Something happened to me when I was told I was dying.
Actually I wasn’t told in those words exactly. The words “death” and “dying”
weren’t used at all. “Metastasized” and “no cure” have been used along with “average
life-expectancy” …but not DYING. This coming Friday will mark two weeks since I
heard that news. Today is one week since I got out of the hospital after being
rushed by ambulance because I couldn’t breathe and my blood pressure had
plummeted. Today is the day I followed up with my oncologist to discuss the
findings of the scans and tests run whilst enjoying my hospital stay. Today I
learned what places it has chosen to latch onto and start eating me: spine, pelvis,
left lung, liver, and skull.
Stage 4.
Metastatic.
It’s in my bones.
According to Western Medicine, I’m fucked. Do you know what
the average lifespan of someone with stage 4 metastatic breast cancer is? Four
years. Yes, four. Now let’s be clear that this is the “average.” Well kids, I’m
not fucking average. Never have been. While it’s true that for the vast
majority of my life I felt that I was below average, I have learned something
about where we place ourselves in regard to that spectrum. We tend to restrict
ourselves to “above” or “below”. How about just stepping off of that spectrum
completely? How about instead of “above” or “below” we choose “not?” I am NOT
average, not by a long-shot. So I am not accepting averages here. I’m not
accepting Western Medicine’s cold dismissal of this vessel when the spirit
inside it is screaming to prove it wrong, to smash this monster, to raise my
beautiful daughter.
A dark summer it was, the darkest. Autumn barely whispered
and winter is already knocking at my windowpane. So much of the year was spent
feeling like I was dying, and honestly, wanting to. I can’t help thinking of
stories I’ve heard about people who earnestly tried committing suicide only to
have it fail somehow and how they instantly regretted the choice they had made
once it was “too late.” I wonder if every person who kills themselves has that
happen. My case definitely isn’t suicide, but I can’t lie. I was tired of
living. I wanted to close my eyes and never have to open them again. The only
thing keeping me on this plane was my precious and amazing child. Now that
Death is making eyes at me for very, very real this time, I am absolutely not
interested. I want to live. I want to be. I want to become. I’ve got shit to do
and like Hell I’m just going to leave this plane when there is a little girl
who needs me.
I’m angry. I’m fucking livid. After all the horrors and
traumas that breast cancer put me through, after my marriage crumbled, after
scraping at crumbs to start pulling some sort of life together, after changing
and becoming stronger than I’ve ever been only to get knocked down by one
gut-wrenching heartache after another this year, this…THIS is what I’m
presented with??? No. Fuck this. No. Not interested. I will find a way. If this
thing wants to kill me, fine. But not before I raise Violet. Not before I
create a life I can be proud of. Okay, so it didn’t go the way I wanted. That
stable life with a caring partner, that fulfilling career choice, that crusade
against all things unjust and unsavory, that legacy I wanted to build; none of
it seems to be possible now. No walk down the aisle in a beautiful gown to greet
the love of my life. No impressive college degrees. I have to let go of those
wants because all of my energy now is devoted to living. It’s devoted to seeing
my child into adulthood. I will hunt down and utilize all alternative
treatments I can get my hands on. I will summon all of my will. I will live.
As I said…I’m fucking livid. But the anger is turning into
something good. It’s turning into bloodlust. It’s turning into determination.
If there is one thing I’ve learned for certain about myself over the last
couple of years, it’s that I’m a fighter. No matter how long I spend recovering
from a devastating blow, I get up. I always get up.
Since the day I stood over my brother’s body, awash with
wonder and grief, I have marveled at the power of pain. Physical pain…intense
physical pain can rearrange a person’s psyche like you wouldn’t believe. And I
have known physical pain. I have known it in ways that even the most skilled
wordsmith could not do any justice to. Emotional pain however, deep,
all-encompassing emotional pain…now that is something to behold.
It is no secret that the year thus far has been wrought with
trials and tragedies. Myself and people all around me have been suffering in a
variety of ways. It has taken me closer to the edge of my limits than I had ever
thought possible. Every time I seem to be turning a corner, following a promise
uttered or a spark of light, I am met with that shadowy despair once again. Its
insanity clutches at me and I feel myself clawing against rage and
hopelessness. So on evenings like this, when my cheeks have felt like flowing
liquid to the touch and my brow has been creased with all the tension of the
strongest vice until a friend rescues me with coffee and a forbidden cigarette
to bring me back into myself, I can take a step back for just a moment. I can
look. I can become the scientist.
I am a great scientist when studying my own emotional pain
and mental torment. Even as it agonizingly rips apart my insides, I am
fascinated. The madness and sheer enormity of it are breathtaking in a way that
is almost art. I am surviving this and I have been surviving it for months on
end. But is there an end? Logic dictates that there must be but the when and
how are lost to me at this time. I am putting on my mad scientist coat and I am
dusting off my beakers and boilers to see what this beast can do; to see the
colors it paints within me. And oh how sometimes I shake! Isn’t it marvelous
what this thing can do? Isn’t it poetry? Will it kill me? No, though I am sure
it has tried. No, it will not kill me. It can’t kill me if I’m cutting it to
pieces and dissecting its every corner and shape. It can’t kill me even when it
has me tricked into feeling like I’m dying. For you see, I am the mad scientist,
and I run this show…even when it’s running away with me.
I’ve been without internet for a few months, hence the
silence. Actually there have been other reasons for my silence. For I’ve been
lost, you see. The summer was long, and mercilessly hot and it seemed that all
of the Pacific Northwest was on fire. The sun beat down on Washington and
Oregon with a fury that left burnt scars in its wake. And yet…it was so dark.
So very, very dark.
After the sweet bliss of spring gave way to this blistering
time, the man I love more than all others wounded me more deeply than anyone
ever has, leaving me feeling exposed and disposable. I was blindsided, and as I
stumbled through the ache and humiliation of it, things got even worse. There
were unexpected financial pitfalls and my schooling came to a screeching halt.
I suddenly found myself wandering aimlessly, not having any sense of direction.
With each step I took, I lost my footing and everything I reached for seemed to
crumble like smoldering ash. The days became a blur and I had to rely on
autopilot just to keep going.
I had lost what I thought was love, and then I lost a dear
friend and pillar in my spiritual community when he unexpectedly died of a
heart attack. My last memory of him was looking up into his kind gaze as he put
his arm lovingly around me in an attempt to comfort my broken heart…and then
his stopped working. Stan the Stick man left this world and an entire community
was shaken to its core. The only comfort in this was that it was one thing I
didn’t have to feel alone in. In this one thing there were others who were
feeling the same grief along with me. For a short time, it gave me something to
hold onto. Then the darkness reached its claws out again and wrapped them
around my throat. I recently learned that another very special friend of mine
is currently fighting for her life and so is my stepdaughter. It looks grim for
both of them and there is nothing I can do but watch in horror, helpless to
save either of them.
Stan and his amazing wife Nelia
Oh that darkness. Even as the sun bore down, it became all I
could see or feel. Behind every sunbeam its tendrils creeped and crawled,
enveloping the whole of my existence. I desperately searched for signs of
something good, something containing joy. I looked to my sweet, beautiful
daughter, hoping that my love for her would snap me out of it, but all I could
see was my failure as a mother. I even lost my Krav Maga and her Karate classes
because of the aforementioned financial catastrophes. It was too much. It was
so heavy and so black. I was sinking and every morning was met with searing
emotional torment. I couldn’t think. I could hardly function at all, and I
could feel myself slipping into something great and terrible. Despair
suffocated me and rage battered me. After all I had survived and after all I
had fought for, I couldn’t understand how it had come to this. The whole world
had lost its senses and I was losing a battle with myself that I will not speak
of in detail at this time.
It was only a few short weeks ago that a couple of my most
intuitive friends saw what was happening to me and within me. They saw that I
was in trouble and that I needed someone to show me that I was not as alone as
I felt. I was not suffering unnoticed; I just couldn’t see beyond that looming
wall of blackness. In that place, that terrible, terrible place, I felt hands
reaching for my wrists and I was pulled close enough to the surface to see that
there are people who see me…who really see me. It snapped me to my senses long
enough to be able to see that while I was living in shadow, there was something
beyond it. There was a life waiting for me. I just needed to find my way back
to it and back to myself.
No, it wasn’t a grand realization. It wasn’t as if the light
suddenly broke through the darkness to illuminate all the good things. I didn’t
suddenly break from my despair as a shining beacon of hope and determination. I
was still in the dark. I was still in pain. The important thing, the most
important thing, was that at least I knew there was something better. I just
had to find my way back. I had been given a rope, but I still had to climb. And
so, covered in soot and ash, I began to climb.
I have chosen to maintain my friendship with Jesse. It’s a
very complicated and bizarre situation, and cannot be fully explained herein.
It has taken a lot of thought and history and willingness to understand his
side to be able to accept what is. It’s not easy and not a day goes by that I
don’t wonder if I should just sever ties. If it was anyone else, I would. This
thing…this whatever-it-is at this time, is more worth holding onto than letting
go of at this point. He is kind and has shown great concern and caring. We have
had some grand adventures, and continue to do so as I help him with his
photography business. We went to the Faerieworlds festival, which even in my
darkness, was one of the best weekends I can recall. It was the only break I
had from all that was threatening to devour me and it was good. There were
amazing wonders and scenery. Beautiful people living as otherworldly creatures
were everywhere I looked and there was wonderful, healing music. I experienced things
that gave me just enough to sustain me until those friendly hands reached for
me and I was shown that I am visible.
Pictures by Jesse Lanier
And so, for a few weeks I met each morning feeling like I
was dying but knowing that I really wasn’t. I went to work, I took care of Violet and I
even worked things out with my martial arts school so that Violet and I can
return when October starts. They have even awarded me a partial scholarship.
That brought the first happy tears I’ve cried in a very long time. Yesterday,
since I was on my own without Violet, Jesse and I went on a spontaneous drive
down the Columbia River Gorge on the Washington side, scouting out scenery
worthy of photographs. As we laughed and talked and adventured our way in his
funny brown jeep down winding roads, we made a few stops and then kept going.
Without planning for it, we found ourselves at the Maryhill Stonehenge Memorial
(which is a smaller replica of Stonehenge that serves as a war memorial site for
those who don’t know) just in time for the lunar eclipse of the full blood
moon. It was breathtaking! As Jesse fiddled with his camera and began to take
pictures, I lost myself in the moon for a moment, marveling at its full
ruddiness. I remembered a Facebook post my friend Corinne had shared about
using that opportunity to let things go and release what harms or no longer
serves me. I crouched down, leaning against one of the stone pillars, looking
up at the moon, and I quietly whispered to it all of the things that are
hurting me that I wish to let go of. I asked for things as well. I asked for
direction. I asked for purpose. I asked to get my passion, my creativity, my
sense of self back. I asked for a happy life and I asked for help in becoming
the mother that Violet needs and deserves. I asked for peace.
Pictures by Jesse Lanier
There was more picture taking and Jesse showed me the
coolest trick using a small light to illuminate surfaces for night time
photography. Even though he explained in detail how it works, I’m still baffled
and stunned. I’ll let him keep the science. I’d rather have the wonder. He got
some fantastic shots and it was fun to take part. After we’d gotten all we
could, we climbed back into the jeep, wearily made the two-hour trip back and I
was dropped off at my tiny and silent apartment where I was greeted by a
snuffly, happy hound and two impatient cats. The snakes (yes I have two of them
now) seemed indifferent. Haha! I took a few moments to wind down and settle in for
the night before retiring to my luxurious canopy bed, wondering if things would
be different. I wondered if there was really any power in letting things go.
And then I drifted into strange and nonsensical dreams.
Today is the first day I can remember in which I woke up not
feeling like I was dying. I could feel the residual pain of the darkest summer
lingering softly in the background, fading like nightmares do as the morning
wears on. My heart remembered the ache and still feels it to this moment, but
it is not overpowered. Today, for the first time since I don’t know when, I
feel like I can get past this. I feel like I have what it takes, even though I
am still shaking. I am still afraid. I don’t know how I will feel tomorrow
morning. I don’t know if the darkness will come for me again. Right now, I’m
okay. Right now I know my chances of feeling okay tomorrow are higher than they
were yesterday. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if I’ll get everything
resolved. I don’t know if I will ever have the love that I thought I had and
lost. I don’t know if when I finally finish my book, it will actually get
published. I don’t know if I will excel at Krav Maga to the point that I
desire. I don’t know anything.
I had left my driver’s license in Jesse’s jeep and the poor
guy had to bring it to me, whilst recovering from a headache. He sat with me
for a bit and we talked about his photography and other things. I don’t know what
he is. I don’t know why he is…but he is. And I am. And I’m learning to just
accept and be okay. I might grow old and never have what I think I want now. I
might just have to be okay alone. I have Violet, but she will grow up and move
on. Friendships will fade and people will die. There will be pain and I know
how much pain there can be…but I’ll be okay. There are sunsets and moons and
things and places. There are thoughts and dreams and nightmares and waking from
it all to look around and seek a new perspective. There are happy songs when I
need to dance and feel lifted and there are sad songs when I need to feel
understood. There is what there is…and it continues to move and twist and
undulate and cycle. The only constant is change and I am learning to find peace
in uncertainty. The darkness will come again, but when it does, I'll ride it out.
My current favorite sad song, "Faith in Others" by Opeth. It offers a strange sort of comfort.
This year summer came on swift and early, hot and dry. I had
found love, or it had found me; and it looked as though a world of adventure
and bliss was finally opening up for me. Well, it seems now that it was just a
mirage. The man I had loved and lost for eleven years had found me, opened my
heart, and then decided he didn’t want it. Okay. Well. This hurts. It hurts
like death. Though he insists he loves me and my daughter and wishes to maintain
a friendship, he can’t handle a relationship with anyone right now. Given his
history, I understand. I really do. But I hurt and it’s a slow, lingering pain.
I’ve been lying here like a barren desert. All of my insides
have been scraped out and I’ve been left open and exposed to dry out and rot
under the oppressive rays of the sun. It seems so senseless and wrong, all of
it. I was happy before he came along. I had finally decided that I didn’t want
a man in my life and that all I needed was my daughter and Krav Maga. I was
okay. I had a plan.
Men have a fantastic way of laying waste to my plans, at least
the men who enter my life do. This one isn’t a bad man. He’s a very good man
and I will try to be his friend, but damn. My sense of direction is completely
fucked. The sun got in my eyes and I was blindsided. Now I have to sew myself
up and start over. Alone.
Last night he came over. We had drinks, talked, laughed, and
I cried. A lot. It was kind of him to help me talk it through. For a while
things felt good. I had my friend and that was okay. Of course when he had to
leave, I crumbled. Love can be such a humiliating and devastating thing. I’m
still not sure if talking to him is a good or a bad thing right now. I guess I’ll
play it by ear. I dragged my wounded carcass to bed and lost myself to
tormenting dreams.
Today it’s raining. Sweet, blessed rain and the scent of
cooling have come at just the right time. Everything aches, but I can breathe
and the racing of my mind has slowed just enough for me to function. I have
Violet, and I marveled at all she is as she played mermaid in the tub this
morning. My focus was, is, and will always be mainly on her. That is something
that hasn’t changed. Even when I thought I had someone, she was still the top
priority. Even when I’m writhing with loss, my love for her keeps me breathing.
That is a love I can count on always. I didn’t want to be a single mom but I am
one. It gets terrifying and lonely, but I will fill that space with her and
with my training. I have a life to build for us and men are probably very bad
for me. As the rain fills my charred desert body, mixing the dust into mud, and
bringing the scent of something fresh and alive, I will slowly pull my
scattered parts back in, cleanse them, and rebuild my fortress. Let the rain
keep falling. Let it wash the grime away. Let me breathe in the wet of Earth
and find myself again.
Most of us have seen the film Dirty Dancing. It is timeless
for many reasons and certainly one of my favorites, though I don’t watch it
terribly often. Observing the main character, Baby (Jennifer Grey) come into
adulthood at the hands and dancing feet of Johnny (Patrick Swayze) I admit,
still gives me a little pitter-patter now and again. Geez, don’t tell anyone I
just admitted that okay?
Of course one of my favorite scenes is the one in which Baby
is invited to an after-hours staff party at the resort where her upper-middle
class family vacations every summer. As she enters the doors, carrying a
watermelon for said shindig, it becomes clear that she doesn’t quite belong.
Our awkwardly pure Baby emphasizes this when sexy Johnny asks why she’s there
and her only response she can muster is, “I carried a watermelon”, which does
not impress Johnny and of course she stands there feeling like an ass.
Oh such watermelons I have carried.
Just this past Sunday evening I was treated to a delightful
escape from my usual chaos to attend a show with my boyfriend (wait…did she say
boyfriend? Yes…yes I did. And he’s wonderful, but that’s another story for
another time. By the way his name is Jesse and I adore him). Two of my most
favorite bands in the world, Moonspell and Septicflesh were playing TOGETHER!
YES! All in one show!!! All you non-metal heads will just have to take my word
on this. It was an epic line up. Some of you may have read past posts about how
I first became a fan of Septicflesh and then journeyed to Seattle about a
week-and-a-half after my bilateral mastectomy to see them along with Melechesh
(another epic line up). Well since then, Seth Siro Anton (Septic’s front man)
has become a friend and I always make sure to go and support him and
his wonderful band when they are in town.
Moonspell…I have been a fan for about twenty years. Yes
thinking that does kind of make me feel old. I mean, to like the same thing for
a consistent twenty years is definitely dedication. Okay “like” is putting it
mildly. I freaking love Moonspell. The first time I heard their music, my mind
was blown. Septicflesh blows me away with their music as well. In fact it was incredible
therapy when I was pregnant and my husband was drinking. Violet loves them. So again…twenty years of Moonspell.
Moonspell’s front man Fernando Ribeiro has an astounding
voice. Being accomplished at both clean vocals and death metal growls, he is the perfect voice to dance with the
heavy and romantic majesty that is Moonspell’s music. Fantastic stage presence,
too. I have met this man before. I believe I was about twenty-six and had
recently separated from my boyfriend of seven years. Now I had never seen
Moonspell live at this point and as luck would have it, they were touring with…wait
for it…Opeth (once again, non-metal heads will just have to take my word as to
the epic-ness of this line up as well)! The night of the show, I went with a
friend, my brother Richard, and Jesse was there as well (yes, the
aforementioned boyfriend…ooh! Is there some history here? Sorry kids, not going
into it during this post).
I was hanging out in the bar downstairs between opening
bands, sitting at a table that butted up to a short dividing wall between the
bar and a small open area in which various musicians and crew members were bustling back and forth, doing whatever it is people in their profession do
that obviously keeps them exceptionally busy. I knew that I had other friends
in the general vicinity and wanted to see if I could spot one or two of them,
so I got up onto my knees on my chair and proceeded to look around. At this
time, Fernando had made his way into that other space. He looked very busy so I
did not wish to bother him. Shifting my weight, I realized that the metal hooks
on my tall vinyl boots (I rocked those puppies by the way)) had become stuck in
the torn surface cushion of my seat. As soon as I had realized this, a mild
panic hit and I just so happened to look right at Fernando. His gaze met mine
just in time for me to sheepishly blurt, “I’m stuck to my chair!”
Now. This is where I feel like Baby. While the words I
uttered were, “I’m stuck to my chair”, in my mind it sounded remarkably like, “I
carried a watermelon”. And oh yes, did I ever carry that watermelon with all
the lumbering awkwardness that a bashful girl can. I managed to yank my boots
free and sit back down as Mr. Tall, Dark, and Portuguese approached with a
mellow cool and stated (remember the accent, kids), “Look I don’t mean to be
rude, it’s just that we are very busy” to which I responded with some
quickly-babbled assurance of non-offense. He was a very nice guy and chatted
with myself and my friends for a few moments before excusing himself.
Definitely a class-act.
The show was amazing of course, and I never forgot that
night for many reasons. Years went by, my world changed, Jesse vanished (I’m
starting to piss you off now, aren’t I?) and I didn’t see him for over a
decade. I got married, had a baby, got breast cancer, divorced, and started to
build my life up which is what I’m still working on as of this writing.
Fernando: Pic by Jesse Lanier
So Sunday was a big deal. I had told Jesse and a few
others about the time I “carried a watermelon” all those years ago and it had
become a sort of running gag. I had gathered some gifts for Seth and the other
crew members and had to stop at the store with Jesse and my buddy Marcus on the
way to the show. We walked through the produce section. They had watermelons. I
knew that chances of getting to speak with Fernando and having pictures taken
was a high probability as Seth knows I’m a fan. Naturally I purchased a small
personal-sized watermelon because one must always be prepared for the potential
of comedic outcomes.
Jesse, Marcus and I arrived at the venue about three hours
before the show was set to start. I wanted to be certain that everyone received
their gifts on time: local micro brews for the guys, soup and clove oil for
Alex, the sweet sound guy with tooth pain (I had been notified by a mutual
friend who had seen the show a few days prior in Arizona), and a bottle of my
favorite red wine for Seth. We left the watermelon in the car for the time
being, and I was starting to think that buying it was a dumb idea. I mean, I
don’t even like watermelon! What was I going to do with the stupid thing? I was
greeted by Seth, I delivered gifts, met up with some cool people I know,
including an amazing mother-daughter team from Canada whom I had met at a
previous show (Char and Rita, I’m looking at you ladies), and we hung out, had
drinks and ordered food at the bar, and proceeded to just enjoy the pre-show
atmosphere. At some point whilst relaxing in a booth with nachos and hard
cider, I had noticed through the window that Fernando was sitting outside with
some friends and crew around a picnic table. Seth eventually made his way over
to relax and chat so I half-teasingly asked him when he was going to introduce
me. Immediately he got up and had me follow him outside. Jesse and Marcus, both
budding photographers followed behind with cameras at the ready.
As Seth calmly lead me to meet Fernando (for the second time
in my life) as I babbled excitedly about how I have been listening to Moonspell
for twenty years. He got Fernando’s attention and introduced me to him. There I
was, standing next to Mr. Tall, dark, and Portuguese feeling much more at ease
than I had been all those years before. We made small-talk for a bit and I
asked after a mutual friend of ours from the early days. Marcus and Jesse took
pictures as the conversation unfolded and somehow (for the life of me I can’t
remember how I managed that segue) I ended up telling him the story of our
long-ago encounter. At some point in the encounter, I asked him if he liked
watermelon and then somehow we all decided that it must be retrieved from the
car and included in our pictures. I have to say that Fernando handled the whole
thing with a gracious smile and even seemed to listen with smiling interest as
I regaled him with the tale of the previous watermelon-carrying event before he
and I posed together with my offering of newly-purchased produce. Fernando even
offered up, “The future looks green” as I giggled and even though I once again
felt like an awkward weirdo. This time, I could appreciate it much more fully.
Me and Fernando: pics by Marcus Kempton
As expected, the show was phenomenal. Moonspell performed
all my favorites and Fernando’s presence was of course larger than life. Septicflesh
is a highly entrancing band to watch live and no matter how many times I joke
around with Seth and his personable friendly nature offstage, I always marvel
at how he seems to be fourteen feet tall once he steps on that stage. It is
always a privilege to be in the presence of such talented and charismatic
showmen. The event came to a close and Jesse, Marcus and I got to spend a
little time talking to Seth afterward. There was bantering, there were
photographs, and as Seth is also a phenomenal artist and photographer, he and
Jesse talked shop. The night ended with weary smiles and entertaining memories.
Pics by Jesse Lanier
Awkward isn’t always a bad thing. I have carried many a
proverbial watermelon in my time and so far it hasn’t killed me. Most human
beings are dorks on some level. Once our clumsy, imperfect nature is embraced,
things start to mellow and we are more open to see the delightful nuances that define
and connect us all. I’ve carried many watermelons in my life as I’m sure most
of us have. So you carried a watermelon. You still get to learn how to dance.
Throughout history, there has been many a tale woven around
many a legendary man. Some of them make the history books. Some of them are
passed down through small societies or families. These men, great and
influential, all started with an event. Some more seemingly monumental than
others, but all greatly huge and statuesque in the minds of those who started
the original tales. These are the stories that usually begin with phrases such
as, “He was a great big bear of a man…” I too hold one such tale. And while it
may not be known the world over, my tale is monumental to me and so:
He was a great big bear of a man…
I was sixteen and had been living in a world torn to shreds
by the messy divorce of my parents. Messy would actually be an understatement.
It was horrendous. It was traumatizing. It was beyond ugly. It tore myself and
my siblings between two worlds. Portland, Oregon and Salt Lake City, Utah are
universes apart, or so it seems; not just in physical distance but in culture
and scenery. I hate Utah. I always have. After the split, my father ran with us
to SLC where a majority of his family resided. On that I couldn’t blame him.
When things detonate it’s good to return to what you know. Mom stayed behind in
Portland.
It took many years for me to understand the seeming insanity
that both of my parents succumbed to. The tragic end to my own eight year
marriage actually puts a lot of it into perspective. Divorce kind of makes you
lose your mind for a while and given the severity of my parents’ divorce, in
hindsight, I’m not surprised that they were both nut-jobs for a while. I was a
nut job at the end of my marriage too.
Let me make it clear that both of my parents are wonderful
people. They made plenty of mistakes, sure, but they love their children. They
were not given the coping mechanisms required to make things less tumultuous.
They did not have the proper influences growing up that would have allowed for a
smoother transition. Daddy was hurt and angry and Mom was lost and alone. I was
their oldest child, defiant and headstrong. Sometimes I wonder how they
survived me.
I spent some time in Salt Lake with my dad and siblings
feeling trapped and miserable. My life was in Portland. Everything I knew and
cared about was in Portland. My dad and I have always had a very complicated
relationship. The love there is powerful but the clashing was equally so at the
time and for many years after. After some bouncing back and forth, I once again
ended back in Portland with my mom, back at Wilson High School, back with my
old friends. The place where Mom was living for reasons I can’t remember, was
not going to last and so I ended up moving in for a time with my best friend
and her father who was not a mentally stable man. It didn’t take long for things
to fall apart there. Mom was in a strange state of being. She had decided that
she could not bear to be away from her children anymore and was making plans to
move to Salt Lake. True to my stubborn self, I refused to go with her. Utah had
been Hell for me for many reasons and there was no way I was going to return
there. Rather than fight me on it she decided that she was going to go and I
could find another place to stay. I was hurt beyond reason by this. I couldn’t
understand how she could just leave me. Things are different now and I see how
we both had some massive wounds clouding our judgment but at the time the only
thing I could see was that my mother was leaving me.
I found myself in a school assembly sitting with my friend
Dewey at about this time, sobbing and telling him my story. I told him that my
mom was leaving and I didn’t know what I was going to do. Dewey was a sweet and
compassionate soul. He felt my pain and was deeply worried for me. He lived
alone with his father and decided that he was going to talk to him about my
predicament to see if there was something that could be done. It wasn’t too
long after that I found myself taking the city bus after school with Dewey, on
my way to meet his dad. I was terrified and lost but hopeful. Maybe the lost
and unwanted girl had a chance at something better. Maybe someone could help
me.
Dewey lived in a nice craftsman style home with a fenced
yard in what seemed to be a quiet neighborhood. He gave me a tour, starting
with the backyard. He told me things that I’ve since forgotten and lead me to
the front room where there were swords on the wall and the biggest collection
of Elvira pictures I have ever seen. Apparently his dad was a big fan. He
showed me where the couches were, stating that I could sit there whenever I
wanted unless the elders were visiting, then I would have to make do with the
floor. Being a naïve white girl, I didn’t fully understand what that meant at the
time. Dewey and his dad were Native American so there was an entirely new
culture I was going to have to learn about.
He introduced me to his father, whose given name I’m not
sure I was ever presented with. He was a big bear of a man…people called him
Grizzly. Dewey had an activity to attend, so I was left with this giant bear to
discuss my situation and what he could do for me. In awe of his presence, I sat
cross-legged on the floor before him, looking up wide-eyed and lost, hoping for
answers to my sorrow.
He asked me things about myself and he told me the
conditions of moving into his house. He was going to take me in. He was willing
to raise me as his own. I don’t remember too many of the words we exchanged but
at a time when I felt cast aside and unimportant, this man, this Grizzly Bear,
saw me. He really saw me and he really heard me. He made me visible. He made me
real. Most importantly, he understood me. He said things that made sense,
things I could understand and respect. In just a few short hours, I knew
without a doubt that this man had the patience and power to guide me through
life and help me become a stable person. He had things to teach me, things that
I wanted to learn. For the first time in an eternity, I saw hope for myself…but
I also felt deep loss. I felt alone. I felt abandoned. I shared my pain with
him. I told him about my father and the things I had endured in Salt Lake. I
told him of the gruesome unfolding of events that tore my family to pieces. I
told him of how my mother was leaving me and how it hurt me so.
The things that my parents found distasteful about my
appearance, like my dyed-black hair and dark clothing, he didn’t mind. He told
me that I had nice hair and tied it back into a ponytail using a strip of brown
leather. I carried that strip of leather for years and always used it to tie
back my hair until the inevitable day when it finally broke. This bear was
saving my life, even though I’m not sure he knew it. He listened to my side of things and he shared with me what he expected of me. He even offered his opinions on what a woman ought to be like and how to behave without making me feel like I wasn't good enough as I was.
After much discussing and many tears on my part, Grizzly
reached for the phone and called my mother to come meet with us and discuss how
things were going to unfold. When she arrived and sat in that room with us, a
conversation began. Its words I don’t remember, just his warmth and calm
reasoning accompanied by mine and my mother’s sobs. So much had been broken. So
much had been damaged. He saw through the troubles and our miscommunication. He
mended the rift. He convinced her to stay and take care of me. This man, this
Grizzly Bear, gave me my mother back.
Mom rented an apartment for us and eventually my brother
Richard joined us and when my English grandmother was in the country it was a
place for her to stay. Soon after that I dropped out of school and we moved
into a rental house across town. I spent quite a bit of time in limbo but
always thinking of the man who would forever be my Papa Bear. Dewey would visit
periodically and I would ask after him. He would also ask after me. Over time,
Dewey and I lost touch and many tumultuous events lead me to a different life
in a different world.
My life hasn’t been the most difficult a person can have but
it hasn’t been easy either. My propensity for hard lessons has seasoned me in
ways not thought possible. Through all of it, for many years, I thought about
Papa Bear. I had long forgotten where his house was but I had dreams of finding
him and walking through his door to tell him of the things I’d learned. With
every lesson, with every milestone, I hoped that I was becoming someone he
would be proud of. People weren’t so easy to track down back then and
unbeknownst to me, Dewey had changed his name and fulfilled his dream of moving
to Brazil. It seemed there was no way to track down my Papa Bear and for years
I feared that if I ever found where he was it would be too late.
It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that with the help of
some old high school friends, I found Dewey on social media and opened a
dialogue. It took him a moment to remember me but when he did, my would-be
brother and I became fast friends again. He had made a fascinating life for
himself and I smiled at how he had grown. I wanted to ask about Papa Bear but I
didn’t have the courage. He had been very heavy and after all that time I knew
the chances of him being gone were high. As it turned out, I never had to worry
about asking. Eventually Dewey posted on Facebook about how his father had
influenced his life and the lives of many others along with the lyrics to a
song “Papa was a Grizzly Bear.” I then learned that I was about ten years too
late. Papa Bear was gone and the chance to show him who I had become was lost.
Maybe it’s strange to grieve so deeply for a man I only met
once, but he had the power to turn an invisible girl into somebody important,
even if only for a few hours. He had a wisdom and patience unlike any I have
come across since. I spent years wondering what my life would have been like
had this man raised me like he was willing to do without a second thought. I
wondered who I might have become. I think he knew though, even though it wasn’t
perfect, I needed to be with my mother. So he retrieved her from that place
inside her that was causing her to run away and he returned her to me, even if
just for a time. Today we have a very close relationship even after years of
hiccups and separation. I don’t think we’d have that without the wisdom of Papa
Bear.
Listen to the Grizzly Bear and do not be afraid. Learn from
his wisdom and grow. His words are true and he knows you better than you know
yourself. Rest in peace, Papa Bear. I still hope to make you proud someday.
Here we are in February and so much has happened since my
last post. January was a strange and difficult month. It seems that many people
struggled through it. 2015 came in like a violent beast. On December 31st,
I had a boyfriend. We had actually been seeing each other for a couple of
months. By New Year’s Day, I was without him although I think it took him at
least most of the day to figure that out. Long story. Not worth sharing. No
matter…it was a fun couple of months.
January 22nd was an important day. It was the day
I got nipples. It was the day of my last surgery, and I mean LAST surgery. I’m
done. I’m finally done. And the funny thing is…that kind of scares me.
January 23rd was George’s birthday. He would have
been 29. I spent a couple of days with friends recovering but I did manage to
make cheese enchiladas for dinner. I had sour cream on mine. I’m sure he’ll
forgive me. There was Barq’s root beer to wash it down (and I’m sure he’ll also
forgive me for making it diet). Even in my post-anesthesia, narcotic-induced
stupor it was nice to do a little something for him. Last year, I believe I was
having surgery ON his birthday so celebrations were left out.
There was no Krav Maga for me for a whole week. THAT was
torture! I’ve committed myself to training every day, Monday through Friday.
Some weeks I only manage four days and I injured myself a few weeks ago so I
had to take a couple of days off, but that just comes with the territory I
guess. On Friday I went in to sit and watch. I told Mr. Eric that I felt
homesick and just wanted to be there. I’m glad I went in too. He’s always a
great teacher but he was especially hilarious that day. Turns out it was his
birthday. A fellow Aquarian…that explains a lot! Yesterday I finally got to go
back. I’m back to totally sucking at push-ups, but otherwise it felt so good to
get my Krav on!
I had an interesting weekend. Although I’d been building up
to the purge for a while now, I think it was the weekend that really set it in
motion. I attended a spiritual retreat hosted by a beautiful woman named
Jeanette. This was the third of her retreats for me and as I expected, it was
exactly what I needed. There were guided meditations and stories shared. I won’t
go into too much detail because I like to keep parts of my spiritual life
private but during one of our group sessions, a memory of something I
experienced during my radiation treatments triggered a wellspring inside me. Sometimes
during these events I will get a little teary. I even had a good cry over
George at a beautiful Mt. Shasta event last summer. This was different. This
was much more intense and went a lot deeper. It was as if for the first time, I
really got to look at all I’ve been through over the past five years; my
brother’s death, my marriage falling apart, the horrors of breast cancer and
the traumatic events surrounding it. It all came at me with full-force. As my
tears flowed freely and without apology, I realized with a sort of shock that
terrible things have happened to me. Terrible, frightening, painful…and
beautiful things. It’s not that I was unaware of all this before. I was just
too busy surviving it all and besides, how can you look at the whole picture
before it’s been fully painted?
And oh, it’s a masterpiece! Its shapes and hues…the way they
pull me in. Even now as I’m attempting to write a perfectly ornate and gilded
frame for this work of a lifetime, I am unsure if I will ever be able to fully
understand it. Perhaps this is why I share my story so freely. Sometimes the
painter doesn’t fully understand the work created. Sometimes it is up to the
viewer to aid in its interpretation.
I suppose I could say that the story isn’t over yet but a
very large and important chapter, at the very least, is coming to a close. The
stitches still need to come out and I will be needing tattoos to finalize my
surgeon’s masterful work, but that is all in the gilding of the frame, I
believe.
As I stand here looking back, reading the story, viewing the
pictures, finding the emotions, I am overwhelmed. I survived this. I really
survived this. There are parts I finally get to grieve over. There are parts I
have yet to learn how to celebrate. And there are fears of the future coming to
surface as well.
What happens now? I’m in school again. I’m still working on
my jewelry. A year ago, I had just kicked my husband out. A few days later on
my birthday, I was literally facing homelessness and then a friend on Facebook
put $1400 in my PayPal account. That same day it snowed…and it was beautiful. I’ve
been living as a single mother for a year and on my birthday this time around,
I will be attending one of Mr. Eric’s seminars, learning how to disarm
handguns. Holy shit. What happened? When did I go from learning to survive to
learning how to LIVE? I suppose it was getting my nipples in January. Nipples
in January: sounds like a great name for a band doesn’t it?
