Don't judge

Where do you keep your snare drum?

So you don't think I'm totally full of shit, I've decided to provide photographic proof of the Great Spoffice Cleanout of 2011. Yes, it started out as just a closet project. But the closet is in the spoffice (spare bedroom + office for the newbies) so the whole place had to blow up in order for me to make real progress. In fact, the project is already creeping out of the spoffice and into the rest of the apartment which means the whole ordeal is beginning to get dangerous. See, I've been here before. I've emptied this closet before. It has vomited its contents into the other rooms of our tiny palace many times before now, only to be eaten back up and held once more in the sour bowels of those white closet doors. (I think I would eat and really enjoy some sort of deliciously tart candy called Sour Bowels.) But not this time, oh no. This time, I'm serious. This shit is getting gone. Since it seems my soul can't be Feng Shui-ed into a flowing model of calm or efficiency, my space must. I don't know that I've ever participated in actual spring cleaning but I think that's what's going down over here. I'm ripping the cling wrap off the windows and getting some air up in here. My methodology has involved 3-4 hours of writing followed by 1-2 hours of cleaning. Rinse and repeat. I'm not sure yet if I'm taking a break from the writing with the organizing or if I'm taking a break from the organizing with the writing but either way, exercise breaks are not being observed and Cadbury Mini Egg breaks are. I can't walk away from this fight anymore. I don't care that Dan just got us hooked on Season Four of Mad Men or that Idol has really taken an exciting turn with last week's booting of Pia or that it's getting nice out, I'm getting 'er done.

Let's be honest, I'm into it. Between the writing and the excavating, there's a lot spilling out of dark corners right now. I'm not saying it's all going to be put back perfectly, but at least I'll know what's in there.

The sour bowels

The bowels of the sour bowels.

Look closely---not only does one box contain "Lots of shizzle w/ wires" but another contains solely "Bobbleheads." Bet you don't have a box of bobbleheads in any of your closets. (Also, find and circle the clarinet from seventh grade.)

There's a door back there. Blocking our means of egress, totes filled with some of my mom's things that I couldn't let go of. This is what kicked off the Great Spoffice Cleanout, needing to find a spot for my mama's stuff.

Did I mention that I also brought home the desk from my childhood bedroom?

The bed provides interim housing.

Big plans for these shelves...not for Dan's bobbleheads.

That's a Leg Magic you see there. Jealous?

My desk is relatively clean...which proves I've been using it...which proves I've been writing...and not looking up Brene Brown on Facebook.

I've been in this space for nearly 10 hours. It's time to retreat and fortify. Where you at mini eggs?

This rocked my world today.

I am engaged in an extremely deep and quality writing project a massive closet clean-out (which I've started before only to ultimately shove everything back in...several times) and I watched/listened to this video Dan sent to me as I attempted to figure out what to do with the tank tops I broke out for the Miami trip. (Do I pack 'em back up because, let's face it, we're not there yet? Or do I keep 'em out because, let's face it, the idea of wearing them ever again makes me happy?) Anyway, this really got to me. (By the way, how 'bout the multitasking? Pairing closet douching with spiritual education? Get me while I'm hot, Oprah!)

Water's so clear you can see to the bottom, hundred thousand dollar cars, everybody got 'em

That there's a conch fritter.

Okay, I’m back.

You guys, I was in Paradise and I simply could not bring you with me.

The last week was spent in the warmth of the Miami sun and then I returned just in time for yesterday’s snow.

MoFo.

My Aunt Gail and grandmother, Mavis, gave my sisters and me (Cherie and I met Katie down there) a week of poolside bliss and the only reason I am able to return here is because I was revived down there. Conch Fritters, massages, orange Creamsicles, cappuccino every morning, Ruben’s Cuban, movie parties, Twizzlers, M&M's and popcorn in bed (oh my), rugelach, trays of chocolate-covered toffees and raisins, heavy cries, Bossa Nova, Miami rainstorms, Gigi talks in rocking chairs and, of course, bottomless glasses of frothy, sweet, fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice which Gail fueled me with all week. I could feel my withered cells restore and bloat on Vitamin C and sunshine.

We booked the trip back in February and when my dad’s brain tumor was diagnosed shortly thereafter, Gail texted me, “Whatever you do, don’t cancel your trip,” knowing how badly we all needed the break and nourishment of vacation. And nourish us, she did. It was a weeklong resuscitation. I didn’t even know how much I needed it until the first day we were there I lay down on the patio, had a cry for all the memories of my mama and the Miami vacations of my childhood that surrounded us and, face to the sun, breathed as deeply and easily as I had in months. The sun and love warmed my soul and body back to life.

Now I am clinging with all my might to a post-vacation high (as opposed to post-vacation depression which sometimes greets me). I even have enthusiasm for all the order I am planning to achieve in these last cold weeks (and even gratitude for them in this way) so that I’m allowed to go out and play when it’s time.

The shit storm is still here, there’s no denying it. But, even if it’s only for this minute, I don’t feel pinned by its heaviness. If only for this minute, I feel like I’m riding the crazy waves it’s churning up.

Thanks G.

Recommended Reading

Love this lady. We used this photo for the prayer cards.

And just so we're clear, I don't normally read The New Yorker but found this article after reading another of Meghan O'Rourke's pieces that was recommended to me. I'd hate for you to think I'm smarter than I am.

Mama, a visit tonight would be nice.

Tulips were one of her favorite flowers so I pick them up whenever I see 'em at the store. A bloom this lovely feels like a gift she's giving.

Sometimes I go to sleep begging her to visit me in my dreams. A couple of weeks ago, the night my dad had his seizure, I dreamt that I got to hug her. (I always tell Dan that, more than anything, I wish I could just hug her again.) In the dream she laughed at me as I clung to her and asked me, "What is it you love so much about hugging me?" and I got to tell her about the warmth of her hug, the love of her hug, the feel of her arms. In the morning I felt like she came for a visit when I needed her most. I'm hoping she decides to make a habit of this.

Bad news today. The pathology report showed that the tumor in my dad's brain was a malignant high-grade tumor versus a low-grade one as they originally expected. This means that recurrence is not only likely, but could be quick. (Though I have no idea what "quick" yet means in terms of tumor recurrence.) Basically, it's a more aggressive tumor than they initially expected (a III on the I to IV scale). The neurosurgeon recommended that my dad start chemotherapy and radiation as soon as possible in order to hopefully kill those microscopic tumor cells that weren't removed with surgery and thwart/slow growth. An appointment with an oncologist has already been scheduled.

More oncologists.

My dad, like all of us, seems to be a bit shocked. He'll end his stay at the rehab hospital this coming Friday and then head home for out-patient occupational, physical and speech therapy three times a week. He's managing some longer sentences with effort and is able to express his needs but he's not yet capable of real conversation and is still struggling to express spontaneous thought. The doctor told us again today that it could take six months to a year for his speech to fully return.

Not much more to say on this front. None of us know enough about the specifics of this tumor to understand more than this. Questions bring more questions. I hate how fucking familiar that feels.

And I wish my mom was here to guide us through it.

Bit of a bummer, this entry, but I know some of you were waiting for the news...

It's 7:50 and I'm in bed...that's the kind of tired we're talking about here. An emotional fatigue that is just oppressive. I can't imagine what my dad is feeling.

No witty ending here...just a solemn what the fuck?

Fuh real?

So, remember how this blog used to be (sometimes) funny (or at least aiming for that) and then last year we found out my mom had cancer and then all of sudden this turned into an account of her illness and then she died and I couldn't do this anymore and when I did finally come back I was inconsistent with posting and told you that I really didn't know the direction that this blog was going to go because I really didn't know what direction life was heading in?

Well, I certainly didn't expect to be doing any U-turns.

A new situation has arisen and the storyline rivals the most contrived of Lifetime movies.

Ten days ago, out of nowhere, my dad had a seizure.

Then an MRI showed that he had a tumor the size of a cell phone in his brain.

Then he had brain surgery.

Then he had complications from brain surgery which left him unable to speak.

Now he is at a rehab hospital in Boston hoping to reacquire verbal and language skills that will take two weeks to a year (from what I've heard from thee of the vague timeline) to return completely.

We're still waiting on the pathology report to get the story on the tumor though either chemotherapy or radiation will be the likely course of action.

All this in 10 days.

Less than four months after losing my mom.

To quote one of my sisters, "We've been leveled."

It's a situation that has not yet totally sunken in, so organizing my thoughts into neat paragraphs is not even an option. I just figured I would throw an update up to explain what may or may not be a Spew disappearance. The possibility exists that as things settle and we know what we are dealing with, keeping things up here will be manageable. But the idea of documenting another parent's illness (in addition to witnessing it...again) seems too daunting a task right now for this tired, broken body.

I'm not trying to dangle any carrots here, I just don't know what will be. Earth has gone and flipped on its axis (again) in the last 10 days so there's no knowing what the next 10 (the next five...) will bring.

This is the shit drug habits are born from, that's all I'm saying. So, whether I can keep up with this blog is an unknown.

For now I'll say that in ER/House terms my dad seems "stable." He is there mentally and can understand all that is happening but is working to learn how to "turn on his voice," and also express spontaneous thought according to the docs and speech therapists we've seen. That's the post-surgery story. We're still in the dark about the brain tumor. Brain tumor...fuck.

The Oscars are on tonight. Without Meryl Streep in the race, my heart is only half in it. (Also, the whole tumor thing.) Still, I'll tune in. It could provide a little distraction or even a shred of comfort. How could I possibly feel any connection right now to an orgy of back-patting Hollywood elite? Pretty easily. Sandra Bullock had a shit year, too.

A Will-You-Do List

Will somebody come to my apartment and do my laundry? I’m down to only thongs for undies and this is not my comfort zone. I have two waist-high mountains of dirty clothes and not an ounce of motivation.

Also, will someone cook the pork loin that’s sitting in my fridge looking like horse genitalia and skeeving me out? If I don’t cook it today it’s gonna have to be tossed and generally speaking if I have to handle the meat, then I am unable to eat it later on. (That’s what she said.)

Also, could someone come over and balance our household budget so I know what my spending cap is for psychic readings this month?

And could someone come wash my kitchen floor? I ate sardines again today (no, seriously, they’re not bad) and some of the olive oil/lemon sludge that they’re packed in was flung onto various spots of the floor and I’m doubtful the half sheet of paper towel that I dedicated to cleaning it up really did the job.

Could you take care of the bathroom too? The other day I broke a glass bottle filled with beach sand and shells that sits atop the counter and though I took a hand vacuum to it, I’m pretty sure there are still shards of glass scattered on the floor. (I didn’t tell Dan this because I didn’t think he was at risk...I mean who walks around barefoot in a bathroom of all places?)

And could you go to the gym for me? It’s been a few days and I can see a rectangle Pop Tart protruding from my saddlebags.

I did manage my own showering today though...wait, no I didn’t. I actually thought I did and then realized it was an untruth. After the gym should be fine for that...please moisturize.

Also, could you vacuum, dust, clean off the kitchen table, write a best-seller, return my library books (yeah, I go to the library...wanna make something of it?), call my friends back, handle the e-mails, bring the trash bag of clothes sitting in the center of my bedroom to Goodwill, put the spoffice that I tore apart Sunday back together and pick up a birthday present for a 30th birthday party I will be attending this weekend?

Or maybe you could just do the laundry?