Small Town Gripes

Returning to the town where I grew up after my mother's death seemed like a good idea at the time. When she was in the hospital in September, 2008, I was all "it's so beautiful here, the air is clean and the people are friendly, why did I leave?" After being back for two years, I TOTALLY remember why I couldn't wait to leave.

I miss the energy and anonimity of big cities. I miss the fast pace of urban life. I miss the option of refusing to return to a store when I get crappy service. When there's only one place in town to get something, then you pretty much HAVE to go there, crappy service or not. The other options are to order over the internet (and pay for shipping,) or drive a hundred and sixty miles round trip to the next, slightly larger, town (and pay for gas) neither of which is a great choice.

Having lived here for over thirty years, my mother had quite a history. She was a visible, active member of the community, ran for city council a couple of times, never failed to make her opinions known. It can be a nice thing, being known for your family, but sometimes you can just feel the judgment when someone finds out who your parent was. It can leave a bitter aftertaste. And did I mention seeing her ex-lovers? That can be rather embarassing, especially when some of them really have NO idea what's in good taste.

I like running into people I know, even though I've become quite masterful at the sweet-but-swift brush-off, since otherwise a fifteen minute trip to the store becomes a forty-five minute "Oh I haven't seen you in so long!" conversation. Being surrounded by people who've known you for years is great, except when it's not, when it's petty and spiteful and grudge-holding.

Small town life can be amusing. There was a letter to the editor in one of the local papers this week about the illegalities of shooting and butchering a neighbor's goat that happened to get loose. It was funny, but it also struck me as being so provincial and vaguely ridiculous.

I liked having my choice of first-run movies to see in a variety of luxe theaters, even if we rarely went. Ditto with other entertainment and dining options. Here, there is ONE theater that hasn't been updated since the 70's, showing two or three movies per week. Last time I saw a film on the big screen, I was distracted by the ratcheting of the projector and how cold the building was.

Maybe I'm being petty or short-sighted, maybe I'm spoiled or impatient, but 99% of the people I went to school with now live elsewhere. Some of them didn't go too far, a couple of really good friends live in Anchorage. Anchorage is a city, a small city, but a city nevertheless.

The Sound of a Single Shot

it echoes and echoes and echoes...

Sometime in the dark of the late night or early morning of October 23rd or 24th, my little brother ended his life.  No one heard the single gunshot, or if they did, they didn't know what it meant.  Dismissed it as a car back fire maybe, or wrote it off as a warning to a bear.  Gunshots aren't uncommon in rural Alaska, sometimes if you hear a succession, you might wonder what the hell is going on, but people rarely call the police.
He lay in the grass by the edge of the canyon for twelve or fourteen hours before Olga found him.  I think of the stillness of the night, the dew settling, I can't remember if it frosted or not, not that it's really important.  I feel bad for her, finding him that way, it must have been terrible and shocking.  She knew him all his life, he played with her kids, she must have wondered, like all of us, how could I not have known? why didn't I see?
He shot himself in the head with a gun taken from an unlocked safe in a office.  There was a note, a passed-in-class note, in which he and an unidentified friend wrote.  One of the things he wrote was about shooting himself at the edge of the canyon and rolling down the steep slope, how peaceful it might be.  The friend never said anything, obviously thought he was just talking, wasn't serious.  So much guilt, so many unanswered questions.
There were signs, of course there were signs!, but no one was really paying attention, including me.  I spoke with him on the phone a couple of weeks before, and he didn't want to talk to me.  Had to be pestered to tell me he loved me, so unlike him.  I should have known then that there was something wrong, I just thought he was being a moody teenager.
Fifteen years ago, that's quite a while in human terms.  Time passes, life goes on, as they say.  And I hope he's a part of something larger now; the wind and the grass, the earth and the rain, the dark sky and the shimmering stars that were his only witnesses that lost, lonely night.

Here and There

I don't know what's going on with me lately. NSA is in Colorado with his family, who he really doesn't like very much, but his mom and dad are old, and his dad is undergoing radiation treatments for prostate cancer, so best to visit while he can and before things get veryvery bad. I miss him and I'm glad he's gone at the same time.
I have nine, NINE!, blog postings in draft, but I can't seem to finish any of them. I'm having a hard time focusing and seeing anything through to completion.
I want to redesign my blog, there are some cool new templates out there, but (see above.)
September and October are bad months for me, and as as result, I think I'm especially edgy and fretful. Maybe medication is a good idea. But then there's that stupid Newsweek article about the inefficacy of antidepressants, and so I think, why bother?
Sometimes I stumble across music that I really like, but isn't very helpful, mood-wise. Blue October's "Into the Ocean" is just such a song.
I feel like I've been walking in a fog bank for the past couple of years. Sometimes it's very slow going and I have to feel my way along, and sometimes the sun shines through and I think everything will be okay, but what I really need is for the fog to lift.

Things I Want Thursday

Taking a cue from Sass, a Things I Want Thursday:

1. A dump truck; the bigger, the better.
2. Six well-trained cleaners with rubber gloves, masks, and strong stomachs.
3. 250 gallons of Febreze.
4. 1500 heavy-duty plastic trash bags. I hope that would be enough.
5. Four tons of gravel, delivered.
6. A pair of Skechers Shape-Ups, size 7 1/2, since my current job is pretty active and I might as well work on my ass while I work.

All of these (except the last) relate to my mother's house and the difficulty I'm having cleaning it out. The sorting through shit, sometimes literallly, gets to me and I just feel like torching the whole place. Except that I still haven't found my grandmother's ring, which Mom assured me was in there, somewhere. *sigh*

5 Months and a Dream

I woke up early this morning with tears in my eyes, dripping on my pillow, not sobbing. I dreamt that I was sitting by Mom's hospital bed, talking with her, and she looked really good, like she did when she vacationed down here. She was smiling and animated, telling me very important things, things I needed to know, and I was paying close attention because I wanted, needed, to remember. I thought, I should be writing this down. And then I woke up.

It was still dark outside, weird for me to be up this early, but clearly my subconscious was at work. NSA was in a bad place of his own, so I sat on the couch with a blanket, waiting for my coffee to brew, watching the minutes tick by, reliving this morning five months ago moment by moment. I didn't remind NSA of what day it is, I don't know if he thought about it, nor did I tell him about my dream. Maybe I'm being selfish, or maybe I'm trying to spare him. It's hard to say.

I know that I'm moving forward, I mean, things progess, time marches on, it can't be stopped just because you need a breather or eight hundred, but I have very little faith in the future. Some days, I feel like I've had the shit kicked out of me, and just as I start to recover from one blow, another lands.

I can't remember what Mom was telling me in the dream, and that's why I was crying. It was important, and I woke up to the real world not remembering.

I'm Probably Insane For Even Considering This

I'm seriously thinking about buying a big-ass tent, a decent heater, and a chemical toilet, and camping out on Mom's property for the summer. In Alaska. With three cats. And a shotgun, most likely, in case of bears. Yeah, plenty of reasons to question my rationality right there. For those of you who've been following along (and for those of you who haven't), let me explain: We were planning on moving to Colorado this spring. NSA's family is there, it's a beautiful place, and we have no real ties to Southern California. BUT, since my mom died, I've been in a strange and funky place (and I don't mean that in a Lipps, Inc. kind of way), and her property needs a LOT of attention before it can either be occupied or sold. Cleaning out the house itself is probably at least a two month project. There's also a travel trailer, two sheds, and an old school bus full of crap as well. Jesus, just writing that comes across so hillbilly/white trash, I feel like I should be pregnant and barefoot in the Appalachians somewhere.
NSA and I have been considering moving back to Alaska and renting an apartment, but both of us really don't want to have to spend the winter there, shipping all of our stuff is expensive, and neither of us want to feel trapped by decisions Mom made. So what's the compromise? What can we live with? Well, NSA is the disabled one, so if he feels that he can spend a few months in a tent, then I can too. If we get Mom's place into a habitable state, then good, we won't be stuck in a lease. And if the house isn't decent by the end of summer, then at least most of the trash will be removed and it will be in better condition to board up and leave for the following winter. Storing the bulk of our stuff is definitely less expensive than shipping it, and it leaves the option of moving to Colorado (or somewhere else) open.
I realize that for some, spending a summer in a tent in Alaska sounds a little bit like Hell on earth, while for others, it's a dream vacation. I know quite a few people who've done it, even in the winter, while building a house, working in fish processing, doing wildlife research. Not having to pay rent would mean that we could live on a reduced income, and in this age of cell phones and wireless broadband, of movies and T.V. shows delivered directly to your computer, it could actually be pretty comfortable. Or it could be a horribly bad idea that ends tragically with my face being eaten by a bear. I guess we'll just have to see.

The Flavors of My Childhood

1. Raspberry- They grow all over the place. When I was in Alaska last September, I spent a significant amount of time stuffing myself from roadside patches and hoping I wasn't feasting on someone's unharvested bounty.
2. Verner's Ginger Ale- "Barrel Aged, Bold Taste. A Michigan Tradition Since 1888." Mom grew up in Michigan and this stuff used to be hard to find. We'd drink it whenever we visited my gramma in Clawson. Now it's been bought by 7-Up and is available in just about every major supermarket.
3. Salmon- Alaska has fairly liberal subsistence laws, and we had several friends who set-netted and regularly caught more than they could use. Our freezer was always well stocked with quality fish, a fact I never really appreciated until I moved to the Lower 48 and paid high prices for farmed salmon.
4. Cranberry-orange relish- Mom was a pretty good cook when she could be bothered. This was her special holiday dish, fresh oranges and cranberries ground together in a meat grinder never used for anything else. While it was always seasoned well, it was never sweet enough for me.
5. Rum balls- Straight from The Joy of Cooking, dusted with powdered sugar, a holiday treat that did satisfy my sweet tooth.
6. Fried tofu- Mom would use it in sweet-and-sour, or sometimes just serve plain. The closest approximation I've been able to find is the deep fried tofu triangles appetizer at Sweet Pink Pepper on Santa Monica.

A Home of Our Own

I've said before, when Mom died, she left a huge mess behind. And, actually, a reluctance to deal with this mess might be part of why she died. But that's a sort of pop-psychology, avoidance issue thing that I may or may not write about later. In any case, due to an unpaid loan situation, I thought my mom had lost the rights to her land and house, and was only living there because no one wanted to kick a poor old lady out, which could have happened. I was also wicked disappointed because the monies owed were less than 10% of the value of the land, a pretty raw deal. As it turns out, I was wrong, and I am so happy about that.
There is a bit of money owed, a debt to an acquaintance of Mom's who paid property taxes for her, but I have the opportunity to pay off the debt and keep the land where Mom, my little brother Edward, and my grandmother are buried. So that's a very good thing. I've never owned anything worth that much either. To find myself a homeowner, even due to such unhappy circumstances, is rather exciting.
It's not much of a place, 2 1/4 acres of boggy land and an unfinished house with no water or plumbing, jury-rigged electricity and a wood stove for heat. And no driveway to speak of. And twenty-five years worth of hoarded junk, vermin, and cat shit, that makes the place basically uninhabitable. But the structure itself is fairly sound, it has lots of windows and there's a large garden and raspberry patch. So, yes, I have my work cut out for me, not completely sure I'm equal to the task, but hey, gotta give it a try and see what happens. And if I sound deeply ambiguous, it's because I am.

January 23, 1939

My mother would have been 70 last Friday. This knowledge nibbled at my consciousness all week. I got a couple of calls from her friends, one of whom has a key to her house and called me from there, so when I looked at my cell to see who it was, it came up "Mom," since I haven't deleted her number. It was a sweet gesture, but kind of creepy too. It's nice to see how missed Mom is, but it also makes me wonder why she didn't want to stick around longer. There are so many people who loved her. Of course, some of these are the same people who fully supported her in not treating her cancer, so I guess it cuts both ways.
NSA and I are probably going to Alaska this summer, to take care of some things that really can't be handled remotely. I'm not sure how long we'll be there, but long enough that I'll most likely have to leave this job, which is perfectly fine with me. I think I'm overdue for a career change.

Soundtrack To My Mother's Death

1. King of the Road, Roger Miller- This was on the radio the first morning I was back to visit, and we also watched Talladega Nights while I was there. Mom smiled at a few spots in the movie, she really liked goofball comedies, but I don't think she was in a place to enjoy it much.
2. Ever Present Past, Paul McCartney- Flying up, I couldn't stop listening to this on my MP3 player. I just kept scrolling back and listening again and again, something I don't think I've done since I was a teenager. Mom saw the Beatles when they appeared on Ed Sullivan, and the lyrics, about how time goes by so fast, were just so apropos.
3. Exodus & Redemption Song, Bob Marley- Mom completely adored reggae, particularly Bob Marley and Peter Tosh, and these two songs were among her favorites.
4. Starry-eyed Surprise, Shifty- The only "rap" song Mom liked. During her last visit to So Cal, she asked me to turn it up when it came on the radio.
5. Morning Has Broken, Cat Stevens- A modern hymn that Mom never tired of.
6. Fandango Nights, Willie and Lobo- The local radio station played this as background music and Mom was so enamored that she called one of the managers, a friend of hers, who burned a copy and brought it to the hospital for her. We listened to the Puerto Vallarta Squeeze album a lot in the days that followed.
7. Fix You, Coldplay- I'd heard the song before, but it was only after Mom and I watched Young at Heart together that it really made an impact on me. The soaring crescendo near the end followed by the lone, spare voice moves me to tears.
8. What's Going On, Four Non-Blondes- Another song my mom liked. A friend performed a rough but lovely version of it at her memorial.
9. Let Peace Begin With Me, Sy Miller and Jill Jackson- My mom's truest wish for the world, and she really did think it began with her.
10. Dark Side of the Moon, Pink Floyd- The quintessential psychedelic hippie song. She loved the spoken line close to the end of the song, "There is no dark side of the moon, it's all dark."

Three months ago today, and while things soften with time, it still hurts.

Zinc is for lifeguard noses and countertops,

NOT for lozenges! However, I have this awful little scratchy feeling in the back of my throat, up toward my sinus', and so I'm sucking on these nasty things in the hope that they live up to the hype and prevent, or at least shorten, any viral ickyess I may have picked up. I want to visit my dad this weekend, I haven't seen him in a very long time, and I DON'T WANT TO BE FUCKING SICK!! Bleah.

Pictures of My Cat

Yeah, that's what I'm reduced to. Not actually, though. I'm thinking about everything everyone else is thinking about (the New Year, resolutions, year-in-review, etc.), I just don't feel like writing about any of it, not right now at least. So I thought I would introduce you to the newest member of the family.

This is Yin Yin. She's adorable, isn't she? She was my mom's cat, one of the two I had to take to the shelter when I was there in September. I felt hideously guilty, especially since her pal, a long-haired Siamese boy, was adopted right away. She basically just hid in that scary environment, so there wasn't much hope of her finding a home. I told myself, and NSA, that if she was still there when I went back, then I was going to bring her with me. And I did, even though we have two cats already and NSA is slightly allergic.

She's a little thing, about five pounds, half the size of my other two. Jezebel and Delilah, big, grey tabbies, are like linebackers compared to Yin Yin's calico/Siamese ballerina. And they're jealous, of course, but they're getting over it since she's pretty inoffensive. They give kitten kisses, and she doesn't, so they've got that, but she is a real cuddler, often in my lap and sleeping on top of me.

We've really bonded. I don't know if it's because I smell similar to Mom, or if it's just because I'm the nice lady who rescued her from the bad place. But she's one good, tiny thing that's come out of the bleak morass of the past few months.

I like the glowy shadow effect the camera gives when she moves around during the low light function.

(teh flash is TOO bright!! it makes me squinchy-eyed.)

One Month Yesterday

It's weird how you mark time after a tragedy or significant event, Sunday was one month since my mom died. It doesn't feel like it's been a month, but then also, it does. It's strange because now for me, Thursday is the day she died and Sunday we buried her and Wednesday was her memorial. I know this will fade over time, but it's still so fresh, so present for me, and I'm not dealing with it well. I wasn't unprepared for her death, but I underestimated the impact it would have. I thought I could handle it, I thought my defenses were in place and I was strong, but I'm floundering.
I miss her a lot, much more than I thought I would. I call her cell phone just to listen to her voicemail greeting; I don't want to have it turned off because then even this tiny little part of her will go away too. A friend of hers wrote that Mom was one of her "anchorwomen," someone who kept her grounded, who was always there, and now she's gone. What happens when you lose your anchor? You're adrift, it's hard to stay stable.
I'm suffering because there were things I still wanted to do with her, because I thought there was more she wanted to do. I guess both of us thought we had more time. And I wonder, if she had a grandchild, would she have treated herself better? Sought treatment sooner? Had more of a reason to live? So there's guilt, and anger, and regret. And questions remain, with no answers.

Sunday, October 18th, 2008 (part 1)

Because my mother chose not to be embalmed, the burial had to take place relatively quickly. She was a very organic person, and pragmatic too, so the idea of being pumped full of preservatives and laid to rest in an expensive and otherwise useless container was antithetical to who she was. She had told me about my grandmother's death a couple of times; how she had washed and shrouded Gramma's body, how it was very simple and uncomplicated, not particularly awful or gruesome. And so for my mom, I felt that I could do no less.

I realize that this might be shocking to some, indeed, I think the visceral reaction most people, at least Westerners, have to a dead body is to get away as fast as possible. Certainly not to touch, or even look at, as if the mere sight of a dead person might be deadly. And in these modern times, we have such a sanitized way of dealing with things. The websites I looked up for "When a Loved One Dies" were a little helpful, but there was always a line like, "...and then the funeral director will come for the body." And what if he doesn't?

In the days before modern mortuary services, and in places where those services still don't exist, family and friends took care of dead loved ones. They were cleaned, dressed and laid out in the parlor, the special occasion room, until marketing and science took over, and now we have "living" rooms, and hand our deceased over to qualified strangers. All very clean and sanitized and scientific, and artificial and numbing and unreal. But then, reality is often messy and unpretty, unpleasant to deal with, and so I guess it's easier, although, to my way of thinking, drastically depersonalized.

At least I wasn't alone in my endeavor. Mom was quite popular locally, well known and generally well loved, with a wide circle of devoted friends. Very, very devoted friends, as it turns out. There were logistical things to figure out, things that a funeral home would have handled, like a burial permit, and transporting the body. I had hoped that someone who knew her would have felt moved to build a casket, that was what happened when my little brother died, but not in this case. So a litter was built, and beautiful, purple hemp-blend fabric was offered as a shroud, which my mother would have liked greatly. I found a lovely cloth, again in deep pinks and purples, with a tree of life and ornamental birds on it, maybe intended as a wall hanging or furniture drape, that seemed perfect for covering her.

Since it was Sunday and I hadn't been to church since high school, I attended the Episcopal church my mother had been a member of for decades. (To be continued...)

1939-2008

My mom died October 16th at 6:05 am. I found out about three minutes later. I was already awake when the call came, which was a little odd for me. I wasn't shocked, of course, but it's still a hell of a hit. Like when you see it coming, you have time to brace yourself, so maybe it hurts less, but it still hurts. NSA was asleep, so I took a little time before I woke him. I was in a daze for most of the morning, calling people, trying to get ready. My dad really came through for me, buying a plane ticket and making travel arrangements. I'm glad, because I don't think I could have done it myself. I wish NSA had come along, but for his health and general sanity, we decided it would be best if he stayed home and took care of himself and the kitties. The actual flying time from San Diego to Alaska is only about six hours, but with early arrivals and layovers, that stretches into around twelve hours, a long and tiring day.
I left early the next morning. From San Diego to Seattle, passengers were sparse, I had a row of seats to myself. Not so on the flight from Seattle to Anchorage, and while the guy next to me was clearly in a chatty mood, my teary face didn't encourage conversation.
I arrived at my final destination in the late afternoon, took care of some necessary paperwork, and went to see my mother. An old friend of hers was already there, keeping vigil with candles and incense. The morgue is located in the old part of the hospital; a small, locked, unlabeled room containing two horizontal refrigerators, some filing cabinets, and various bits of office equipment. It also allows access to the telephone room, a fact that I'm sure the poor repair man resented, since he had to contend with the two of us and my mom just to do his job.
She looked kind of beautiful in the candle light. Her eyes and mouth were closed (something I was worried about), brow smooth and hair sleek. Her expression was peaceful, seemingly slightly concerned, like maybe there was some small matter she had forgotten to tell me about. With the overhead fluorescents on, she was, I guess the right words are deathly pale. Except for the beds of her fingernails, which were slightly purplish, strangely dark. I sat and talked to her for awhile, not because I was sure, like her friend, that she would hear me, but because I needed to, and because it felt like the right thing to do. I told her I loved her, and that I hoped all of her questions were answered.
(More later...)

Limbo

I'm in a weird and difficult place right now, trying to prepare for what's to come. I say "trying" because, how do you prepare, really? I've made some arrangements, there were financial and legal matters that Mom let go unattended (no will?? WTF?!), that I took care of as best I could. Other than that, I'm just waiting. Waiting. Waiting for something bad to happen, which is not a fun place to be. Not like when you were little, waiting for summer vacation or Halloween night or Christmas morning, that's happy anticipation. This is just inevitable dread that sits like a rock in the pit of your stomach, making it hard to think about anything else, making you wish you were somewhere else, someone else, even.
Emotionally, I'm glad I was able to spend some quality time with my mom while she was still cognizant and continent, I'm glad I spent the extra week. I don't know why I initially thought one week would be enough.There wasn't a lot left unsaid between us or anything, so we watched movies, listened to the radio and chatted with lots of friends of hers, an exhausting amount, really. Until she was spending more time asleep than awake, and, when she was awake, pressing the button on her morphine pump frequently. I hated leaving, but I couldn't afford to stay, and there wasn't much point really. We've said our goodbyes.
The really sucky thing is that, other than the cancer, she's in pretty good shape. Her heart is strong, her blood pressure is better than mine, so she might linger for a while, which isn't what she wanted at all. But unfortunately, there's not much that can be done about it now, so we're waiting. Waiting.

Fractured Pieces

So here I am blogging when there's so much else that needs doing, but I want to share, need to share, I guess. Pardon my grammar and coherency, both are liable to fall by the wayside.

• Having to leave my mom while she's still alive is causing me a fair amount of guilt, even though her condition deteriorated greatly while I was there, and before I left, she was spending most of the time asleep. I keep reminding myself that she's surrounded by friends, and she never lived her life to please anyone except herself.
• Not having been back for a long time, I forget how beautiful Alaska is, how heart-stoppingly gorgeous. And how much it feels like home. I'm also tempted to forget how long and dark the winters are.
• I realized that October 23rd will be the thirteenth anniversary of my little brother's death, and I don't think my mom will make it past this date. October, which used to be my favorite month, is pretty much going to suck forever after this.
• Some children actually inherit stuff when a parent dies. I'm inheriting a lot of personal memoribilia and some debt. Turns out, my mom no longer owns the land she wants to be buried on. Oh, and I'll get a yellow 1987 Chevy pickup too. Sweet!
• More guilt in that I had to take two of my mother's sweet kitties to the local shelter. They are healthy and and adorable and will be kept until adopted, but I felt so fucking bad that I coudn't keep them myself, and I couldn't even explain to them what was going on. I'm more than a little pissed that none of Mom's friends were willing to step in and help out.
• I have a vicious cold, which is understandable considering the long flights and the fact that I lived in the hospital for two weeks. Mom's in the hospice room, which is better appointed than a regular room, and family and friends are welcome to stay the night. That's one thing about small towns, it seems like it's easier for people to be accomodating.

Well, it isn't over yet, and there's definitely more to tell, but that's all I can muster for now. I went back to work Monday and am still cleaning up the mess from when I was gone. Sheesh!

Still Kicking

Oh hello. Yes I do still intend to blog and I've been trying to keep up with everyone else's blogs, I'm just pretty overwhelmed right now. These past couple of weeks with my mom have been a mixed bag. I'm glad I'm here and able to spend time with her, even if it's just sitting by the bed holding her hand. Let me tell you, cancer is a fucking ugly way to die. I'd rather get hit by a Mack truck. I've got a LOT to tell, but it will have to wait for now.

Some Small Resolve

I slept really badly last night, mostly because a) I was worried about my Mom being back in the hospital, and the possibility that she could die before I see her, b) my boss was being less than supportive about me going to see my Mom (!!!) and c) I'm missing NSA badly and am stressing because he's always been there to support me and offer help. If you've read some of my past entries, you know that I can be really critical of my mom and the choices she's made (like NOT TREATING HER CANCER), but she's still my mother and I love her dearly and I will miss her when she's gone. I'm not looking forward to cleaning up the mess she'll leave behind, but that's a whole different post.
My boss was giving me a hard time about taking a fucking week off to go see my dying mother. This is even though I have weeks of vacation time accrued, not to mention over a week of sick leave and a couple of personal days too. I know I didn't ask for the time off the requisite month in advance, but I think this qualifies as a personal emergency and FUCK the rules, help me out here, like I do when you come to me with a project that must be taken care of immediately. She did come through, I just had to toss and turn for a night first.
NSA is sorry he went out to Colorado, it hasn't been great for his health and most of his family are wallet-draining vampires, but he's been able to see his father and spend some time with his mom, so it's not a total waste of time and money. And I've discovered some things too, like, you know how sometimes in a relationship, one person loves and cares more about the other person? Not that they don't love each other, but that it's not exactly equal. That was how I felt about NSA, like he loved me a little bit more than I loved him. Not any more. I took him for granted, which was childish and selfish, and I love and miss him deeply. It's like losing a leg, I'm functional, but hobbled and hurting without him. I'm glad I understand that now.
So Thursday, I'm off to the wilds of Alaska to see my mom, probably for the last time, with my very expensive plane ticket (but isn't that what plastic is for?) I'll take pictures, and maybe even post them, so you can see where I come from. And that might explain a lot.

Buried In An Avalanche Of Shit

This is what's going on in my life right now, and, FUCK ME!, am I ever sorry I complained about last year. I guess I was just asking for more punishment with my bitching.
NSA and I are in a trial separation. He's in Colorado visiting his family, trying to spend time with his father, who has prostate cancer. His dad, however, is not inclined to see much of his family, since mostly they want his money and don't have much regard for him. NSA couldn't give a shit about his dad's money, he's just interested in spending time with the old man before he dies. He's being tarred with the same brush as the rest of his siblings though, and his father's new wife is playing dragon at the gate and keeping everyone away. NSA is understandably pissed off and frustrated. It took a lot out of him just to get to Colorado, and he doesn't particularly enjoy living with the bitching, petty jealousies, and infighting that make up his familial interactions. On the plus side, comparatively, life with me in SoCal now doesn't seem so bad.
My mother is in the hospital dealing with the symptoms of her cancer. She's had to have fluid removed from her right lung again, and she's in a considerable amount of pain. She's to the point where she'll consider surgery, chemotherapy and radiation, but, according to her doctor, it's probably too late. Probably just a matter of months, weeks maybe. The cancer has metastasized to her lung and possibly her bones as well. So I'm trying to plan what will most likely be my last trip to see my mother alive. Thank you sir, may I have another?
I'm trying to practice the survival techniques you're taught for bad situations, like avalanches. Things like, don't panic, remain calm, assess the situation. But I feel like my air is running out and I'm afraid help won't arrive in time.