Sometimes You Just Can't Fight

These days, I read or hear of people requesting prayers for other people going through cancer, like I once was.  Since I'm proof that positive thoughts are helpful, I am happy to oblige.  But occasionally I'll see requests to tell a dying person to "keep fighting".   It bothers me, to see that demand out there.  I want to find the person who made that statement, and holler at them. They don't understand.

Their loved one has been fighting, dammit.

I haven't met a single person out there who, when initially diagnosed with cancer, didn't want to fight.  Everybody wants to fight. I wanted to fight. Every single mother looks at her children and wants to fight.  Men hold their spouse's hand and vow to fight.  We all sit down with our doctors, plan out our attack.  No matter the disease, we all start out with our fists raised, ready to battle.  We're focused on the goal, the prize of a healthy life shimmering in the distance.

And then...well, things just don't work out the way they're expected to.

Surgery doesn't work. Chemo is ineffective.  Relapses occur.  These huge bumps in the road wear us all down over time, and sometimes, it is just more than a body can deal with.  Sometimes a person with an illness just can't fight anymore.   Telling someone who is dying, who knows that they are dying, to "keep fighting", as if all it takes is sheer will?  It's just cruel.  Bodies are decimated, unrecognizable but for the spirit still flickering within. They've already given every single ounce of strength.  Even if they still want to fight, they just can't, not anymore.  They are just tired, they are in pain, and they want it to stop.

We need to respect that.  We need to accept that.  This is not the time to demand that a person keep fighting, no matter how much we need it.  It might be the most difficult thing we ever do, keeping our thoughts to ourselves.  We want to keep our loved ones with us, encircled in our arms, for as long as we can.

This isn't about you.

This is the time to stop thinking of your own needs, your own wants.  Your loved one is tired, exhausted, worn away.  They are also terrified. A long time ago, when a person died, they were buried with various treasures, gifts to take into the afterlife.  Our compassion, our courage, our strength?

These are our gifts. 

We Are Not Brave Enough

I woke up this morning to hear the news of a mass shooting in Orlando, Florida,.  Mass casualties. A man went to an LGBT night club armed and willing to kill.  After sending messages to make sure that people that I know in the area were okay,  I thought about how many times I've rolled out of my bed to read similar headlines.  Too many to count.  Why is that?

We have not been brave enough.

As a nation, we have stood by too many times, while idiots with guns feel entitled to buy guns, wear guns, and randomly shoot those guns at who ever they want, whenever they want.  This has been happening for years.  Presidents shot. Children murdered. Coworkers killed.  And nothing changes.

We haven't been brave enough.

In the immediate aftermath, we have cried, held candlelight vigils, written op-ed pieces. Parents have held pictures of their children on television, asking for the violence to stop. Some people have actually stood up and demanded changes, formed political action groups, their voices soon drowned out by the next headline.  After a while, nobody hears them anymore.  And nothing changes.

We haven't been brave enough.

Open carry is allowed in Texas, and no one wants to stand up to the armed men and women who feel that carrying a gun is the only way to deter problems, in contradiction to most research by law enforcement.  Children are killed weekly because their inattentive parents think having a loaded gun in a purse or on the nightstand will protect their families from criminals.  And nothing changes.

We haven't been brave enough.

The NRA capitalizes on these shootings by shoving money at politicians, so they will subvert any reasonable possibility of gun control.  We as a nation know this, have known it. None of these politicians have been held accountable for being purchased by the gun lobby.  And still nothing changes. 

 We haven't been brave enough.

We haven't been brave enough to stand up to NRA lobbyists, to vote their political cronies out of office. We aren't brave enough to say 'no' to the overcompensating, entitled fools who seem to think that owning more guns equals a bigger penis.  Having too many guns is not the same as having too many shoes.

It takes courage to stand up.  It's much easier just to talk about it, and then forget. We haven't been brave enough to stand up and say "ENOUGH", and follow through with actions, such as monitoring and assistance for the mentally ill...and, yes, tougher, common sense gun laws.  If someone is mentally ill, they don't need to own a gun.  If a person is on any government watch list, they don't need to own a gun. Put GPS chips in all guns, fingerprint the owners, and monitor both.  It shouldn't be so easy for a random person to buy a gun without a background check, either.

Maybe all these suggestions won't stop all gun violence. Maybe there are better ideas out there. I don't have all the answers.  But we, as a nation, desperately need to find our courage, the guts to stand up.  It will take some hard decisions about who we are as a country and how we want the world to see us.  Without that, there will be no change at all, even as they are still counting the dead in Orlando.  

We need to be brave enough to at least try.

Strategic Friendship

I've always worried about my son's social skills.  He's an only extrovert growing up in a house full of introverts, after all.  Larry and I can go days without speaking, our noses in a book or at the computer, and we are content.  Zane would talk to grass if it would answer back, and gets irritated if there's no one around. 

I sometimes get to observe my son in his natural habitat, otherwise known as school, when there are schoolwide events.  I mostly hang back on these occasions and just let action unfold around me, because that's when the magic happens.  For example, I noticed both kids and adults approaching one student, George(not his real name), a boy in Zane's class.  George spent a great deal of time, hugging, smiling, and otherwise engaging with a great variety of people.  It's FERRIS BUELLER!!!! I thought to myself, because I think thoughts like that. 

"George, is there ANYONE here that you don't know?" I had to ask after the fifteenth person came running up to greet him.  After all, you usually don't see such happenings with an eight year old kid.  George never missed a beat.  

"Apparently not," he said. "I'm popular."

Popularity is something that I have little experience with, admittedly. It's never been important to me, the weird kid at the back of the room. I turned to watch Zane, content to run around with his little group of friends.  None of them seemed to mind that George had to stop and chat with everyone.  They weren't going to gather around him like an entourage, however. Zane and his friends went on about their business, and George caught up when he could. 

Zane left the group at one point, while his friends were shooting hoops  I finally noticed my son talking to the policeman hired for the day.  The officer was smiling.  Zane appeared genuinely interested in the officer's baton, his taser, his gun, and whatever other odds and ends officers keep in their belt.  And the officer seemed to love it, because they talked for about fifteen minutes.  The guy was still smiling as Zane returned to our group, and I realized that Zane had made a friend.

While Zane's friend George could be compared to Ferris Bueller, my child is more strategic in his friendships.  I used to do the same thing.  As an Army brat and perpetual new kid, I always made an effort to befriend the adults around me.  In a kid's world, adults are the ones who get things done, who make things happen. It's in a kid's best interest to take an interest in the adults around him. Especially those adults who might not be used to getting positive attention from anybody, let alone an eight year old kid who is truly interested in the people around him. Making friends with the adults around me helped me adjust more quickly to a new school and my place in it.   

Zane loves the librarian, and she loves him right back.  The second he walks into the library, he calls out "Hello, Ms. F.!", and you can tell that she doesn't hear that very often.  She lights up.  The two of them share a love of books that not many kids can bother with, these days.  My son appears to have made an effort to cultivate that relationship, just like his mother.  He's also made friends with the receptionist, the school nurse, the counselor, and the principal. I've seen them all light up when my son enters a room.  He's comfortable, and I like that.

Popular is fickle.  I don't care about popular.  Zane seems to care less about being popular, and more about the people.   Oh, that might change, as he gets older.  But for now, I'm feeling a little glow of pride in my son.  He's learning to make his way in the world.

The Holder of All Things

Last Friday found me at my son's school for Field Day.  Most Field Days at elementary schools involve races and other feats of athleticism.  However, since this is San Antonio, and it is Fiesta time, Zane's Field Day was more about the party, and less about athletics.  As I waited around for Zane's class, I was thinking of food, which is what I do with my free time, now that I don't have chemotherapy.  There were several booths offering sausages, hot dogs, nachos, cookies, and sno cones.  Normal Fiesta fare, except not at 8:30 in the morning.

Then the students came out, each class dressed in a different color shirt for easier location.  I found Zane's class in time to hear Zane's teacher pairing the kids off so that they could meander the fair together.  Zane spotted me and attached himself to my side.  He also brought several of his classmates. The group of us wandered about, with the boys running from the cart races, the bouncy castles,  the tattoo booth, etc.

It began simply enough; one of the boys asking me to hold on to his jacket.  No problem, I told him, wrapping it around my purse for safekeeping.  We wandered around some more, and then the boys decided that they wanted to try one of those fishing games where there are clothespins on the line.  Each boy got a little bag of treats on their line.

And what do boys usually do with the extras they collect along the way?

They give them to their moms. If their mom isn't handy, they give the item to the person closest to matching that description. That was me.  I suddenly found myself carrying five tiny bags of goldfish crackers along with a jacket.  Then the boys wanted something to drink, so they went to the drink booth.  They all sat along the curb, drinking their Gatorade, until they decided on their next activity.  But none of them had finished their drinks!

Guess who got to hold those?
 
I also held napkins, empty sno cone cups, spoons, and other items over the course of the two hours I was there.  As I followed after the boys, my arms loaded down with the detritus of five little boys, I finally had to laugh.  I was a Mom.  This is part of motherhood, carrying the burdens of others. We have that kind of bond with our children.  I carry my son in my heart, and I guess that means I carry all the other things he will encounter as well.  Sometimes those burdens will be as easy and simple as sno cone cups and little bags of goldfish crackers.  Other times, the weight will end up being heavier.  I hope those times are few and far between, but whatever happens, I'll be there.


That's my job. Mothers are the Holders of All Things, be they heartaches... or Gatorade. 
 

Theater Arts

Friday night found Zane, Larry, and I sitting in the third row, center, of my niece Courtney's school production of The Wizard of Oz.  She's a senior, and we do try to show our support for family members, on the soccer field as well as the theater.  Zane was told that he could bring a book, but he left it in the car and brought one of his small toys with him. 

Zane was not excited about having to sit still for hours, and made his feelings known. Once the show started, however, Zane was interested.  Well, as interested as an eight year old boy can be in Kansas farm life, some girl singing about rainbows, and various stage techniques.

"Why are they moving that house around and around?" Zane wanted to know. "What is that smoke over there?"

"Shhhh," I said.  We'd discussed proper behavior for the theater earlier, but it was obvious that my son's natural curiosity would take center stage.  He wanted to know when Courtney was going to be on stage, he wanted to know how the Wicked Witch was throwing fire, etc.  All great questions, but not best answered during the production.

Finally, Zane got quiet in the darkness of the theater. Zane quiet usually means he's up to shenanigans.  I glanced over to find him playing with something in his pocket.  I thought that it was his toy.  I had told him not to play with it during the show.  I leaned over, holding out my hand.

"Give it to me," I said firmly.  Zane pulled his hand out of his pocket, and he handed "it" to me.  Yep.  What he handed me was not a toy.  "It" turned out to be a huge booger.  Sitting there, sticky on my palm.

I don't have any acting experience.  I get terrible stage fright. But I did a fair job of acting as though everything. Was. Just. Fine.  If anyone had been looking, they would have seen a calm woman lean over to grab a tissue out of her purse and rub her hand quietly.

But in my head I was screaming "EWWWWWWW!!!!!" and wanting a sink and a gallon of soap. I don't remember much about the show after that.  Parenting is all about moments like this.  This is what separates the beginners from the pros.  It's easy to be a parent when the kids are all cute and well behaved. It's another thing entirely to have your child hand you a booger in the middle of a dark high school theater.

I think I won that round.  

Interlude

I've been back at work for a couple of weeks now. I hit the ground running, which was a sign that my absence had been noticed and appreciated.  But as a result, I've spent my workdays facing a computer and typing, and not much else.  Not the best sort of situation, but that's what happens when you miss six weeks of work. It's easy to get caught up in the daily routines, and forget to enjoy the little signs that the world is a wondrous place.  I needed a reminder.

A ladybug was flying around my office this afternoon.  I wasn't sure how this creature arrived, but suddenly there it was, flying about.  I went back to my report, my typing the only sound in the quiet. 

Then the ladybug landed, right on the corner of my laptop, where I usually put my wrists while typing.  She(ladybugs are all "she" to me) wasn't a red ladybug, like I'm used to.  This one was pink, and apparently determined to get my attention.  I had to pause in my typing efforts, to avoid disturbing the pink ladybug.  I was entranced, work forgotten.

Since I was taking a break, I reached for my glass of water and took a long drink. 

And while I was drinking my water, I thought that perhaps my visitor might be thirsty after flying all this way to visit me.  I decided that it wouldn't be courteous not to at least offer a sip.  I put a small drop of water on my finger and placed it on the laptop near the the pink ladybug, (but not where it would short out anything).

I waited.

When the pink ladybug moved over to the drop of water and seemed to be drinking, I raised my glass in a toast. We sat there, quietly drinking together, insect and human.  I watched the pink ladybug finish her drink, wash her mandibles, and then sidle away from the water.  She sat quietly on the warmth of my laptop, and I sat quietly in my chair, and all was right with the world at that particular moment. 

The phone rang, and the moment was over.  I didn't see the pink ladybug fly away, but suddenly she was gone. If she had stayed, I would have attempted to carry her back out into the bright spring day, where she belonged.  Instead I whispered, "Thank you," and went back to my reports with a smile. 


 

Bingewatching Before It Was A Word

When my family returned to the states from Germany in the late seventies, we were completely flabbergasted by television.  We suddenly had THREE networks to choose from instead of just the one Armed Forces channel. My family dove right into the network schedule like starving people at a banquet.  Any free time we had found us all right there in front of the television.  It was perfectly justified; there were no devices to record a show.  If you missed it, you had to actually...WAIT. 
At least until the reruns during the summer.  

And then my father found a Betamax, a machine which played tapes of movies. He brought it home and we gathered round.  It was a colossal machine, huge, ugly, and ungainly.  My father explained about video stores, where we could rent tapes of movies and bring them home.  He'd brought a few tapes home with him, for experimental purposes, of course. 

We loved it. 

During the winter months, weekends would find us in the family room gathered around the television.  We would watch two or three movies in a day, with pauses for bathroom breaks and munchies.  There were movies that we never saw in the theater, movies that had been hits in the sixties that were released.  Horror, comedy, drama...it didn't matter.  We watched it all. 

We were bingewatching. 

I realized it the other day, when my husband and I sat down to view multiple episodes of the second season of Daredevil.  The medium has changed, of course.  Now we use our X-box One to access Netflix instead of a betamax.  But it was still bingewatching, before there was even a word to describe it. 

I like the idea of being a trendsetter.

Microstories: Slippery

Tick 

A squalling newborn

Tock

I merely blinked

And the minutes have

Disintegrated,

Dust in my trembling hands.

The wind whisks all away

No matter how tightly I

Drip

Clench my fists around them.

Drop

When did my baby boy turn eight?

Microstories: Have a Nice Day

Deserted school parking lot,
In my car
Alone,

Afraid of
The far away voice.
  
"You have cancer,"
Said the physician.

Words enunciated casually.
Routine.

I heard nothing,
roaring beasts
devouring my courage,
until the end of his call.

"Have a nice day."

Microstories: The World Ends

Big, round, and RED, it sits sanctimoniously in the middle of the desk. 

As he angrily barks out orders to his minions, Gordon's fat fingers ache with need, to finally wipe the slate clean.

He is tired; he wants to go home.

Microstories: A White Slip of Paper

I stood confidently at the top of the stage, my shoulders back, my back stiff with pride.  Graduation cap set jauntily, I waited for my name to roll over the crowd.  

But the announcer only looked at me expectantly, his hand out.

Microstories: Post Op

Strange, alien tubes, heavy with fluid, pull at the skin where they are stitched into place. Each drop from the IV pushes me further into the mattress. My eyelids are cumbersome, closing once more. 

I gratefully fall back into the comforting darkness.

Microstories: Mythos

Calypso stood vigil, silently waiting for the frigate to appear, returning her heart's desire. No entreaties moved her. The moon rose and set upon her still form, and the heat of the sun would not dry her tears.

She stands there still.  

Microstories: A Momentary Thaw

As the lazy rays
of the sun
stretch and yawn
over the horizon,
slowly warming the sky,
the first drops
of my awareness
glisten in the light;
droplets of thought
now a trickle of memory.

Me.

Then I fall into the snow.

Microstory: The Grieving

I'm singing out a Hallelujah

I'm chanting an Amen

And the believers, enthusiastic, clap along.

I'm smiling, my head held high

And crooning the old words:

Comforting, revered hymns.

Yet my heart is keening

A funeral dirge,

The notes forever off kilter.

Fiction: Not With A Bang

 I want to grab the man by his collar and tell him to snap out of it.

But he's not any different than any of us at the moment.  Lots of blank-faced men and women standing about today.  We only had hours to live.

I didn't have time for this hulk of a man to be blocking the sidewalk.  I needed to be at home with my family.  Molly and Charlie were there.  Mimi had at least called me before she abandoned them to go to her own family, but they were too young to be alone.  They needed me. 

"Hey!" I yell at the man.  "Excuse me.  I need to get by."   He didn't move, and I gave up all pretense of polite conversation and shoved at him with all my strength.  The man grunted, but my momentum got him to move the three inches I needed to sidle past him.  I broke into a run, my short legs moving quickly.  My lungs burned after a block, but I kept going.  The blue sky above looked just like any other day, but I knew that it was all a lie now.  The blue was going to fade as the atmosphere disapated.

Two more blocks and I staggered up the front steps, pausing to catch my breath before I opened the door. I could tell that there wasn't much time.  Hot tears burned at the back of my eyes, and I wanted to scream.  I needed to be calm.  I opened the front door and called for the children; they burst out of hiding from behind the red couch in the darkened parlor.  

"Mama!" Molly had been crying "We can't find Mimi!"

Charlie is right behind his sister, his bottom lip quivering.  They're terrified and fighting for breath.  I move to the couch and they struggle briefly to climb in my lap.  I gather them to me, useless words of comfort coming from somewhere to soothe their fears.

"It's all right, my sweets,"  I tell them.  "Mama's here. You are two of the bravest children in the world. And now we can all be brave together."

Molly lifts her hand to touch my face, and I realize I am crying.  I rest my cheek on the top of her head, rocking a little.  The news reports stated that children would be the first affected by the catastrophic depletion of oxygen in the atmosphere.  Charlie's eyelids begin to droop, and my heart clutches in my chest. No! My brain screams. Children are supposed to grow, to live.  To be. 

But there's nothing that I can do but watch.  There's nothing that anyone can do; it's too late.  Both of my children fall unconscious in my arms, their shallow breaths trickling into silence.

I hold their bodies, and I wait for my turn, cursing the fates. 

Microstory: Revenge of the Nerd

 Who will go to space?

The Final Frontier?!!

I stood on my toes, stretched my arm to the sky. 

"You're too short, son," the commander said as he walked past.
 
Watching the explosion later, I clutched a hexagonal bolt in my palm.

Fiction: The Gates of Heaven

The newly deceased arrived at the pearly gates of Heaven in groups of five or ten, as usual.  The white light delivered them like clockwork.  Saint Peter was to be there to greet them in the lobby, to usher them through the gates and into Paradise.  As one group entered, the next group of souls would arrive.  The Heavenly Host was all about following the schedule, and had been since the dawn of time.

On this day, however, there was no one at the desk in front of the gates when the souls arrived.  In fact, the lobby seemed deserted.  Confused, the souls floated near the gate.  More souls arrived, surprised to see the others.  Soon the lobby was crowded with souls, their soft lights bobbing hesitantly.  Their hushed voices murmured their bewilderment.    

The gates rattled, and then were pulled open.  Saint Peter hurried out, shut the gates behind him, and stood with his back against them.  He looked a mess. The holy man's normally placid countenance was gone, replaced by a furrowed brow and a distant stare. His normally pristine robe was ripped in multiple places, and hung limply off one shoulder. 

The souls were even more confused by his appearance.  Questions rushed through the crowd and back up to the front in a roar of sound that circled the room.  Finally, the other souls pushed one light forward, hastily chosen as a spokesperson.  The soul bobbed in what it hoped was a respectful manner and floated closer to Saint Peter.

"Your Holiness," the soul began. "Whatever is the matter, sir?"

Saint Peter did not respond at first, his eyes still focused elsewhere.  It took several tries to get the great man to finally look at them, and the soul repeated his question.  Saint Peter coughed and ran his hands over his face, as if to wipe off a horrible memory.  The souls waited, their lights winking in their distress. Finally, he spoke.

"I'm sorry," Saint Peter raised his voice, so that the multitude could hear him. His hands were held in supplication. "I'm so sorry.  Heaven is closed until further notice."

The souls floated in the sudden silence as Saint Peter stumbled and slipped through the gates.  The slam reverberated loudly. 

Microstory: The Infinite Sky

The cowboys grew tired of riding the trails, sleeping on hard ground, underneath the infinite sky. Their insignificance terrified them.

Leaving horses, worn saddles, and tack, they walked away from the prairie, to wives, warm beds, and left the old life behind.

Fiction: The Beginning

I stood up a little straighter.  The sound of the gate closing behind me cut the final leash that had held me in check, and I felt the weight of my heart ease a little.  For the first time in a long while I could breathe easy.  I was alone, and glad of it.

I was scared, but determined. 

The early morning light was muted, and a light, cool wind moved the desert sand in small waves around the cacti and scrub plants. The heat of the day was yet to come, and there seemed to be an anticipation in the air, as if the world had been waiting for me.

Which way to go?  I did not want to walk forward into the desert, where nothing but sand could be found. That way lay death, I knew, even if there was a town on the other side. To the right of me, off in the distance, stood a forest, a green blur on the horizon.  A mystery--no one I knew had ever been to the forest.  It was an unknown. To the left, tall mountains, their tops covered in white.  If I headed into the mountains, I knew there would be water.  Rivers flowed from the mountains, my mother had said.  Animals would come to the river to drink, and I could eat them for food. 

I looked in both directions again.  As I turn to to the right, something bright caught my eye. Something shiny?  I had always imagined a forest to be dark, the trees preventing sunlight from entering.  What could that light be?  I hesitated. I wasn't used to making my own decisions; I wanted to be sure.

But what was sure and true appeared to be more fluid than I had ever known. Maybe I would have to settle for good enough, since I had no one to rely on but myself.

The forest beckoned, at least five days away by horse, skirting the fringes of the desert. I had no idea how long it would take me to walk.  Water would not be as sure, but berries and other plants would be plenty.  The bright light in the distance shined again, like a mirror catching the light, and I was a moth.

I started walking.