La vita è bella

This is a surprise to me; as soon as I declare that I will be writing my way through my mom's illness, I find myself not actually wanting to. I can't even speak most of my worries, never mind see them in print. Every feeling seems too fleeting to nail down on a page. Highs and lows switch spots before I even know which is where; or even where I am with all of this.

This morning I woke up a couple of hours before Dan and spent the time googling and wikipediaing my way through lung cancer facts. I wear facts like a blanket in times of strife; they insulate me from cold sorrow or searing fear. I read statistics that sank like boulders in my stomach but still I hopped from page to page looking up words I didn't understand and then looking up the words of their definitions until I was back where I began: lung cancer that has metastasized to the adrenal gland. (Note to siblings: Don't do this unless you really think you want to know the things you're pretty sure you don't want to know right now. Wait until you feel ready...or at least until we get the biopsy results.)

Needless to say, it was all a bit of a downer. Dan came out in the middle of my research and told me he was in bed reading if I wanted to join him. I didn't leave my spot for at least another hour, rapt as I was in learning about the different types of cancers and their corresponding treatments. When I finally went into the bedroom he had a heart-shaped box of chocolates sitting on my pillow with a card that said, "My Lola."

Valentine's Day. (Before you get judgy about my ever-creative and brilliant gift-giving Dan going the box of chocolate route, you should know that I told him early on that I love this particular Valentine's cliche; it's like tapas for chocolate. Plus, we're not the VD gift type.) I felt like a shit. Here he was waiting for me to join him all morning and when I finally did I was too bummed out to sincerely enjoy the gesture. Laptop in tow since I had been planning to to do some blogging along side him, I lay down in our bed. And then he gave me another gift; he started asking questions about what I had learned so far. He wanted to know everything I knew which was great because there was nothing I wanted more in that moment than to talk about it, even just to say some of the stuff out loud.

We spent the rest of Valentine's Day morning in bed together, wrapped in our blankets and each other, educating ourselves on the subject of lung cancer. We studied its stages, learned about the side effects of chemotherapy, looked up words we'd never heard of like "oncogenes" and also those with which we were more familiar like "malignant," just to understand its properties on a cellular level. Dan asked me to explain things to him and when I couldn't answer we typed the question into a Google search box and sought out the answers together. He put his head on my chest and I used one hand to stroke his hair while the other navigated through medical websites. It was, in its way, one of the most romantic morning we've ever shared.

In the early days of witnessing this technique of informational immersion, Dan would try to talk me out of it, saying I was just making myself crazy. (In some ways I was; I've lost entire overnights to winding and seemingly infinite Google trails.) But now he understands that this is what I do. It gives me a sense of control, however false. I'm trying to stay at least one step ahead of this cancer. This week we will get the results of my mom's lung biopsy. (This was a "minor" surgery that involved cutting her neck and putting a scope down it---just to give some context of how "minor" any of this. Fortunately, she did fine and is recovering nicely. And, of course, she made all the nurses whose paths she crossed laugh the whole day through. Post-surgery when one nurse---a native Bostonian---asked my mom where the "caaaaa was paaaaked" my still-drugged mom answered, "In Haaaaavad Yaaaad.")

Since we'll soon know exactly what sort of cancer we are dealing with---either small-cell or non-small cell (WTF? on the labeling system, I know)--- it is important that I understand what these terms mean before I even hear the results. Nothing will frustrate and upset (perhaps even panic) me more than to listen to a doctor speak about my mom's health in a language that I can't understand.

Thus, it is imperative that I become fluent in cancer. Dan seems up for learning it too. Some couples learn Italian.

Our Valentine's Day plans are nothing special, just watching a movie at some point as it's our favorite thing to do together. The romantic comedy du jour? "Swimming in Auschwitz." (Another thing I do at times like this is lose myself to hardships that are far worse than that which I'm enduring...)

Candlelight dinners are so overrated.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone.

Here's an entry I never wanted to write.

1, 3 and 5, I believe.

I was going to write about Dan and the superhuman that he is for spending an entire week with his mom as she recovered from gall bladder surgery, cooking her meals, doing the laundry, cleaning her bathroom, etc. (She seems to be doing better now, by the way.)

I was going to write about roasting a chicken.

I was going to dedicate an entire pictorial post to the massive hair wad---the Red Whale--- that Dan fished out of our tub drain last weekend.

I was going to write about watching Julie and Julia again and what Nora Ephron had to say about housework and blogs.

There were lots of things I was going to write about these past few days, but none of them was going to speak to the most significant and jarring aspect of recent life which is the fact that my mom has cancer.

Lung cancer that has metastasized to her adrenal gland, we learned this week.

My mom has cancer.

This is a very difficult sentence to write.

And it’s a line I wouldn’t have written here had she not given me express permission to do so. Though this blog may seem a contradiction to what I am about to say, I do understand a lot about privacy.

And I understood this long before I heard Nora Ephron say (in reference to the movie which is based, in part, on a beginning writer’s blog), “...There’s no question that people who are involved with people who blog every day often feel as if their privacy is totally invaded by this process, which starts out as a kind of harmless, charming thing and then feels very different after a while.”

I work very hard to avoid crossing the lines of others’ privacy (sometimes at the cost of my own truth, even) so I was certainly not going to discuss on here my mom’s cancer diagnosis in real time, as it was unfolding this past week; at least not right from the start when even broaching the topic of her comfort level on my writing about this in a public way felt premature and even wrong.

But she brought it up.

On Tuesday morning, as we waited for her 8:30 appointment with a Thoracic Surgeon at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, my mom brought up the subject of her grandfather’s death. In his mid-seventies he was diagnosed with liver cancer, given a year to live and met his deadline. (That could have been the most terrible pun I’ve ever made and was so not intended.) At the time, my mom, who had long-since finished nursing school, was taking classes towards her bachelor’s degree (and was also managing the minor workload of being a mother of two children under the age of four and pregnant with a third; a feat I truly can’t even fathom). As part of her course-work, she explained to me, she interviewed her grandfather regularly throughout that year and wrote all about his illness. She said how helpful and interesting it was for her to look at his death through that lens. Though my mom and her grandfather were very close (it was, in fact, my father whom my great-grandfather chose to be his bedside physician), as a nurse, she sees death differently than most; she understands its inevitability and thus is able to see it with the same sense of eager observation and curiosity that prompted her to enter the medical field in the first place.

“It was such a learning experience,” she said. “I was documenting the dying process.”

(Let me be very clear: I am not documenting my mom’s “dying process.” I have no such intention and, in fact, refuse to do so. I am writing about how my mom has cancer and her road to wellness. That’s how I’ve decided this story will end.)

Hearing my mom explain this about her grandfather though, realizing how writing had served her, it seemed only natural that I ask about writing about her illness. So I did.

My dad, who brought my mom to Boston for the appointment (I met my parents there), at first said that he did not want me to do it.

“Why not?” my mom said. “I did it.”

(For the record, I understand my dad’s hesitancy on every level. Who wants to read about how the person he loves most in this world is very sick? Who, while living through something such as this, wants to also hear the narration?)

But my mom got it. She got it from the perspective of the writer who often processes life through ink on a page and she got it from the perspective of the reader who so often is looking to see his/her pain reflected in someone’s else’s story-telling.

“It helps people to overcome fear,” she said of stories of sorrow and hardship. “It gives people hope. It educates.”

My mom reminded me then about how it had been the “Little House” books that had inspired such hope in her as a child. (It is after Laura Ingalls Wilder, incidentally, that I am named. However, it is the long red braids and freckles of a young Melissa Gilbert who often comes to mind when I am imagining my mom as a child, seeking refuge in these books.)

I cannot adequately express my relief and the gratitude I feel toward my mom for understanding this and granting me permission to write what I need to. Leave it to a mother to facilitate, during her own time of hardship, her child’s journey through it. Writing will keep me well during this time. I would have documented things privately in my journals (and will probably write more than what I will feel able to post here; though I will always strive for as much honesty as possible) but had I not been able to write about this---at least to some extent--- here, I think I would have had to quit blogging completely. How could I have possibly kept up a day-to-day account without mentioning the only thing I can think about? (This is, of course, why I couldn’t write all week.)

But then, it is more than my mom’s unceasing mothering that made her understand this; it is that she is a writer, herself. Like the long red braids she had as a kid, she passed this other thing on to me as well. My mom could never allow herself (or maybe endure) the sense of indulgence (or even the freedom) that choosing a life of writing sometimes evokes but, make no mistake, she is a writer. It’s why her letters to me have always been so lovely. It’s why she notices the Catbird that follows her around her yard as she digs holes and plants her bulbs and flowers; and why she has her own story surrounding it: that this bird is in some way the reincarnation of the man who taught her how to garden---her grandfather---overseeing her work. It’s why she understands that the emotional complexities that have already surfaced surrounding her cancer---the nature of a family coping, the bonds between mothers and daughters and husbands and wives, the sharp focus into which all of our lives have been thrust---is the stuff of the richest writing material.

It feels terrible and disgustingly opportunistic to even apply the term “material” to my mother being diagnosed with cancer, but I am comforted by the fact that she understands it more than anyone. In fact, she was the one who first used this word when telling me that I should write about. And while I can only wish that my mom’s sentiments that the dissolution of fear, illumination of some unknown, and the uncovering of a sense of hope will come of this for those who read it, I can’t honestly say that this is my intention in writing it. I am mostly just hoping for these things for myself.

In short, from here on out, sometimes this blog is going to be about cancer. I figured I should let you know before I got right into it. (Though right into it we are. Tomorrow, I will be heading to Boston again where my mom will be undergoing a cervical mediastinoscopy---a biopsy of the lymph nodes around the lung.) I’m sure some days will feel light enough that I will be able to continue to write about masseuses copping a feel and plenty of that’s what she said...but other days I simply won’t.

I already feel different now about things than when I started this entry. Hope fades into fear so fast.

Still, I can guarantee you this: There will be an entry on the Red Whale. Ahab is way too proud of that thing for me to not write about it.

I'll have what she's having

Dan and I were supposed to go to this today (I'm aware that I'm opening myself---but, more likely Dan---up to some intense ball-busting here) but he'll be staying in CT for at least a few more days to care for his mom post-surgery, which is exactly where he should be. I really couldn't be more proud of him for the son he is being to his mom (but it doesn't mean I don't miss him a heckuva lot right this minute).

Today I went for an 80-minute massage because I was feeling lonely and sometimes you just need to give yourself a gift. I love massages but can rarely justify the expense. However, since we weren't spending the $50 to "awaken our connection" and I also returned my recently purchased $40 Bluetooth ear piece (which I abhorred as much as I thought I would) I felt it would leave no new hole in our finances and went for it.

It was one of the best massages I've ever had and a wise choice given the week's shitty (see yesterday's entry) circumstances. I have to admit that part of the reason it was so great had to do with an improved ability---due to recent practice---to stay there rather than traveling far away into tunnels of thought and thus missing the whole massage (as I've done many, many times before). Oh sure, my brain scampered off for a bit to nose around some unexamined corners and she even tried to traverse some dangerous landscape once while I wasn't looking, but I was able to rein 'er in before she got us both into any trouble.

But a larger part of why I liked the massage so much was that it was a really good massage. And I've had bad ones. I've endured a handful of chatty masseuses; one who even went into gory detail during my entire "relaxation massage" about an incidence of food poisoning that I had no business knowing anything about. Further frustrating, was another masseuse who kept placing her hands on my back or legs---but not moving them or even applying any pressure---as if her energy current alone was going to get the knots out.

I liked my masseuse today.

I liked her despite the fact that she had sort of a stressed-out energy about her instead of that pothead calmness I generally prefer in such situations.

I liked her despite the fact that she sucked back her post-nasal drip the whole time and even had to excuse herself to get a drink of water because the tickle in her throat that she kept fighting back would not relent. (This endeared me to her quite a bit, in fact. Who doesn't know that feeling of trying to hold back a cough, letting the slightest bit out, praying that it's over and then feeling the ominous nagging in your throat once more? Plus, this was way less disturbing to me than the time that, in addition to the dolphin music that they play during massages, I had the soundtrack of the massage therapist's incessant grumbling stomach to ease me into nirvana.)

I liked her despite the fact that, marking a massage first, her hands embarked on a journey that went well below my love handles (tucking the blanket into my drawers and thereby exposing my ass crack; a peculiar discomfort I decided instantly I had to accept)and then ventured into a region that can only be described as northern to central butt cheek. I'm not gonna lie, I think I liked her because of this. When she started rubbing around my clavicle, I thought for a minute that this was going to be a full body massage and I told myself I'd wait a full five seconds---fiiiiiiive miiiiiiissssssiiiiiisssssiiiiippppppiiiii---before objecting. (Kidding...though Dan may be gone for over a week...)

Anyway, not only were her hands bold, but they were strong. She was around my age so I expected her to be somewhat inexperienced (a bias I need to let go of; I'm old now) but she knew what she was doing. I kept thinking---I have to remember her name...shit, what's her name...I know she told me...what was it...oh yeah...it's Laura...dumbass.

Despite walking out of there with, what can only be described as, sex-head---my hair was a lion's mane from having been flipped over my head and streaked with massage oil---I stopped by Blockbuster on the way home and picked up a couple of movies. One is a documentary about the business of crystal meth (I really admire the resourcefulness and entrepreneurial spirit it espouses) and the other is Julie and Julia. I chose that because I knew Dan would never want to rent it (since we already saw it in the theater) and, in addition to wanting to see it again, I'm interested in the the extra features as well as Writer and Director Nora Ephron's commentary.

Have you ever listened to the commentary of a movie? It involves watching the entire movie again but this time you're listening to the director's voice play over the film as s/he provides insight into some of the details of the making of the movie. "In that shot I really wanted her to be eating a hot dog but we tried it with a salami 'cuz that was all the deli had left and that's how the famous salami scene was born!" (One-track mind much?) You really have to like a movie (or be seeking distraction in any form) to sit through it.

The only other time I listened to the entire director's commentary was shortly after I moved to NYC and was feeling so heartbroken and confused about the distance that I had put between Dan and me that I was too distraught to even explore the city and instead stayed in bed all day watching When Harry Met Sally (I'll see NYC through my TV, I thought) and listened to Director Rob Reiner. Now that I think about it, Nora Ephron wrote that movie too.

Weird. Or not that weird but the sort of coincidence that you think is interesting when you've been spending far too much time indoors and alone.

Too late to turn back now; the wine is poured.

Cheers.

"To ass play!"

(Line. Crossed.)

Not so.

"Feelin'" far from this last night, I happened to pause the TV while Jeopardy was displaying this category heading. (I was only made grumpier by the fact that I was off my game and didn't fare well in my at-home competition. To make matters worse, it was College Jeopardy and I'm supposed to be smarter than those kids. Fuckers.)

I'm not trying to be overly negative, but on a scale of one to 10, I'd have to give this week a negative 70. (The "Potent Potable" in the foreground---and the fuzziness of the screen---is representative of how I dealt with said badness.)

You know how sometimes things seem so shitty that the only words of solace you can tell yourself is that "some day you'll laugh about this"? Well, that's a stupid expression. (Though it should be said, I've already been able to laugh---quite a bit and inappropriately, in fact---about some of it already.)

Sorry to be so cryptic but I couldn't very well write that I've been singing around my apartment with a halo of whistling birds fluttering around me when really I would shoot a bluebird (or any other whistling creature or person) and mount it on my wall right about now.

Fun, aren't I? I'll end here so as to limit by cyber-tantrum, but I just didn't want to give y'all the silent treatment.

P.S. See how that glass above has an "L" on it? We got a dozen of these lovely glasses as a wedding gift. Because I didn't take Dan's last name---and clearly didn't quite grasp the magnitude of people's perception of our merging lives (or, for that matter, the magnitude of marriage in general)---it didn't occur to me that "L" was for "Lederer"; Dan's last name. When I opened the box, I said aloud, "I wonder why they didn't put a "D" on any of them?" These words have haunted me---in the form of Dan's mockery---ever since.

Fucker.

Night two of bachelorhood

Dinner for one.

Can you even tell what that is?

I had enough extra sauce, noodles, cheese, and energy to make a second lasagna tonight after sending Dan down to his mom's last night with a first. I still had a ton of extra noodles even after that though, so I went through the cabinets to see what else I could build into lasagna form. (I didn't have any bacon but I'm sure some form of bacon-sagna would be every bit right.) Instead, I pulled out a couple of small jars of chocolate sauce, a bag of mini-marshmallows, some shredded coconut and began to build. The layering went as follows:

chocolate
noodles
chocolate
marshmallows
noodles
chocolate
coconut

It got messy.



I baked it at 300-degrees for about 10 minutes and voila:




Looks kinda good doesn't it?



It wasn't.

(Well, let's not dismiss the fact that it was a medley of pasta, two sugar forms and shredded coconut; even if you get it wrong, you're licking the plate.) The lasagna noodles were done al dente which is fine for a large lasagna in which the noodles will continue cooking for at least 45 minutes in the oven. This same effect was not achieved in the 10 minutes I baked the chochsagna so the noodles were too hard (not a usual complaint of mine). If I were to do it again---and I will (you think Hostess got it right on his first try?)---I'd add way more marshmallows such that there was a thick sponge effect for the middle layer. This time around the marshmallows just melted, their whitness leaking into the chocolate. (There's either a dirty joke to be made here or a food metaphor in there relating to race relations, but I'm not reaching for either.)

A night well spent (and yes, Dan, I did the dishes).

Getting ready for bed now which is the only lame part of having the place to myself. While I enjoy a fine diagonal cross-bed recline, my fear of the dark limits this enjoyment. For this reason, I've (temporarily) moved the TV back into the bedroom...I need to be distracted from the silence.

I also leave the bathroom light on.

And Mr. Puppy guards the door.

Shut up.

Time for some Debauchery!

I'm home alone!

100! 100! 100 blog entries! I wish I could give you all a prize. Want me to send you cookies? (I think peanut butter balls would be better suited mascots for this blog.)

I was sure I would have the technological savvy by the 100th blog to be able to make cyber-fire works appear, but I still can't seem to change the header so here we are; just more plain text.

Dan left tonight for his mom's house in Connecticut. She's having gall bladder surgery tomorrow and he'll see her through it and stay down there with her until Friday. He's a good guy, that Dan. I sent him down with a lasagna, meatloaf and potatoes (for my Irish M-I-L...one of Dan's favorite meals, too) and some homemade soup (homemade by him, of course), deciding it would be best to stay behind. The surgery is supposed to be relatively simple so I'm sure all will be well.

So, I'm a bachelor for the next few days. I think I'm going to call the pizza boy and make a movie...after 100 entries, I've earned it.

Thanks for sticking around, peeps. Next 100 will be way more betterer writing!

(And I'll fix the header...)

You're not the boss of me, shitty Monday.

It is sofuckingcold. Dan took this picture of me retreating into my turtle shell while we were in the car. Sofuckingcold.

I've decided that for the rest of my life I'm going to do whatever I can to make Mondays the most fun day of the week so that I can stop dreading it. For me, it's not the actual events of the day that I dread. (There's certainly a difference between showing up to a poorly lit office full of assholes---my apologies to all whom have to do this today---and showing up to a desk in my colorful spoffice and later to see a freckle-nosed niece whom I adore.) But it's the pressure that smothers me. Every Monday feels like it is supposed to be the start of my life becoming whatever it is I want it to be and then by the day's end I am somehow disappointed that I wasn't able to make all that happen by dinnertime.

(Never mind the fact that I am unable to digest the fact that much of what I really want my life "to be" is the ability to write all day and also to have the flexibility to see my friends and loved ones when I want to; which is pretty much how things are now. I am perfectly aware of how profoundly stupid it is to know that I already have most of what I want and still be consumed by the search...It's like looking for your sunglasses when they're on top of your head (and, as in this case, you know they're on top of your head). I'm sure some day I will have this realization (yes, a realization about something I've already realized...something I've already realized I've realized, in fact) and will chastise myself: You wasted all that time! You looked everywhere! And they were on your head the whole time! And you knew it! And you knew you knew it! Idiot!)

So, in order to make things a little more fun, I am going to engage in one or even all of the following activities every Monday for the rest of my life.

1. Play Ring Around the Rosy with Dan when he wakes up.

2. Make prank phone calls to stay-at-home moms.

Example.
Me: "Hi. Is John there?"
Caller: "No, he's at work."
Me: "Oh...Well, did he tell you what time I was supposed to meet him at the hotel?"

3. Today Show drinking games.

4. Bone cruises.

5. Call in a bomb threat to an elementary school.

6. Replace Dan's windshield wiper fluid with ink.

7. Throw rocks at the neighbor's dog (or the neighbors).

8. Contact old boyfriends.

9. Call Dan every hour on the hour.

10. Write a list of everything my parents did wrong while raising me and read it to them over the phone.

Obviously I have a busy day ahead of me, so I better be going.

But first, a weekend review:

Friday night:

Best Date Night Ever
-Met Dan for dinner at Chipotle after work
-Went to the Movies ("Up In the Air"...good movie that would have been great were it not for the hype)
-Went to Barnes and Noble for hot cocoa, a gooey cookie and chatting; eavesdropped on a man telling whomever was on the other end of his cell phone that he was cancer free (our interest was piqued when we heard him say "Are you sitting down?"); spent an hour browsing books until the store made the "we're closing, get the fuck out" announcement.

Saturday:

8:30am My first official yoga class. A yoga studio, which is, literally, a three-minute drive from my house, held a free open house so I decided to check it out. Loved it (and am embarrassed it took me this long to get there). At the beginning of class the teacher asked what words we think of when we hear the word "enlightened." At random, my classmates offered their answers: "Tranquil...Present...Loving...Grateful...Able to breath" It took even the stores of resistance I keep between my toes to keep from shouting out, "White power."

Saturday night:

Watched Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch's War on Journalism and got the shit scared out of us. It's not so much that I was shocked to find out how skewed their "news" is---I know this about Fox, as I know to question every news channel and outlet---it was hearing people speak (many with their voices distorted by their own request and for their own protection) about the ways in which they were told---by corporate memo---what information to provide the public...or exclude. Of course, the worst part about Fox is that they sell themselves as the "Fair and Balanced" network and people buy it. I'm not saying their aren't agendas everywhere but this is just sickening.

Sunday:

Noon: My second official yoga class. This was actually a two-hour long "Restorative Yoga" class and was more focused on meditation than the more physical yoga I had done the day before. It was totally new and surprisingly challenging. My five minutes of meditating most mornings did nothing to prepare me for two hours of it. Dan and I took the class together and as I glanced over at him, his feet up on the wall as he balanced on a bolster, the blood flowing down to his heart, the peace of the room between us, I thought about how I can't fucking believe I'm fucking married to a man who will take a fucking yoga class with me. (For the record, he had already tried the class before and brought me along this time...guess which one of us used the new yoga mat that I bought him for Christmas?)

2:30 Lunch at Panera

3:30 "More Yoga"

Sunday night:

Ate leftover Chinese food and watched some of the Grammys (never watch the Grammys despite my status as awards' show junkie but was looking for the MJ tribute) and was amazed by the magnitude of the performances. More amazing? The Friendly's sundae that Dan brought home, made with---get this---Hunka Chunka PB Fudge ice cream. Do yourself a favah and try that ice cream. It's better than "More Yoga."

10pm: Read myself to sleep, grateful for a five-star weekend.

And now it is a great Monday and I'm not going to spend it beating myself up for not making it on the best seller's list with a book I've not yet written.

Besides, it's 12 o'clock. Time to call Dan.

P.S. I sent Dan a copy of this before I posted it, asking him if "white power" was too much (since sometimes I can't see that line for myself).

His response:

"I like it, sweetie. White Power is always funny. Well, when it’s meant to be funny."