Futile. 

I’ve never felt so alone.
And, Ive spent my life feeling alone.
…didn’t know this kind of alone was even possible.

Torrential Rain.

Mom went back through the ER tonight via ambulance again; she is still in hospital…she is slipping away again. She was reaching out for me this afternoon and telling me I was beautiful. Her body has been doing that recoiling reflexive thing again and she can’t relax her muscles. She has been taking pills she isn’t meant to take when she isn’t supposed to take them…I knew she isn’t right lately, everyone says it’s the chemo…but, no – it’s something more than just that, it’s not fatigue or depression or even a fever…I don’t know what it is exactly that has gotten her so far out there but something other than just side effects of her treatment is at play, mark my words. And in the meantime, she has slipped into full-blown delirium.

I am in the process of accepting that I’ve seen my mama for the last time already, my real mama, at least. This acceptance thing…it’s been difficult to do when my new mama is so reminiscent of my real mama at times, and I often catch myself trying to talk to my new mama like she was my real mama, only to be snapped back to reality by the reality of talking to a human wall that never responds. I miss my mama so much and I catch myself longing for her even as I sit beside her. It’s so hard to see her so weak and feeble, it’s so hard to have the responsibility of feeding her because she will not remember to eat otherwise, she stares off into nothingness and she drools on herself…my mom drools on herself. She made a mess of her room today for no reason, she is so confused and I can’t un-confuse her, it’s so fucking fucked.

“Anticipatory Grief”.

Well, I almost made it the entire day without falling apart at some point. I made it to around 11pm at least, before disintegrating into the blubbering, snot-nosed train-wreck I’ve been so often lately…it’s crazy.

For a while today, watching movies with my mama, doing her hair, listening to her snore while she dozed…I almost forgot at times, if you can believe that…and then, it’s like a forcefully painful chop to the throat when I realize something random like how she’ll most likely never see another decorated Christmas tree after this holiday. Or, the newfound inability to delete the hundreds of voicemails I’ve accumulated from her on my current phone, no matter how insignificant. I just want to breathe any Life I have into her; it’s so intense: these feelings that I harbor of protectiveness and defeat all wrapped into one big, ball of sheer grief-stricken idleness.

Stupidness.

Aimless.

Sadness.

“Anticipatory Grief”, that’s the label they’ve given to what I am currently experiencing…

but it’s label makes no difference to me or anyone else, some fancy surname or amendment changes nothing about the bottomless depths of grief’s sadness.

Life-Darkening.

I recall quite vividly, being thirteen years old and enduring the sudden and shocking reality check of having lost my primary (up to that point, more or less) parent to a massive heart attack that struck him dead instantaneously, thinking to myself things like,

I wish perhaps he could’ve had an illness or something instead of the instant death, selfishly, so that I might have had the time to make amends to him…

 

The amends I was referring to, were for the “tween-aged” shit-headedness that had reared its ugly head during the months leading up to my Dad’s death; a nose ring, big, rock-hard bangs that looked like some tidal wave in my hair, etc.

Anyway, I now can say with certainty that I would not have wanted that for him at all, in spite of the robbery that such a tragic and sudden death of a parent becomes to a young person, I am very grateful that he went quickly and without the suffering that my mom is looking at, and in many ways is already undertaking. When my grandma died, it tolled terribly on my mother, and still does to date – she has never been the same as she was prior to my grandma’s passing. She stopped eating, sleeping, keeping a healthy schedule for herself quickly and completely became a thing of her past, she even wore my grandma’s old lady clothes around as do some widows and widowers. She was altered deeply by the loss of her mother for good. I remember one time as we sat together and she described her sorrow to me, she turned to me at one point and said something along the lines of,

“With my Mom being dead, sometimes, I wish I was dead, too…”

 

It had been that very statement that opened my eyes to the depths of grief and loss she was experiencing. She had lost the remaining twinkle from her eyes, she felt like the world was an uglier, less satisfying place that matched her dwindling existence. Lately, as in like the past six months or so, she has been wrapping up her loose ends to the best of her increasingly limited ability; she has said things to me that represented goodbyes in variously subtle ways; she makes comments about how she probably doesn’t have that much longer left on this Earth, or how she has had a good run. I never took her too seriously, I couldn’t. I couldn’t even begin to entertain such an idea as losing her so soon…I feel like I just got her and have been getting my mom, little by little. As the cards fall, in reality, I have, since those recent sugar-coated conversations with my “healthy mom”, been forced to swallow her mortality whole.

I have been with her every possible moment since we found out she is dying. She is much further along than the original consult suggested; we will find out exactly how much worse it is on Wednesday. She is resigned, I can tell. She actually apologized to me “for dying like this”, which was a heartbreakingly raw moment between us as well. She is in shock, I think, to be honest. She has a warrior’s game face and the pain thresh-hold of an elephant on peyote. But, she has to be in shock…anyone would be – whether she had a notion or not. She sees the child in my face these past few days as we interact, she says. She says she recognizes the terror and helplessness there when I don’t know she’s watching me, but she is.

She called me up the other night (Friday or Saturday – my days are all running together) to say,

“I don’t want you to mourn me like I mourned my mom, Honey…I know it sounds weird, but, I think that’s when I started to die, really; of sadness and loss…I don’t want that for you, babe…I don’t want that at all. I want for you to try and find a way to accept this and be at peace with this, somehow, will you do that for me?…Will you try?”

 I wasn’t prepared for this to be so painful and life-darkening at all.

 

 

 

Begins A Dread Ending.

Well, the biopsy results came back this morning…my mother has officially been given 1 to 2 years to live, “depending on her treatment choices”…stage 4 lung cancer that has already metastasized quite aggressively, hence that huge lump growing on her neck that I wrote about recently.

When I was driving her back to her job following this news, it was weird, almost like for the first time in my conscious memory, I didn’t want to let her out of my car – I didn’t want her to go. I’ve tried twice to speak to her since then, and had to hang up abruptly both times because I choked up completely, like a desperately bitter child.

Due to the location of the lump in her throat (it straddles her carotid artery), they have had a difficult time in diagnosing this because they didn’t want to biopsy the regular way and cut her by accident. In the meantime, she was given x-ray, CT scan, and sonogram in order to get precise measurements of its position in relation to her veins and arteries. I took her for a radiology appointment last week; when I saw the thing on the screen in the sonogram room, I went cold; something about it made my knees like jelly for a few seconds, I just got this sense of what it was – the finality it represents…I had to sit down.

Waterproof Makeup.

She should have told you certain things,

like how she hates being on the phone,

how she hates the sound of her own voice,

how laughter makes her stomach ache,

how anything right feels so wrong on her,

how empty and alone she becomes after “good-bye”,

the reason she pays extra for waterproof make-up.

Stand to See.

Let the marching armies’ raid;

Let the pin be removed from the hand grenade;

Let the silence be no more;

Let the truth outshine the lies from before;

Let them come – and kill everyone;

Let them take the orders to drop the bomb;

Let the hatred and anger over-spill;

Let the cowards bask in thy own will;

Let us take direction from evil ones;

Let us do their wicked deeds all done;

Let the RepubliCrat behind the desk;

Let’s see him stand to see his foolishness;

Let the spider tap that final bead;

Let the sniper take the spider’s heed;

Let the blood of bad and good spill around;

Let the Elders dance to the drumming sound;

Let all things “American” just come undone;

Let us demonstrate how we don’t see anyone;

Let the tellers of lies herald our nation’s demise;

Let me keep my attention on meaningful things.

Hum In The Air.

Traveling swiftly,
along in between,
the shuffling feet,
dropping and lifting,
to static frequencies,
over the threshold,
off of the streets,
into the bustling,
and humming,
of a million machines,
fostering,
the very needs,
of broken human beings…
over the sounds,
of the technology,
tubes and dressings,
Hallmark blessings,
I hear her breathing,
ever-steadily,
in the darkness,
over the chorus,
of the ticks, clacks,
hisses and beeps,
she breathes her way,
through the night,
thankfully,
to see another day,
that she’d preferably,
rather not even see,
which is sadly telling,
told by the many injuries,
outside and within,
the broken bones and skin,
all of the gods damned,
technologies and,
cures known to man,
won’t change anything,
the hand,
she’s been given,
the Hell,
that she must live in…
this was once my baby,
and she will,
always be,
worth so much more,
than what she perceives,
as reality,
no hope anymore,
of something in store,
hidden from the sight of me,
I hold my breath in,
unintentionally,
if I fail to register,
rhythmic machines,
over it all,
the patients in the halls,
the button to call…
the sound I faintly hear,
here and there,
along a stream-flow,
of the hospital air,
it’s dull and low,
but a sound I know,
all too well,
it’s the rewound,
haunting sound,
high-pitched,
helium,
voice to the face,
of my baby,
saying things like,
“Mommy please help me.”

Stand to See.

Let the marching armies’ raid;

Let the pin be removed from the hand grenade;

Let the silence be no more;

Let the truth outshine all the lies from before;

Let them come – kill everyone;

Let them take the orders to drop the bomb;

Let the hatred overspill;

Let the cowards bask in thy own will;

Let us take direction from evil ones;

Let us do their deeds all done;

Let the man behind the desk;

Let him stand to see what’s left;

Let the spider tap that final bead;

Let the sniper take the heed;

Let the blood be spilled around;

Let my people listen to the rattling sound;

Let it all just come undone;

Let us show the world how we don’t see anyone;

Let the lies be finally set free;

Let me keep my fucking sanity.

TwiLight Zoned.

This weekend has been rather odd, to say the least…
My Twilight Zone Weekender technically began on Thursday – when the Opportunist sent me a super out-of-the-blue succession of “apologetic” (narcissistic and self-serving attempts at control) text messages; and it only got more strange and fucking out there as the weekend rolled on.
Friday, my doctors told me that my heart is technically failing; “but it’s a lot more scary sounding than it actually is…” my thing regarding the failure of my heart is simple: my father, a Nam Vet – a tough, tough guy – a survivor in his own right – was dropped dead by Congestive Heart Failure when I was thirteen years old, he was 42…I’m now 35 ½ years old. Dun dun dun!!! Anyway, despite the fact that I have lived through the most extreme of the extreme in terms of medical procedures and what not, the heart thing terrifies me. And so the journey through mindphuq – bodyfuq began.
Saturday morning, my heart woke me up again; hurting…hammering…stealing my breaths from my lungs and forcing my body temperature to freeze, inappropriately. I was sick several times during the early morning hours; but then the nausea subsided, and my right shoulder/chest began to throb and stab at its own insides, instead. I gave up the uncomfortable tosses and turns around 7:00am, and rolled out of bed to the unwelcome change-in-routine of ‘no coffee’. I was queasy, so ‘no coffee’ wasn’t so bad after all.
I was stupid enough to open a letter I’d received the night before from Boo; a feat in itself, seeing as how I normally create a huge issue over (my own bullshit psychological road-blocks) before pretty much forcing myself to begrudgingly rip open the envelope covered in her teenaged girl bubble letters, hearts, and arrows. I don’t know why I didn’t experience this inner-boxing match with this letter, but either way – I opened yesterday’s letter without a second thought for the most part…it’s been so long since I had any interaction with Boo at all; I guess I was just hungry for her words – no matter venomous or otherwise. Her letter was likely one of the most hollowing I’ve received from her since her return to the facility where she is caged out of state; she is so detached and dissociated – going through the motions – writing the letter she thinks she is supposed to write…she’s so sad and depressed and says several times that she misses me; she talks about how she’s been on lock down for over a week because of the illegal actions of other girls who reside there.
Getting mail from Boo is always a chop to my windpipe; I admit that I have so much anxiety surrounding her upcoming 18th birthday in May that I sometimes feel like I literally might spontaneously combust.
I can say that I have a very deep understanding and respect for the saying: “Being eaten alive by guilt.”
This is why dissociation has become part of my day to day survival, and possibly that of other specific individuals involved in Boo’s tragic experience under the “care” of the Juvenile Courts and the Department of Family & Children’s Services; without “psychological escapism” – I would not be able to survive. That is an unquestionable truth in my Life, as sad and lacking of stability as it may be.
When I think too long about shit regarding Boo, when I get slapped in the face and am reminded so vividly of her pain and suffering – suffering that goes coldly overlooked and disregarded by anyone close enough to reach out and hug her or even just sit with her, even not say fucked up shit to her that makes her questions of herself spin out of control – when I think too long about any of it, my chest feels like it’s caving in, like it’s been sprayed with liquid nitrogen, or my lungs have been sprinkled with solvent – the tissue is dissolving slowly with a chemical burn sting. I was struggling to get my breath; my draws would not allow me to inhale completely without shooting a bolt of lightning through my chest cavity. My shoulder continued to pinch and stab throughout the entirety of the day; I fell asleep with my arm slung up over a body pillow wrapped back over my head, looking and feeling very much like a pretzel. I slept like shit; but woke up with considerably less chest/shoulder pain, and the ability to breathe much easier.

And…today went on to be also oddly out-of-the-ordinary…
I spent the day today with The Opportunist (kind of). The quick run-down behind this circumstance is as follows:

1. It’s Sunday (male chauvinist football day in the U.S.)
2. I live in what would otherwise be a Bachelor Pad, given my absence in the household.
3. The Opportunist and one of my roommates (“The Good Bunkie”) go all the way back to childhood together.

I’m sure you can do the math there.

Apparently, his failed attempts at contacting and connecting with me the other day didn’t fix his monkey; because here he came today, tortilla chips and salsa dips under one arm – and I shit you not – an array of MY very favorite things under the other, ranging from flowering cacti, to flavored rolling papers, to Granddaddy Kush. Wow…I accepted his offerings with a smile and a nod before disappearing into the safety of my hallway that leads me away from the “man cave”, with a stiff “thank you” in passing.
Of course, me being the NON drama queen that I am (and yes, I am bragging…this is one of my favorite things about myself, in comparison to others I know), I never the bombardment of (pretty pathetic) text messages that The Opportunist sent the other day to the Good Bunkie because, well, why would I? He would only feel the need to be defensive for his lifelong friend, and it wouldn’t be a comfortable position for him to be in…so I don’t say shit to him about his lying, opportunistic, shit-talking, two-faced friend. Not my place to do so. Coming from a woman who grew up in a household full of men, boys and – me, you better trust and believe that I know what time it is when it comes to the old “Bros before Hoes” scenario. I don’t stir that pot.
Anyway, my day actually consisted of spending no time with The Opportunist, unless being in the same square footage vicinity counts. He WAS INDEED sitting on my couch all day, watching football…just like old times…but the only way I knew he was here was because once in a while his cry-baby whining voice would drift down the hall into my domain. Otherwise, I spent the day either doing yard work or in my own quarters. But still…a very weird day…a very tiresome weekend.
Tomorrow’s another day, ya’ll.

Let’s Go Home.

lets go home

BLUE.

Blue.

Blue.