it. Obviously. It's not like the crude ballet of basketball, or the gladiator-like slyness of football. And it certainly not the the lovely mixture of strength, ballet, and wit that is tennis. And I don't think it's because it seems so hard to score. That happens in football all the time.
I don't get curling, either.
Really.
It seemed the human thing to do and I was a little curious, too. A good friend is a huge fan.
I have tried to watch the World Cup.
It was even slightly exciting when the African countries advanced.
The players are handsome, with a variety of interesting hair dos and their athleticism is undeniable as they run up and down the many, many, many times over the course of the game, and expertly use their feet like tennis rakets and their heads like...tennis rakets to move the ball around. They way they throw themselves dramatically to the ground when they are "fouled" and pretend to be injured is amusing and silly.
The fact that it's taking place in South Africa and is a boon to an economy that sorely needs it isn't lost on me.
The mania of fans from around the world is intriguing and impressive.
The commentary is imaginative, and it has to be because watching the games is
BLOODY BORING!
No wonder they get so excited when they score! Something actually happened other than the blowing of those annoying horns. (Sounds like geese mating.) They run up the field. They kick the ball. They "head" the ball. They get close to the goal and the goalie flings his body in front of the ball. A German dude with a head like a bowling ball grabs his giant shin, flings his head back in a grimace of pain as an Argentinian player, wearing a head band to hold back his great mane of hair, falls over him. The referee holds up a yellow card. The crowd groans through their vuvuzela engorged lips. Bowling ball head is instantly cured. Blah Blah.
I don't get it. Obviously. It's not like the crude ballet of basketball, or the gladiator-like slyness of football. And it certainly not the the lovely mixture of strength, ballet, and wit that is tennis. And I don't think it's because it seems so hard to score. That happens in football all the time.
I don't get curling, either.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
migraine
Oh migraine
railroad spike
stuck in my left temple
you pulse to my heartbeat
and travel over my bumpy scalp and down my neck
light strikes and causes a body blink
a paroxysm
a clinch
an involuntary moan
I crush my face into the pillow
My left eye closed, lid jumping
to achieve single vision
stomach swims around saltines
eaten to provide a bed for
Excedrin Migraine
(as though they are more than acetaminophen, caffeine and filler)
for some reason I thought that the onset of the menopause
would resolve these possibly estrogen based miseries
but the lightening bolts started on Friday night when I forgot to eat
and despite instantly medicating and making a cave of the living room (dark and cool),
you came
pounding your drums
wave against eroding shoreline
hammer against anvil
heart against beat
railroad spike
stuck in my left temple
you pulse to my heartbeat
and travel over my bumpy scalp and down my neck
light strikes and causes a body blink
a paroxysm
a clinch
an involuntary moan
I crush my face into the pillow
My left eye closed, lid jumping
to achieve single vision
stomach swims around saltines
eaten to provide a bed for
Excedrin Migraine
(as though they are more than acetaminophen, caffeine and filler)
for some reason I thought that the onset of the menopause
would resolve these possibly estrogen based miseries
but the lightening bolts started on Friday night when I forgot to eat
and despite instantly medicating and making a cave of the living room (dark and cool),
you came
pounding your drums
wave against eroding shoreline
hammer against anvil
heart against beat
Sunday, April 25, 2010
not sleeping
I'm not sleeping.
I'm not sleeping because I've been concentrating very hard on not worrying the painful zit under my nose. Don't touch it, don't touch it, it will go away faster. A mantra since adolescence.
I'm not sleeping because I'm worried that my cat, Dolce, may have picked up a flea when I had him out on the front porch for six seconds this morning.
I'm not sleeping because I had a long, long nap after a long walk after a big breakfast of avocado omelete and canadian bacon.
I'm not sleeping because the man I went out with last night hasn't called me today.
I'm not sleeping because Obama is meeting with Billy Graham. Why?
I'm not sleeping because I'm watching a PBS program about The Governator's plans to make California energy efficient--the rich, non minority areas, that is. He looks like a ken-doll, all molten facial skin and non-moving forehead.
I'm not sleeping because I saw some pictures of myself from 7 years ago and I looked like Jabba the Hut. Talk about bloat.
I'm not sleeping because the world in the night is scary and fucked, the tea party people are at the door wanting me to redo my census form for my white side only, I will never find a cream to tame my alligator skin, you don't like me anymore, Disney World is too big to fail, and there is no mint left for mint chocolate chip ice cream. It's a lost resource. Really.
I'm not sleeping because I'm thinking of all the books Nicholas Sparks has written and all the books I have not written which will be so much better than what Sparks has written, naturally.
I'm not sleeping because I really really really really really really need a new bra to fight perpetual "uniboob." Unsightly.
I'm not sleeping because a few of you have cancer and I can't stand the thought of you in pain, of you suffering and I wish I could take it all away.
I'm not sleeping because some crazy old racists passed a Nazi-ish anti-immigration law in the state where my beloved mama lives. She's going to have to kick some of her neighbors square in the beeee-hind.
I'm not sleeping because I don't really know what's going on in the Middle East and I really don't want to know but I feel like it's intellectually lazy not to try and find out.
I'm not sleeping because I worked 2 days in the last 2 weeks because my fever wouldn't go away despite a massive amount of anti-inflammatories. Is there a way to be fashionably poor? Is there a free class on how to achieve this?
I'm not sleeping because DIVAS NEVER DOZE!
I'm not sleeping because I'm writing this blog, and my mind is tired so I'm not in the usually censorious place and it feels good to translate thoughts without a filter as my fingers fly across the keys.
I'm not sleeping because every time I think about Jon Stewart saying that Fox News is the "Lupus of news" it makes me laugh so hard I snort.
I'm not sleeping because I'm mad that PBS keeps interrupting the excellent programing that they only show when they are beggin for money with poorly toupeed local public television employees asking me for the $10 I sent in months ago.
I'm not sleeping..zzzzzzzzzz.
I'm not sleeping because I've been concentrating very hard on not worrying the painful zit under my nose. Don't touch it, don't touch it, it will go away faster. A mantra since adolescence.
I'm not sleeping because I'm worried that my cat, Dolce, may have picked up a flea when I had him out on the front porch for six seconds this morning.
I'm not sleeping because I had a long, long nap after a long walk after a big breakfast of avocado omelete and canadian bacon.
I'm not sleeping because the man I went out with last night hasn't called me today.
I'm not sleeping because Obama is meeting with Billy Graham. Why?
I'm not sleeping because I'm watching a PBS program about The Governator's plans to make California energy efficient--the rich, non minority areas, that is. He looks like a ken-doll, all molten facial skin and non-moving forehead.
I'm not sleeping because I saw some pictures of myself from 7 years ago and I looked like Jabba the Hut. Talk about bloat.
I'm not sleeping because the world in the night is scary and fucked, the tea party people are at the door wanting me to redo my census form for my white side only, I will never find a cream to tame my alligator skin, you don't like me anymore, Disney World is too big to fail, and there is no mint left for mint chocolate chip ice cream. It's a lost resource. Really.
I'm not sleeping because I'm thinking of all the books Nicholas Sparks has written and all the books I have not written which will be so much better than what Sparks has written, naturally.
I'm not sleeping because I really really really really really really need a new bra to fight perpetual "uniboob." Unsightly.
I'm not sleeping because a few of you have cancer and I can't stand the thought of you in pain, of you suffering and I wish I could take it all away.
I'm not sleeping because some crazy old racists passed a Nazi-ish anti-immigration law in the state where my beloved mama lives. She's going to have to kick some of her neighbors square in the beeee-hind.
I'm not sleeping because I don't really know what's going on in the Middle East and I really don't want to know but I feel like it's intellectually lazy not to try and find out.
I'm not sleeping because I worked 2 days in the last 2 weeks because my fever wouldn't go away despite a massive amount of anti-inflammatories. Is there a way to be fashionably poor? Is there a free class on how to achieve this?
I'm not sleeping because DIVAS NEVER DOZE!
I'm not sleeping because I'm writing this blog, and my mind is tired so I'm not in the usually censorious place and it feels good to translate thoughts without a filter as my fingers fly across the keys.
I'm not sleeping because every time I think about Jon Stewart saying that Fox News is the "Lupus of news" it makes me laugh so hard I snort.
I'm not sleeping because I'm mad that PBS keeps interrupting the excellent programing that they only show when they are beggin for money with poorly toupeed local public television employees asking me for the $10 I sent in months ago.
I'm not sleeping..zzzzzzzzzz.
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