To Everything....

....there is a season.

My exh's mother has been diagnosed with Stage 4 gastric cancer that has metastasized to her bones. A preliminary endoscopic biopsy had come up negative but the doctor, saying he knew he'd seen something, insisted that the test be done again. This result confirmed what he'd seen. The next steps (treatment, pain management, etc.) are dependent upon results from another, more thorough biopsy.

I attended a family meeting last night and stood a little aside from the crowd. Yo had called me and invited me and I was glad she had -- my regard for her grew a little bit more because of it. MIL held court and spoke at some length to her children and her grandchildren. Amongst other things, she told them how proud she was of all of them. She said she hoped she'd been able to help establish strong family ties that would extend past her and keep the family units together. My throat tightened more than once. It was highly emotional, yes, but at the same time it was quiet....and powerful....and comforting.

I wondered what was going through her mind. I wondered what would be going through mine if I found myself in her shoes. Would I handle the knowledge with grace and dignity or would I cower and deny and curl up into a fetal ball of terror? Would I prefer to die instantly to avoid the trauma of the slow loss of control or would I prefer to wrest what little control I had out of what was left of my life? And lastly, as I stood there listening to her soothe her children instead of allowing herself to be soothed....did she realize what a gift it was to have the time with those she loved and assist them and herself in seeking such closure?

I don't know what I'll do when my time comes. I only hope that I'll have half of MIL's courage.

Her children's reactions, however, were what most interested me (pardon me if that sounds clinical, it's not what I intend) and were very indicative of their personalities as well as their historical relationship with their mother. The exh wore his heart on his sleeve. He was emotional at home and became fairly easily choked up during MIL's speech as well as later when he allowed himself to think about it. He adjourned to his brother's house after the speech was over. His brother, meanwhile, was silent -- he's the type to rarely display any emotion but irritation. Of the girls, the eldest was obviously upset but held herself in check -- she'd been through it all once before with the sudden death of one of her teenage sons in an accident four years ago.

The three eldest children weren't too outside the norm, as far as grief goes. The youngest, though -- her reactions were far and away the most interesting to me. Of all the children, the youngest has had the most difficult relationship with her mother for the most years. Being so much alike, the struggle for liberation, control and mutual respect was a roughly fought one. In the last half dozen years or so youngest began to settle into a committed relationship and have children of her own. She was finally grown up enough to look past the mother in her mother and see into the woman.

Youngest had been the one to take MIL to the doctor's appointments and had the most knowledge about what had been said to her during the consultations. Youngest switched into "instruction mode" quite often. Always a way to deal with her insecurities (she's a dozen years younger than the rest of her siblings and felt she was never taken seriously) this is an aspect of her personality that has always slightly annoyed me but it was especially noticeable last night.

Youngest was the one that kept reframing words and phrases others would utter. "Don't talk like it's a done deal," she'd say. "We don't know." Or, "We don't need to talk about all that yet, let's concentrate on getting mom better." The rest of the family would nod and say yes, but all the rest of us know. We might not have the diagnosis on paper yet, but we all know. MIL's been vaguely sick (and in the last year or so, not so vaguely) for the last decade. MIL told me she knew something was wrong and that she chose to be the ostrich and told youngest this. Youngest is just choosing to block her ears.

It's understandable, though.

Youngest is losing a mother she's barely had time to really get to know, adult to adult. There's a sense of deep unfairness in her for that. There's also a deeper wellspring borne of regret for being a stupid kid/teenager/young adult who chose to allow her own feelings of stubbornness and spite to control her behavior and push her mother away instead of hold her close. She thought she'd have years. She doesn't want to have to acknowledge that there's not much more time.

My research on cancer that metastasizes to bone is dire. Even if it's a form of gastric cancer they can treat, and even if they can treat the bones themselves, this sort of cancer is one (if not THE) most painful forms of cancer you can have. Median survival rate even with treatment is 42-67 days from diagnosis.

The next few months will be rough.

((Song: "Turn Turn Turn" by the Byrds. Lyrics here:
http://digitaldreamdoor.nutsie.com/pages/lyrics/byr_turntt.html ))

If That's Movin' Up Then I'm Movin' Out

I've moved into my new place and finally feel like I'm settling in. There are still a few boxes to unpack and place, a few pictures and art to put up, and a few pieces of furniture I'll have to rearrange (including the 6 ft long, mid-century mod credenza I'm buying today for only $45 - sweeeeet!) but for the most part it's beginning to feel like home.

Putting a bit of a damper on all my excitement is the fact that I've got this strange pain in my abdomen since Friday night, on my right side between my rib cage and my hip bone. I went to the doctor and he checked for a hernia since I'd been moving but didn't seem to think that was it. We took bloodwork -- he said it seemed my liver was a little tender -- and it'll be Tuesday before I get the results back. Who knows, it might be nothing but a torn muscle deep in there somewhere from the move. I swear, if it's not one thing it's another. Grrrrrr.

Still and all, being alone has been enjoyable. I haven't missed my roommate at all. When I look around my place and know that it's all mine, I feel content and satisfied. There are cicadas in the trees outside of my patio and I can sip my tea while I listen to them sing to me in the evenings. They stir my memories of lazy childhood summers in Illinois. I cook myself a great meal and I don't worry about whether another person will like it. I don't miss TV that much (I gave up cable, choosing instead to have internet service alone) because if I want I can relax in front of the computer and watch television shows streaming online. Currently I'm watching a pretty neat little Canadian show entitled "Being Erica." There are a few others I'd like to watch after that.

I'll have plenty of things to keep me busy. There are books I've wanted to read. I have plans for a couple furniture restorations and some more DIY projects around the house, as well as a resurgence in my genealogical pursuits.

I imagine I'll miss people eventually but for now, things are pretty sweet.

Song: "Movin' Out (Anthony's Song)" by Billy Joel. Lyrics here:
http://www.billyjoel.com/music/movin039-out-original-cast-recording/movin-out-anthonys-song ))

'Cause I Gotta Have Faith

Questions about faith -- faith in general, not just in the religious sense -- have been a part of my life for a very long time.

I don't think too many people operate under a complete absence of faith. I feel safe in saying most of us accept there are unknowns in the world and that those unknown things can and do have direct and profound influence upon human lives. We're all also aware that just because we don't know something, it doesn't mean it doesn't exist nevertheless. The shock of learning something has happened and the subesequent change in one's own personal reality (a death, for example, no matter if it was minutes or years before) doesn't change the moment in time in which the death actually occurred. That's simple subjective versus objective reality and isn't a difficult concept to grasp.

When it comes right down to it, however, I firmly believe some people are better equipped to engage in the processes that faith requires of them than others are. I'm not one of those people. I have this voice in my head, an insistent and uncompromising one. It won't let me ignore it. It refuses to allow me to seek the bliss of believing what it knows I find personally inconsistent. In the past I've tried to reach out and speak to some deity idea and invariably it begins to hiss at me. "You know you lieeeee....." it whispers, and yes, I have to admit than I am.

An important part of being able to find faith is being able to ignore that voice. How many times have I told myself, "I just have to believe that [fill in the blank] " -- but I don't? Countless times. Unlike many others, though, I can't take that next step and believe anyway. It's easy to believe in something that you WANT to or DO believe in and quite another to find faith in the midst of the denials of all your other senses. There have been times when I've wished with all my heart that I COULD seek the comfort that I see others sink into when they release themselves into the arms of their gods. It's just not the cards I've been dealt.

That's okay, though. I'd rather live an internally honest life, even if outwardly it doesn't appear that I am, than live an internal lie. I'm in constant turmoil if I allow myself to do that. I've served my time in that place in the past -- bound with the dual chains of duty and pride -- and finally managed to extricate myself. I'm a work in progress; I'm slowly learning how to integrate the two and live outwardly as I believe inwardly. It means having faith in myself. I continue to seek that sort of faith as well.

When I reflect upon my beliefs and their origins as well as why I can't seem to ignore that voice I hear in this matter above all, I find the concepts of faith, validity, and justice are indelibly entwined in my psyche. In order to place my faith in something there has to be a valid reason for me to do so. This validity doesn't always have a basis in rational logic -- my feelings are of equal validity -- but it does have to be something I've seen in existence or have experienced in action and can therefore extrapolate from. There must also be a sense of fairness or justice before I can allow myself to place my faith in something or someone. It's not enough to merely meet the criteria of a valid reason. While I can accept the randomness in nature, or in whatever collectiveness may exist, or even of chaos itself, I can't seem to accept the same from a deity responsible for the caretaking of humanity. That something could be flippant with the responsibility -- quite frankly -- is beneath my contempt. It's difficult if not impossible for me to allow myself to submit to the whim of another being. To willingly hand my life over for another to run? Goodness, my control issues run deeply!

Go ahead and laugh -- I realize the irony inherent in requiring proof for faith. Faith isn't supposed to be something based on proof. Faith just is, for no "good" reason, for nothing other than pure belief. Faith can and does exist independent of all that could be contrary to it.

I can't, and won't ever, find that sort of faith within me. The voice that whispers the truth that exposes the lie and exists in the deepest recesses of my being won't let it take up residence there. Even when I do the opposite, I know when any choice I make or desire I have is contrary to what I know is my personal truth. That's why I'll never know the bliss of blind or unquestioning faith.

((Song: "Faith" by George Michael. Lyrics here:
http://www.fortunecity.com/tinpan/gallagher/47/faith2.html))

You Tell Me That It's Evolution

Monday afternoon, at her invitation, I met with Yo after work. We spent a few hours chatting over coffee.

I don't know what my expectations were going in and I really tried not to think about it all that much. There was some initial nervousness, definite hesitation, and qualifications offered up for statements before they were uttered. To her credit she brought up what she called the "white elephant in the room" (the fact that everyone we know feels and acts uncomfortable when she and I are in the same room together) with a maturity belying her years. Hopefully it's now on its way to being smoothed over.

Rather than go over all the excruciatingly tedious details I'd rather just explore my impressions. She's more than I gave her credit for. I'm more than she gave me credit for. She wanted to know how the exh and I could remain friends and I think much of what I said -- and how I said it -- helped to ease her mind in that regard. We touched on each other's hidden insecurities and thoughts and bringing them out into the open helped release us from their power. As we left, she said she thought she understood now why everyone she spoke to said that if she got to know me, she'd like me. She expressed this with relief, as if it was now "okay" for her to like me, too.

Things like that just take time and I'm pretty sure it would have happened of its own accord eventually, but her willingness to face it head on instead of scurry around it, ignore it or backpedal earned her my respect. I understand now why the exh found her attractive. As I left her, I told her that I hoped she made him happy because although I'd tried, I just couldn't seem to do it. And for the first time, I actually meant it.

((Song: "Revolution" by the Beatles. Lyrics here:
http://www.beatleslyricsarchive.com/viewSong.php?songID=234 ))

It's Time For A Few Small Repairs

Sometimes the choices we make are instinctive ones driven by some internal compass pointing us in a certain direction even if we're not completely aware of its motives for doing so. My impending move, a desire that has risen more and more to the surface in the last few months, is one of these.

Last week my roommate asked me in a delicate tone (as if worried how he was handling the question), "So....what made you decide to move right now?" It was obvious he was concerned whether my choice to move had been triggered by anything in particular that he'd done or hadn't done. I told him no, that it was simply the "right time" and that the enjoyment and readiness I'd felt in the two weeks I'd spent alone had been the real turning point in my decision making process.

All that was true, though an incident yesterday definitely put the stamp of internal, rational approval on my abstract feelings. I'd decided on a whim that after work I would go about 40 minutes out of town to pick up an IKEA chairbed that someone was selling on Craigslist for my new apartment. I have precious little furniture of my own since I left most of it with the exh when we parted. I know a lot of women would have taken a lot of stuff, but really? I'm happy I didn't. I get to purchase my own things now. Purely, wholly mine. It's fun!

Anyway, I picked up the piece and went out for a relaxing dinner. I'd just hopped back in my car when I got a call from the roomie. He asked if I was going to be home in time for dinner or whether he needed to fend for himself; I told him where I was and to do what he needed to do. A brief frisson of irritation passed through me (when he doesn't show up for dinner, I don't have any trouble eating without him!) and then I shrugged it off, thinking no more about it for the remainder of the trip home.

Then I learned why the roomie called to begin with. He'd been concerned about the pork chops I'd had marinating in the fridge. He'd apparently been looking forward to them, and had no doubt halfway expected to see them served as the main course for dinner.

Objectively, this makes perfect sense. In his place I would've thought the same thing given the same circumstances. That's not the issue, not really. It's just that for me, it illuminated another underlying aspect to all this, one that I've figured out I really no longer want to deal with.

I'm done with cooking for people.

I've spent nearly two decades cooking for people, and men in particular. Don't get me wrong here -- I love to cook, and the creation of good food is a real joy for me. When I think about the pleasure I get in making a meal for a bunch of friends or my daughter it puts a smile on my face, and when I get the urge to experiment, the kitchen is usually the first place I start. Oh, I do so adore the process -- the planning, the purchasing, the creation, the meal itself. I just don't adore it when it becomes an obligation. An expectation. A responsibility. Those three words sap all the joy away from what is normally one of life's more joyous pursuits.

That's how this roomie arrangement of ours has ultimately ended up. The roomie doesn't cook and I knew that going in (we've been friends a long time) so when we agreed to be roommates it was agreed that I'd do the cooking. I've held up to that part so far, but as of now, I'm done. I wish to remove myself from any further obligation towards the upkeep or continued provision of another grown human being.

My feelings about this aren't the roomie's fault (or anyone's) and I don't want to even allow myself to begin the process of placing resentment or blame where it doesn't belong. Been there, done that, and it sucked. I'm well aware this is more about me. It's an aspect of my personality that isn't bad or good, but simply IS. I need to attend to it before it grows in a direction I don't wish it to grow. Unlike before with the exh, I need to tend to my emotional garden and prune it back before it gets out of hand.

Oh yes, I'm ready. It was a good call.

((Song: "Sunny Came home" by Shawn Colvin. Lyrics here:
http://www.cowboylyrics.com/lyrics/colvin-shawn/sunny-came-home-10530.html ))