Chuck vs. Sirloin

High Falootin. Hoity Toity. Uppity. Elitist. I’ve been described as such quite often. I don’t really take it as an offense. I actually think it’s a badge of honor. I want… nay… need the best out of life. I believe strongly that EVERYONE should strive for the absolute best.

I was having a discussion with a friend about Jackson Hole. It’s a restaurant around these parts that prides itself in these GINORMOUS burgers that seemingly quite a few people love. I went there once to find out what all the ruckus was about. So i went there, with my high expectations in tow and sat down to a burger of chuck meat. Dry. Unseasoned. Chuck. And I thought… why is there ANY excitement about this? After asking folks later… they said – well… look at all you get for that price (the burger was inexpensive and about the size of my head).

I can understand that mentality if you’re looking to save money. Or you’re just greedy and you want quantity over quality. But these people will argue these burgers over prime meat. Choice sirloin.

As far as I’m concerned… quality sirloin is an experience. You have to build up to it (unless you’re independently wealthy)… you have to make sure you have enough money. Then know the restaurant that serves it just the way you like it. Know how to order it to your liking and when it arrives… you savor the appearance and the aroma. You relish as you slice a morsel for you and when you eat it… it’s savory… it awakens your senses and you’re so glad that you worked up to this moment. It’s an entire experience. It creates a lasting memory of something you want to do again soon. Soon as you can afford to. As soon as you’re worthy.

Chuck is just a filler. It’s the least healthy part of the cow and of course… abundant. You can get it cheap and plentiful. Cooks up quick. Takes on the flavor of whatever you put in it. It’s just okay. You can’t go to too many discerning restaurants and order CHUCK. They’d look at you a little strangely when Sirloin is right on the menu.

But I’ve come to realize… some folks prefer chuck. The finer things in life will always elude them. I’m glad not to be one of them.

*

Hello, Hell?

I’ve been phoning it in the last few days.

My participation in the debachle that is my mother’s situation. I’ve kept myself away from it more than before. My general doctor tells me that there are signs of my heart enlarging; and while typically having the proverbial big heart is good… the literal big heart is a hazard to my life. He said I MUST reduce stress inducing situations in my life. There’s no compromise. I was taking it with a grain of salt until my brother told me, “Mom said the same thing happened to her when she was your age”.

For the very first time in my life, I find myself trying to run in the opposing direction. I was interviewing young ladies for our chapter’s scholarships a couple of saturdays ago, and throughout, we’d ask them someone who inspired them. Someone who they idolized. Who was that one person who gave them unlimited hope. And resounding, confident response after another they exclaimed “My mother”. My heart sank each time. Because I remember being them. I remember thinking … there could be no one stronger, no one more giving, no one more sensible, more loving, more caring and more sincere than MY mother. OF COURSE I wanted to be JUST LIKE HER. Not anymore. The least I am like her… the more I might live. The more I might allow myself to love. The less I’ll hide from the things that challenge me. The more I’ll venture out on a leap of faith and perhaps find something good. The less I’ll be a martyr. The more I’ll love myself. The more healthy I’ll be. The longer I’ll live.

The more I’ll be like me. Finally – I WANT to be that.

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Friends help friends cope

Never a truer statement. “Sometimes, you feel like you’re by yourself…” – Erykah Badu. And I’ve been feeling a vastness forming around me for years. But there are some tried and trues that I can always count on to lift me up, take me away, make me be not so hard on myself… or just plain listen.

I gave myself a week. One week not to submerge myself in the misery that is my mother’s situation and all that it entails. Her sickness, her apathy, my uncontrollable reaction to her. One week to detox, remove the excess emotion and maybe… just to be myself for a bit. My brother didn’t take the same sojourn. He has a different motivation than I do, and I can respect that. But I guess that made me harder on myself about it. I had classified myself with the children who don’t love or care about their parents. But in speaking with a few close friends, no one castrated me. No one lashed out and said, “You’re a bad person for doing that, Vic.” On the contrary, they encouraged my rest time; told me I needed to be able to find some normalcy if I was going to buckle down and fight this long term. That it’s HARD to be around someone who is always miserable when your only desire is to be happy. Who reinforced that I had to put MY “mask” on first before helping someone else with theirs. Because what good am I if I’m not sustaining MY life and MY health. It’s very hard for me. It rings of selfishness… but I forced myself to be as normal as I could this past week. Went to a club with some friends. Met folks for dinner. Just chilled a little. In the back of my mind I could hear my subconscious paining me about how much less this will make my mother think of me. And towards the end of the week, I had rebuts for that argument. Not to justify. But simply to be at peace with. But the extraordinary soothing of friends has brought me a step closer.

So to those who have my back, THANK YOU You make this friendship a true gift to me.

*

Comfort

And the doctor said…. ( para phrasing )

“The biopsy came back positive for cancer cells. We’re just not sure of the origin of the cancer cells so there’ll have to be research done on that. The next logical course of action would be chemotherapy, however your mother’s renal (kidney) function gives us pause. If the oncologist and nephrologist deem your mother’s kidneys not strong enough, at that point we may need to begin looking at comfort therapy.”

For the uninitiated, “comfort therapy” means “make you feel not so bad or too in pain while you die”. I really was taken aback by THIS information. Because you know… it’s been a while since I heard the words “terminal” dressed up so prettily. With my dad? They just came out and said it. And for the most part, I accepted that he hadn’t done what he needed to do in order to battle it back THIS time. And we had to come to terms with that statement.

So much more emotion went into this announcement for me. Firstly, I was OUTRAGED that the doctor would even SUGGEST that she would be unable to properly treat and rehabilitate my mother. How dare she give up so soon. I had a similar reaction when Earl asked me, after hearing the news “well, how much time does she have.” NOOOO I yelled. That’s the IMPROPER QUESTION. I have NO interest in how much time she theoretically has if these quacks don’t do their job. I NEED to hear, “listen, we were just being dramatic. She’ll be going through chemo shortly; back to her old self in NO TIME.” HOW DARE THEY!!!! This is MY MOTHER.

And after the rage settled down. Fear.

Fear that my mom’s lack of desire for living will make the fight even harder. Fear that I can’t provide her any assurances or even a little light smile now and again. She looks through me, at best. Fear that at this time, no one in the world knows how to allay my fears the way that woman in that hospital bed has over the years. I can’t comfort her. She can’t comfort me. And I am summarily uncomfortable in my own skin.

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What you know to be true

So – mom is in the hospital again. She’s been since the beginning of the month. And as is standard fashion for my brother and I, we dropped everything and raced to her side every single day of her stay. But the woman laying in that hospital bed and the woman who raised us and cared for us only share in common a very strong physical resemblance. The woman who raised me I fear is long since gone. She probably left us somewhere between 2001 and 2007 but more definitively she was gone after March 12, 2007. The one that’s at Lenox Hill can’t seem to find any reason to live, although two reasons make themselves readily available at her bedside daily. She admitted to my husband that she doesn’t know whether or not to press on or give up. And I guess that’s fair enough. I’ve become increasingly pragmatic about these things. If you don’t want to live and you can’t seem to find any reason, despite us there cheering you on… lifting you up? Well then. Just let me know where to show up to say nice things about you when it’s all over. It seems cold. And probably – is. But you can never want ANYTHING for ANYONE more than they want it for themselves. NEVER. And I’ve always… all my life… wanted my mom’s life for her more than she cared to for herself. I wished for her exuberance. I prayed for her health. I hoped for her will to do better. These efforts are best spent on my own life it seems.

I often wonder why I miss my grandmother more than I miss my dad – outside of the obvious reasons (grandma nurtured and loved us openly… dad was all quizzical with his love, had to decipher it between the discipline and the apathy towards his family). The real reason is that when my grandmother laid in that bed… she would talk about what we’d do when she got out. Where we would go. What we would do. WHEN SHE GOT OUT. She had no intention of staying there. Dying there. Damnit. She WANTED this life with all it’s trials, tribulations and struggles and joys, ecstasies and pleasantries. She wanted to live. Up to the day she was in the coma. Even when she couldn’t speak anymore because they had that blasted breathing tube in her neck… In her eyes… I could see the FIGHT. Bless her. I miss her. I miss that kind of spirit in this family. Everyone else seems contented to just… get by. And if tragedy strikes, all the more reason to lay down and die. And as far as mom is concerned… Grandma and Dad were her overt reasons to live. All this time… I thought it might have been me and Domi. But someone told me “well, you’re grown now” – I mean…. Grandma and Dad were more grown than us… and she found those to be suitable reasons. It hurts that I can’t get her to see us as a good enough reason. I mean… I tell myself to live for her when the going gets rough. I always think what her reaction would be if I offed myself before the right time… before MY time. And it gives me cause to push on. For her. It’s even gotten to the point where the family has encouraged me to go have a baby to give her a reason to live.

Seems easy for everyone else to skip over me and Domi… and I can’t even say Domi as much. I’m sure if she had to find a reason to live, it’d be him before me because she’s truly decided that I’ve moved on from her completely because I married and moved.

If she only knew how much I really still need her. If she would just listen when I tell her.

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