The Babes and the Wolf

Juggling Glass

There’s too much going on right now. At this point, I think its safe to say that I’ve officially moved way past overwhelmed – first star to the right and straight on ‘till burned-out. I need to start working out again or I’m going to crash, it’s really as simple as that. But it’s also another thing in my life for which I’ll have to eek out the time and I can't afford to let any of these balls drop.

My mother-in-law is dying. It’s terrifying to admit it to myself, but I don’t think it’s terribly healthy to keep my ass parked in denial. I would love to pretend its not happening. No one I’ve loved this much has ever died before. People I cared about, yes – deeply even. But loved? The people who died died and that was it. That was the end of the story. There was reckoning and there was coming to terms and letting go, but I didn’t know they were sick beforehand. I’ve never been a part of this messy business. And now I’m watching a beautiful, vibrant, courageous woman who taught me so much about doing what needed to get done, about family, about overcoming, fade away in front of me and there’s nothing I can do about it. This is a woman who lived through military service, an abusive spouse, breast cancer, a brain tumor, and single-motherhood. In my heart and in my head it makes no sense that she should be susceptible to anything other than old age - irrational as it is. I don’t know.

She was diagnosed with liver cancer in May and was given a prognosis of six months to a year to live on May 13th. She didn’t even tell us until the next day because she didn’t want to upset us on my birthday. She was admitted to Calvary Hospital (hospice) last week. At first I couldn’t feel anything and I felt really bad for not feeling anything but it just wasn’t real. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. I kept thinking about being brought into my father’s hospital room when I was nine, smelling the smell of decay on him and realizing that he was dying. That he was even capable of dying. And then how miraculously he got better and went into remission and stayed in remission. I would start crying in starts and stops, thinking: “But she’s going to be okay, though, too. She has to be.” But I don’t know if she is. I don’t know if my miracle is coming this time.

Then, when it hit me, I was just so angry. I’ve been angry for the last month and a half. Some days it feels like all I can do to not put my fist through the face of the first person who encroaches on my solitude is slam my face into the nearest hard object. I don’t do either, I just breathe and fantasize about it. I meditate. I listen to the most beautiful metal I can get my hands on because it makes me feel rapturous and calm. I’ve had Symphony of Destruction on a continuous loop for the past month. I fight the urge to engage in every form of unwholesome habitual coping strategy that I used to use to *not* deal with pain. I know where all of those things lead; I’ve been far enough down that road. But some days, honestly, I just want to drown myself in a bottle of Dewars, chase a line, and say, “fuck you” to everything. I also know that it won’t make anything better and that’s not who I am anymore (and haven’t been for a long time), thankfully.

And then, every now and again, I find myself staring up at the sky whimpering, “Goddess Please…” Like I’m still that scared little girl chanting and praying beneath her bed sheets, hoping that some power in this universe loves me enough to save me from my circumstances. Like I still believe in something enough to pray.

I told M-- that I love her the day before yesterday. It’s not something that’s easy for me to say to people anymore. She has good days and bad days. On the good days, she’s alert; she’s her no-nonsense self but she’s in so much pain and its written all over her. She’s lost so much weight. On the bad days, she’s barely there. She stares off, face drawn out in pain. She can barely move. She barely speaks. She’s been forgetting things. She didn’t respond and I sat in the chair next to her not wanting to move, not knowing if it would be the last time I’d see her eyes looking at anything. I realized, while I was hugging her as she slept that she smells a little like peaches, a little like cantaloupe. The day before yesterday was a bad day, but yesterday was a good one. Yesterday, she told me she loves me. We sat in the courtyard, while The Twins bounced around.

My sons have always been really sensitive to other people’s pain. I don’t know if that’s because of my illnesses. They’ve seen me during flare-ups – times when it hurts too much to walk or even lay in bed or my nerves are on fire. They usually come over and ask “Ouch?” then they stroke my cheek and whisper “Shhh… shhh…” like I do when they have a boo-boo. A couple of months ago, when things were really bad, they started nursing their little stuffed monkeys: “Shhh… Shhh…” When they see her, they stand off like they know that something’s very wrong. You can see in her face how hard it hits her, but they eventually settle in. They cuddle. Then they get rowdy and we have to go. She doesn’t have the energy to keep up with all that. We had to explain to them that, “Abuela has very bad ouchies, so you have to be careful with her”. Yesterday, she specifically requested their presence. It was good. Her face lit up. It was a good day.

I’m pretty tired now and I don’t really have much else to say. I have two wonderful little people sprawled across my bed and My Luvey and I have to go out to the new apartment to paint tomorrow. I think its time to rest.