joining the masses

Recently, some unnecessarily generous L.A.-based friends secretly purchased one of these for me.

I've never been much of a gadget/doo-dad/gizmo person, and I would never have bought one of these for myself, but dammit, this thing is pretty cool.

To you, my sneaky covert friends -- thanks bunches.

It's hard to have to comfort my mother first thing in the morning. She's worried about some unexpected financial difficulties that have arisen from my dad's medical bills, and is wondering where she is going to get these sort of monies. It's hard not to worry, but I know that things will work out for her.

The hardest thing for her is the reason she needs to call all these places and sort out these problems in the first place. Her husband isn't injured and expected to make a full recovery, her husband is terminally ill and is no longer able to do anything to help her. The support system that she's leaned on for so long is gone. The man she'd go to for comfort can't comfort her anymore. She's only got me (and Erik), and that probably isn't much of a consolation.

Watching them interact this evening at the nursing home took on a new poignancy. I saw their entire marriage reduced to a stroke of the forehead and a holding of hands. There's 30 years of love and hardship and life behind her "I love you"s -- now said with the urgency of perhaps being the last time their ever uttered.

Thinking about that kind of love rendered every other thought in my head moot for a moment. It was really something.

misty water color memories...

One of the fun parts about being home is the chance to go through old photos and such. Here are a few of my favorites from the mountain I dug through. Excuse the poor quality scans...


This is my brother and I, probably somewhere in New Jersey. Sorry Erik, I couldn't resist...



Here is my mom, circa 1975-ish. I love her smile in this photo -- and those octagonal frames -- man, they don't make 'em like they used to.



Here am I at the Portland zoo. What you might not know is that I used to be a munchkin, many years ago.



And finally dad, showing off a truly daring sartorial sense in a pic that encapsulates his essence pretty well -- and I mean that in a good way.

taking it down a notch

This is a post about having nothing to post about.

Sometimes you just haven't got anything to say, or nothing you want to take the time to say, anyway -- words effort-laden.

And that is fine, for this shall be a silent post. Please leave your own words here, if you choose.

Oh now here's a good one for you...

This idea was run by me today -- that "people will remember you for the bad stuff."

It's remarkable timing being asked that right now, as I've been thinking about this very concept myself for the past couple of days (I'll get to why in a sec). I suppose it has a lot to do with the person doing the remembering...

I spent the day yesterday with an old, old friend of mine. She and I were best friends throughout grade school, middle school, and most of high school. Towards the end of high school, we starting experiencing some growing pains. Part of it was simply wanting to find an identity outside "being her friend." She and I both floated through different crowds, and after awhile, I found her modus operandi to be annoying and transparent -- and even resented her for her choice in other friends and found the friendship she did give to be a bit shallow and manipulative (all things that had less to do with how she really was, and how I chose to view her -- to put it simply -- it wasn't her, it was me). I finally decided that I didn't really want to be such good friends with her. I know that sounds pretty callous and stupid now, and if you're reading this dear friend, forgive me.

But that was when we were eighteen. We're 25 now, and a lot's changed. I moved to Los Angeles, lost the equivilant of an Olsen twin, and struck out to conquer the big, bad film industry. She married an old childhood friend of ours, moved to Seattle, and is currently pregnant. Our families always kept acquainted, so I was somewhat aware of where she was and what she was doing, but hearing news of her always brought about a role of the eyes, and she and I didn't have any direct contact for about four years.

That is until my dad got sick. He was something of a second dad to her, much like her father to me. When she heard he was sick, she sent me an email extending her condolences -- and an olive branch of sorts. When she told me she'd be in town this weekend, I jumped at the chance to see her again.

And the experience of spending time with her again was truly magical. At once familiar -- her parents and their house are still very much the same, at once surprising -- it was the first time that she and I spoke to and related to one another as adults, and as it turns out, I still really like her.

Healing is the best way to describe it. Because before, when I'd look back on our friendship, although I no longer held onto any of the resentment that existed before, there was still an amount of tarnish on it. Yesterday that part of my past was given a little polish and shine, and I can see for the first time, maybe ever, the beauty and value that was there all along in that relationship. I do remember the good stuff, and the bad stuff -- it's no longer so clear in my mind.

So, getting back to the point of this post -- true, I think there's an inclination to remember the bad of others, but only for so long. I believe that people do long for forgiveness and reconciliation. But do they act on those longings? Maybe not so often -- as pride or anger get in the way, so they hang onto their resentment and bitterness as it eats them up inside. And that's tragic.

For me, it's easier to remember the good, because holding onto the bad is just too exhausting. True, it's much easier to reach out to the saint than to the guilty, but then I have to remember that we're all guilty, and for all the good that I've tried to do in life, I can recall having done some pretty crappy stuff. I'm thankful that I have others in my life who can look past that and love me, irregardless, so it's important for me to do the same in return.

So let me put it to you, gentle reader: do you tend to remember the good or bad of others?

a missing piece

I just found out my brother reads this blog -- so welcome, this one is for you...

My dad is still alive, just barely. Or is it really true that he's only hanging on by a thread? It seems as though he may be revived back to health by vanilla ice cream. No joke -- he can eat four ounces of that a day, about 3.5 ounces more of anything else that he'll eat. We discovered this the other day, and ever since he's starting eating this stuff, he's been more alert, and he's got some color back in his face and his eyes are bright again.

Perhaps it's just the nourishment that he's receiving, but he really does seem to be "doing better." Why the quotation marks?

See, my mom lives and dies daily depending on how dad is doing when she goes to see him first thing in the morning. I can fully understand that she does this, and I don't blame her at all. What I don't like about it though, is that she's getting a sense of false hope -- with each new day that he's awake, she's ecstatic, yet with each day that he's barely breathing, she's crushed.

Now, shut up -- 'cause I can hear you saying "Sandra, you're so insensitive -- she's in mourning." And to that I say "fuck off," 'cause it's really painful to have to see my mom get her heart broken every other day. I sometimes want to lash out and her and say "wake up woman, your husband is dying and he's not going to get better, you're just setting yourself up for dissapointment!"

But no, there is none of that. There's no way of arguing with how another person grieves, or doesn't grieve, or holds onto hope. It's hard to know to pray for a painless death or miraculous healing...some days both...

I know my mom and I process things similarly. So lately, when I go to her with an issue that I'm dealing with, we both just kind of end up crying about it. I was thinking about this the other day, I realized that it's one of the ways in which I really tangibly miss my dad -- his advice. Not only was he wise beyond his 66 years (wink wink), but he always acted as an emotional counter-balance, in a way. No matter what the problem or issue, I could always count on him for a different perspective. Man, I miss that. I don't know if I'll ever find anyone else who'll give the same brand of quality council.

Inarticulateness

Why is it sometimes so hard to say what's really on your mind? Or how you really feel about a situation or a person or whatever, really. I could describe myself in one word right now -- inarticulate.

Cat got your tongue?

What IS that? Have you ever gone through periods of life, or situations in life, where everything you say seems to make things worse and not better? That people you were once pretty good at communicating with now suddenly seem to not understand the language you're speaking at all? Have you ever felt like hitting the rewind button, 'cause looking back your vision is perfect and you can see all the things you should have done and said differently to make it all come out the way you had intended? Have you ever cared about people yet found yourself banging your head against a wall because you can't figure out a way to effectively show how much you really do care for them and they end up feeling like you don't care at all?

Inarticulateness.

And do you ever feel that way with God? Are you ever in that place where you simply cannot understand what in the world God is doing, and you get the sense that he's holding you in a certain place to learn something about yourself or about him, but then things just kind of keep on getting worse and you're sure he's punishing you because you've gone and done something horrible and you go back mentally and wonder where it was you've gone wrong, but you end up thinking that what you've done is so awful that even God doesn't want to deal with you anymore, so all the things that you just want to pour out to him are bottled up inside as well?

Yet then you start to think about prayer, and what it is, and why you do it. And you realize that mainly it is because God responds. And you know this because you've experienced it, so you believe that he does. And this gives you hope because despite all those insanely stupid or questionable things that you think you've done, and all the things that get blown out of proportion in your own mind that you think are unforgivable -- guess what, they're forgiven. That God, in his infinite tenderness hasn't turned away from you, and is still concerned about what you're going through, and is in fact, still responding to your prayers, yet maybe in ways that you can't see or didn't forsee, or in ways that you wish he wouldn't, and that maybe he's trying to tell you to just wait and have faith and be patient and that praying is about the only thing you can do, 'cause everything else is out of your control.

I really can't say as I'm enjoying this season.

Bill Clinton and snakes

Dad is entering into his "slightly crazy" phase. After several days of being essentially comatose, he's now bright-eyed and speaking, talking about British naval manuevers and also "Bill Clinton is too stupid to be a snake!" It's entertaining, if only because it's so disturbing. I'm guessing that the tumor is pushing onto a new and different part of his brain.

It's good to be home, though. Small-town life is a nice change of pace at present. I like the simplicity of it -- playing with the cat, arguing with my mom about the merits of a good BLT sandwich, planning an Ernst Lubistch film festival with a friend of the family.

But also, I think I need to be here right now, too. Life seems to be collapsing in many areas right now -- things too painful or plain bizarre to mention here -- and the walls truly feel like they're caving in. Let me describe the feeling for you:

Life is a small yet ornately decorated room. My glass heart lies in broken shards, and my soul wafts, dried out and papery, as it hangs from barren twigs. Small children in red devil costumes prance about, stomping on the shards of heart and ripping down the pieces of soul, laughing as they do it. The temptations of an old addiction lick at me like flames, and the rain of guilt and dissapointment pound on the windows. God does not feel like he's even in the same building, let alone the same room. I am the small figure cowering in the corner, squeezing my eyes tightly, like it will all go away if only I continue to not look at it.

C.S. Lewis once wrote that grief feels a lot like fear. He was right.