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Betwixt, Bothered, and Be-whining

9 Aug

OK, so my title is a little skewed, though it does give a quasi nod to Rogers and Hart and their musical production, Pal Joey.  Now let’s break it down…

BETWIXT =       For me it means between jobs.  Between life’s.  Between something.  Just plain old, BETWEEN.  I’m not between a rock and a hard place because I am only in a hard place, there is no differentiating of rocks.  And in this place the who and the what branches out to become the when, the how, and the for how long?!  (Is utilizing two different punctuation marks breaking a cardinal grammatical rule?  No matter, it is my Bent to break the rules–or stretch them out very thin.)  The betwixt of life is result of the foundational shift which occurred over one year ago due to the brain tumor of my son.  At that time I was a full time student (mother and wife).  Returned to school for…something?!  Regardless of how much I love to learn and thoroughly enjoy academia, I had the most difficult time landing on a major because they all are so fascinating…as if I’m 18 years old again and have the world awaiting my attack.  Not so true as a forty year old with a family.  But hey, don’t tell my mind about my age…it hasn’t figured it out yet!  So with the world as my oyster I pursued finishing my undergrad certification.  So does that make me a student?  I have a student ID card.  I have some unused books still scattered about my room.  Are those ear marks sufficient to give me the title?  I don’t know, I haven’t been back to class since my son’s diagnosis; hence betwixt.

BOTHERED =     Annoyed by my own indecision.  The questions, “Am I a student?  Do I want to return to school?  Do I want a full time job with benefits?  Do I want to pursue writing for remuneration?  Do I want to become a flight attendant (as if that job is still an option–remember, my brain has yet to catch up to my number)?  Am I content being the caretaker to my son?  Will he require my services full time for much longer?  Will my husband gain the notoriety and compensation he is being promised?  Do we hang on to the promise still?  Do we let go?  …and so on!

BE-WHINING =    It seems to me, the previous two categories also cover this one.  My first choice was to put “belittled”, but my self-esteem is naturally too high to ever get “belittled,” thus I felt “be-whining” a more appropriate fit.  The reason for my angst is that the United States Postal Service delivered some dreaded, though not unexpected, news today.  The claim form for my husband’s final unemployment payment showed itself in our mailbox this morning.  We knew it was coming for we know how to read, and though much of the gobbledygook that is somehow referred to as English was undecipherable, we comprehended enough to dread this moment.  Now in advance of today’s mail, I had perused the internet for job vacancies.  However, I still have two “incompletes” on my academic record from the spring of 2011 that I need to remedy this fall (because the teacher advanced me a good grade on the promise she would see me in class this month).  So entertaining taking on a full time position, maintaining the mountain of paperwork which has attached itself to my military-connected son, and fulfilling my oath to an endeared teacher are in much conflict.  Not to mention I am still a wife and mother.  AH-HAH!  And there you have it…Betwixt, Bothered, and Be-whining.  Makes sense now that I put it to pen.

Now for the tough part, living by the faith I profess to have.  I am, living under the nurturing wing of the great, I AM.  I know this.  I know this, I know this.  …I know this (nod to Neruda).  For example, today when I was walking from the strip-mall drug store over to the beauty supply (I’m going back on the bottle tonight–the black dye bottle that is), I felt the increasing pressure of a panic attack.  Too much, too soon, too abstract.  And I began having trouble catching my breath.  At first I grasped to utilize my own inner resources–they were on a sabbatical.  What else could I do?  I suppose I could have screamed.  I could have cried.  I could have passed out.  I could have called my husband and yelled at him (why not?  except the thought police scrambled his phone number).  But what I did do was cry out to G-d.  It went something like this, “Jesus, YOU are going to have to help me!!!!”  And you know what?  He did.  I didn’t notice right away.  It wasn’t until I got into my car after finishing my beautification purchase that I noticed I was full (filled) of peace.  And with the peace I was able to breathe.  I am thankful for that moment, that reminder that I am not walking this life alone.  And wouldn’t you know it, the open market art dealer just called and told my husband his art was well received and there are two commissions for paintings awaiting him.  She said, “Don’t quit your day job (haha–it just quit us), but the reception was better than I expected.”

I am thankful.  I am walking in faith, though with a touch of vertigo.  I am hopeful.  And, I am still betwixt, bothered, and be-whining.

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Shut The Hell Up!

8 Aug

This past weekend I had the pleasure of traveling north to Santa Barbara and meeting my sister and her friend for the weekend.  As we perused the street vendors and kitschy wall hanging plaques we laughed out loud as we read the crass slogans which illuminated truths about our lives.  For instance, one plaque had a picture of a woman in an apron and alongside her read, “The menu for the night? Take it or leave it!”

Now fast forward to Sunday evening when I was again home and surrounded by my motley family (dogs and all), we had a visitor who happens to be expecting her seventh child.  She had a moments reprieve from her “little birds” and came over to our house for a visit (because she acquiesced to my daughter’s request, not because she had some free time with nothing to do!);  now as the dinner hour fast approached, the subject of feeding the family was laid out on the table.  And of course with that subject comes much comedy especially when two or more mothers are gathered and interject their own trials in nutritiously satisfying the varying palates of their brood.  So it was with appropriate context that I shared the kitschy plaque about “take it or leave it.”  To which my friend answered, “I don’t want that plaque, I want one that says, Shut the Hell Up!”  Now you have to understand why this is so funny to me…it is because my dear friend, who has six little ones with another gaining speed, is such a loving mother and wife.  Her passion is taking care of her family and loving the great I AM.  So this crass response was just absolutely hysterical (my word choice here is no coincidence for those of you who love language, look up the etymology of hysterical and you will understand its perfect fit), and of course I love her rendition of the plaque much more than the original.

In fact, I have found myself uttering those very words this morning…

I was in the bathroom, having some private time (or so it should have been), the door was closed and the fan was on (now that should be clue enough for everyone to get the gist of what I was doing in the loo) when my husband decided to have a sit down near the door and converse with me about details of, who knows–I can’t remember, all I remember is the subject was not pressing and the details could have, should have, and would have to wait!!  In that moment, just about an hour ago, I found myself thinking the uttering of my friend, “shut the hell up”!  Now I realize it could be argued that a response such as that is warranted given the circumstance of the situation, however, I personally feel that such abrupt and rude language is never the appropriate manner in which to respond; so I didn’t use it…out loud.  But I thought it.

And the fact that I thought it bothers me.  I will tell you why.

There is an old adage that goes something like this:
“Be careful what you think because your thoughts become your words.  Your words become your actions, and your actions become your character.  And character is everything.”  So truth be told, my thought life has been a bit polluted for a while now.  And when considering the truth of the referenced proverb, I am in for some trouble if I don’t let the thought police come and do a bit of housecleaning.  I am in trouble because I don’t like the slippery slope of negativity that the “shut the hell up” response suggests.  No, not the “shut the hell up” said in a humorous context of kitschy plaques and dinnertime, but the “shut the hell up” thought toward my happy go lucky husband who is undeserving of such a response.  Actually, he is undeserving of me nurturing such responses, as is the rest of my family, as are my neighbors, as are the anonymous drivers on the road, as is the community in which I live or travel to, as is my G-d, as is myself.

Granted, my husband sitting outside the bathroom door while I’m taking care of “business” is definitely not a habit I intend to encourage.  But I will employ a gentler attitude when I stand firm upon the platform of “absolutely not.”  And the impetus to my decision is this:  love builds up, it does not tear down.  If I allow “shut the hell up” to fall from my lips upon the ears of any one of my beloveds, then I have failed to express the true essence of love.  So I avow at this moment to climb up the rope of the slippery slope backwards and by doing so redirect the course of my actions.

Thought Police, permission granted to come aboard!

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Nothin’

26 Jul

A couple of months ago my husband Brian and I were with my aunt for the unveiling of my uncle’s tombstone.  It had been over one year since his passing and though traditionally the unveiling is done at the one year marker, for reasons that avail themselves to be a part of life, the unveiling happened at about 15 months.  At any rate, while we were driving in the car my aunt confided in us that the second year of living without her husband seemed to be harder than the first.  I remember really taking in what she said at the time and mulling over its meaning.  And quite frankly I haven’t stopped my mulling.

Our family (and more specifically my son), is at the 16 month marker from the date of learning of the dreaded brain tumor.  We are in the second year, and I concur with my aunt, it is harder.  I have a motto: “You mess with the brain, you mess with the entire body!”  And since Cole’s surgery, besides the obvious physical disabilities he is left to contend with, he has been left with an internal system that remains, at best, mysterious.  Quite frankly, his gastrointestinal system is a problem.  In fact, his last two trips to the hospital ER have been due to extreme pain in the region of the small intestine.  So much so, that only a narcotic pain relief system has saved him from the agony.  And because that is not the course of treatment we look to, on the long term, the diagnostic testing was moved up and completed this past Tuesday.

Now being that Cole has Crohn’s Disease on both his maternal and paternal sides of the family, as well as colon cancer heavily on my side along with ulcerative colitis, you can imagine how happy we were to learn that none of these issues befalls him.  Yes, we can let out a big sigh of relief…for he doesn’t have to contend with having had a malignant brain tumor and then contend with having any form of additional disease on top of the whopper he already endures.  A big “Praise the Lord” for that!

But what he does have heavy upon his mind and soul is the big nothing that showed up in every test and culture taken.  “Nothing, everything looks normal.”  Yet he has agonizing pain.  This is the “hard” I mentioned earlier.  The moving through the nothings of life and trying to keep the chin up.  The first year post tumor resection was spent in concentrated rehabilitation.  Our family was on high alert living off of the adrenaline rush of the circumstance.  Now we are not.  It’s as if we have turned another corner…  We have moved out of the big city of dodging cars and people, with blinking lights–green now yellow then red–which seemed to guide our every step.  And we are now heading along a path that is more subdued, plain, and perhaps a bit monotonous.  With a tumbleweed or two, from time to time, rolling across our path.  Not enough to invoke our internal emergency system (the chemicals which strengthen us in times of emergency), just enough to wear us out from dodging them.  And when we think there might be a tornado on the horizon, which could possibly kick up the ‘ol juices again, it turns out to be nothing more than the lackluster performance of a dust-devil.

So here we are, walking a long road of nothing.  Cole has pain and now has to somehow process that this is normal.

Being the last of the diagnostics were Tuesday, and yesterday he was down as a result; And today he was still suffering the tail end of the tests intrusions, I have to somehow remain hopeful that tomorrow we will figure out how to traverse this “second year” path no matter how droll the scenery may be.

Does that make sense to you, my reader?  Can you feel the anguish through my metaphorical ramblings?  Because I assure you, I am not lamenting the adventure of our previous year.  I am merely sharing my current observations.  And what they boil down to, in plain spoken text, is that it is harder to have to tell my son that his disabilities and internal sensitivities just might be here the rest of his life when in the first year we were pushing as hard as we could to help him gain back every ounce of ability lost.

That, dear friends, is my tumbleweed.

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