Death Becomes Us

I chewed off all of my finger nails last night. I knew when I was doing it, and somehow just couldn't stop myself...all but two survived. I'm mulling stuff over in my head. It won't stop.

I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I mean that I REALLY don't want to go to work tomorrow.

I feel asleep going back and forth between a murder show and a terrorist show. Such great choices to view, and I pay for this privilege each month, out of my own pocket. I find it so tasteless, the hollywood version of things that I watched myself happen. As if these actors could really capture these moments. Well they can't.

These days, I find myself not even wanting to eat any meat. A dear friend pointed out, that you can associate killing meat for food, or you can associate killing meat for sport. I believe that I have begun to associate eating meat with the latter, as it's so prevalent in our neighborhoods. It grosses me out, the little arms and legs, the flesh, and fat, and bones of something that used to be living. On occasion, with me, this has come up. I'm not a vegetarian, I just automatically associate the meat with carnage...without really even thinking much about it.

We pay more money to watch football, than discover new ideas. I have witnessed this excess, just this weekend. With the flyby of the jets before the big event. The jet flew right by my house. With the loud noise that usually is supposed to signal a tragic event, that death and destruction is forthcoming, it flew right over my house, and gave me chills. We've sent these jets to kill people, to kill other people's children, using our own children to drive them. Maybe some would find me unpatriotic, but that is not the case. I just believe that items such as fighter jets should be recognized for what they are...killing machines, not toys to show off before a game of sport. Death should not be hailed as a sport. A fear driving machine should not be seen as a cheering toy.

This weekend, I learned of a friend's death. She had been poor and in pain for some time. She was basically alone, and no one to take her in, she was in pain and still had to do odd jobs to cover the rent, as her social security just didn't cover everything. She took so many pills. And in the end, she took too many pills and died. She didn't leave a note, so it probably was an accident. I always meant to spend more time with her, and I was busy, so I didn't. Now there is no more time with her. And the building where we met has been mowed over to make room for a new highrise. I failed her. And I didn't take the time. And I wasn't helpful. And I didn't share.

And the jets flew over yesterday. I am ashamed of my people, and I am ashamed of myself.

All the fucking things we choose not to become.

miraculous phenomenon

The thing about doing major drugs, be they legally induced or not, you can have epiphany or two.

The whole time that I've been taking these steroids I've been thinking...lots. A bit of a side effect of the medication itself. And I've gotten to take a good look around, being a bit out of the scene. I mean to say that I'm physically there, somewhat, but it's really more like I'm watching rather than participating.

I spent the week in observance, and in commentary. When I've been bored I've been leaving phone messages on a friend of mine's ole school answering machine. He is so kind to allow me that. Little fucked up nuggets of wisdom that I incurred during my trip. He says that their brilliant. Maybe they are...but maybe I'm just leaving a piece of myself to be retold later. The best way to live forever is have other people tell stories about you. I'm not without ego.

I found out this week how ordinary I am. How ordinary everyone is. I sometimes get fooled. I'm terribly insecure...at what age to do begin to shake that? Maybe now...hard to say if once the drugs leave my system I will still think this way.

A few years ago, it was my birthday. There was a party and I was completely smashed. I was in my CP-30 pj set wrestling for beers against my friend who was wearing my Mexican wrestlers mask. My landlady came over and said there had been some complaints about the noise. I told her to come back at six, then there would be something to complain about. I always wondered why she didn't just call the cops. She could have, but she didn't. I was drunk and horny. I slept with one of the guys at my party. I didn't really think that I would have much to do with him after that. I didn't count on it. He was just some guy...he didn't even look like one of the guys that I normally attached myself to...just some guy.

Two weeks later, I was taking the pregnancy test. And me, the dog and the cat, all sitting in the bathroom watching for the double pink line. I already knew...maybe, I knew right when it happened, the jizz and the egg, swirling...micro changes that come from that to be so huge it can take your breath away.

I was to be somebody's mother. It's a weird feeling. Sure it's one of awesome weight...but, then there's just this sense of being ok with it...it's just nature...it's what is supposed to happen.

I didn't have insurance. The doctor at the free clinic told me that people like me shouldn't be having children. I asked him if he had been to Wal-Mart lately. He fucked off.

My own father and his new wife told me they thought it was best if I had an abortion. I quit speaking to them...it was only logical.

During my pregnancy, I wasn't like other mothers. I didn't feel like my son was a part of me, in the traditional sense. I felt this other human. I felt like he was just renting space in me. He was already making his own decisions. I was only to guide, support, and bare witness. He was his own human. There would be things that I would get to see, and just as much that I would never get to know, because he was a different person than me, only connected by some blood lines and some tissue for a bit of time.

Tomorrow by son is starting school. His first day. We've met the teacher. My son thinks that she is pretty.

We bought him school clothes, and supplies. He has his lunch money ready, all ready...in his new velcro superhero wallet. He does not want to take his lunch. My son is handsome. And he's funny, really funny. He's smart, and has feelings, and generally likes most things. He is prepared. He's now going out of the house to start the next phase. It's a big deal. I am proud and my heart aches. He is not just a little baby anymore...whispers of the man that he will become have started. Be they whispers, I can still hear them.

We have a family. The three of us, have a family.

I stood by while he picked out his first day outfit. I watched his small hand lay the socks next to his pants with care. Then changing his mind, and changing what pants he was going to wear, and laying the socks back down again.

If we are such fuck ups, and weirdos, and the kind of people who could have been contenders, etc. How could I have been so fucking lucky to end up with such a big man who helped me bare such wonderful moments with this tiny human as these? Not luck...no not luck.

We are that cool. We are just that cool. My family is just that cool.

All of those stages of dying...short for some, not for me

So, here we go again. Another flair up of the MS. I missed my friend's art opening, and I didn't even publicize about it much. That's when I knew that I was loosing it. I didn't want to miss that. He's badass...and I missed it. Fucking disease bullshit.

AND: Right after a rather shitty work review, by a person perhaps stepping off the deep end a bit...but, nonetheless, it stung. I knew it was the MS. I've been trying to fake it a bunch, as my thoughtfulness goes down the tub.

What stung about the review, was the lack of being able to talk back. Jeez, for those that know me....that really fucking kills me. I was told that I wasn't living up to my potential. So, I will write my response here:

Who in the hell ever said that I wanted to live up to my potential in the first place? And who around me is doing it? The Prez? That bike guy? Who? There seems to be a fair amount of cheating and improvised potential....enough to go around. And who said that I was going to live up my potential at a job like the one that I have? Are you kidding me? Seriously. I am smarter than that. That is perhaps the part that makes it hardest for me to live up my potential in some job that I know, if I completely applied myself and did every this just shiny, fucking perfect, I would knitted buttlint for and have to seriously flog myself into oblivion for doing such a good job at, in the first place. Are you kidding me?

I did not have a golden family, nor do I have anyone that can slip me creamy testos for my nads. I hate to say it outloud, but I come from the hardknock, passive/aggressive, school of hard time, that allows me sometime the opinion that I should be getting lots of stuff for free. And cut...scene fade.

So, I've been dragging my tail about going to the neurologist. I waited until it really was beginning to hurt and show. It's the same thing every time. And I hate it. AND to make it worse, I watched an episode of some cold case TV show. And do you want to guess what it was about? Well, I'll tell you. There was a serial killer, and he was catching people and making them write out their will, and pick out their death spot, before he killed them...and the kicker was that he had MS. He was having trouble dealing with dying.

It was kinda' fucked up. I mean, I sometimes get in the mood to be reflective in not the most positive of ways...but, jeez, dude, I never want to take people with me. It was a downer to watch...I didn't want that to be representative of "my people". I almost wrote a letter, but my hands are numb, and I can't think on cue, and the Family Guy was on...I got distracted.

I went to the doctor, and I knew the answer, I would start the chemo drugs. I hate them. I never thought that I would say that I hated drugs, but I do. I hate them with all my heart. I hate the stinging needle. I hate the warm goo that runs into my veins so much that my mouth can taste it and I vomit. I hate it. I left the doctor's office and went to sit in my car...in the ever so cool handicapped parking space. The label sucks, but the parking is cool. I just cried. I wasn't mad, or sad...I just hated it...not the angry hate, just the here we go again hate. I cried. There wasn't anyone to need to call or anything like that. I just need to cry...it wasn't really even that dramatic...it was just a cry...an it made me feel better. And then went back to work until injection time.

I went at my prescribed time. Sometimes, there's no clocks in the waiting room. I get it, but everyone has cell phones now that tell the time. It's kind of just stupid. We all sighed. The only decent thing about this place, the infusion lab, it that you're not alone. We're all fucked up. We can all agree with that. Not matter what, being in a room full of other fucked up people has it's privileges .

My eyes met with the guy. His neck was swollen. He has hotchkins lymphoma. He looked like he had swallowed a chicken bone, but bigger. He was worried. He was newly married and they had a baby on the way. He asked if this was my first time. Oh God no, I'm old hat at this. He looked scared. It felt weird to have something consoling to say, but I did. I told him that it seemed like a big deal, and it was a big deal, but people had strength in them that no one knew they had. He was worried about his job. Me, too. But, it's just a fucking job, and you can get another one. It's easy to concentrate on that, but really, you can just get another one. I, also told him that it was boring. It was really fucking boring. And the second time wasn't nearly as bad as the first. It's the first time that's the kick in the pants, but you can get the routine down. And I told him to eat whatever he wanted and buy lotto tickets if he wanted...whatever was fun was an absolute must.

And that there were tricks, yes, tricks. What tricks, he asked.

I laid it out.

Always try to schedule your shit in the late afternoon...that's when the old people are gone, and you have the bigger chance of getting the remote control, or at least getting something bearable to watch. Otherwise, it was strictly Judge Judy and Oprah. And if bossing healthly old people around was super bad...well, fucking with Sick and Old People just got you a bad needle sticker, and no juice box...it was the death of you in the lab. Not even worth the trouble of trying...straight to hell, my friend, straight to hell.

They have juice boxes and cookies, crackers, and peanut butter crackers. If you were hungry, just ask nicely, and say that you had to fast for your morning labs. They'll totally give you more than one helping.Or, pretend that you're feeling nauseous...then, they break out the spread.

Also, it's ok to sit next to someone who's worse off that you or even dying...they will remind you that you're not, and there's strength in that. There is strength in that. And people have stories...it's important to listen...they gain strength from that.

Also, wear easy on and off pants, cause if you start your drugs and have to go to the bathroom, you can get the pants down, but it's getting them back up that sucks...so, you either have to open the door for help, and everyone sees your business or you stay in the bathroom forever struggling and when you come out everyone thinks you took a big shit.

AND, when in the bathroom, when on drugs, you always need to get some toilet paper pre-grabbed with your good hand...if not, it's a real bitch to be in there alone, high, wet and trying to grab for the squares in the big, plastic cage.

My last trick was to steal something...or ask for it, if you're chicken. I usually take a few extra butt cancer pamphlets, or breast cancer pamphlets...or whatever you can find...and then give them/mail them to friends and co-workers...an preferably anonymously. Face masks, big tongue depressors...whatever. One time, I scored a ton of How to Put On a Condom pamphlets, in Spanish and in English, with pictures of a real wiener. Very high prize...very indeed.

He laughed. I did, too. But, he would learn that I was totally serious. Time was up...we went to the "back".

I was sat in the prime spot. I got lucky this time. I had the chair right in front of the tv, and I was blessed with the remote control. It was just right there. I never had that spot.

I sat next to a woman, who was a dangerously enimec. I started laughing, and asked her if business was so bad she had to drive up to the infusion lab. Everyone laughed. She had really almost died. Her medicine was liquid iron...thick, blood-shit, brown creeping. And to my other side was an old woman who bone marrow quit working and she was having leukemia...her progress might turn out ok...might be remission...or she might die...to soon to tell. We all felt like shit.

As keeper of the remote, I wasn't a tyrant about it. We all agreed that no war, no stocks, no barrels, no deaths, etc. We watched Flava Flav. We had quite a debate about it. There women that fought over him on the show. He a little older now. And so is his wiener. I said that it my look like a beat up mangy pitbull at this stage of the game. Yuck!!! Saggy, too, was the concencious.

And there were women really fighting over it. BITCH!!!! OH IT'S ON NOW!!!

Who is the looser there? Are you the winner because you didn't win the hog slop wiener? OR, are you even a bigger looser because you didn't beat down the hog slop wiener lover? It was a hard call. And how romantic is it to think of Flava Flav going down on you when he has all that metal in his mouth? Lookin' like the also fro lovin' JAWS from the ever so hip 007 James Bond movie. Thoughts of him coming back up with girlie hairs stuck in the bling, and the painful bald patch it might cause.

Don't get me wrong, I like Flava Flav, too. I just have enough sense not to ever want to get me any of that. I'll bet I have to rumble some getto stake who wants to defend his honor now. That's funny. Did he live up to his potential...Yeah, chew on that for a minute.

The man that I spoke with in the waiting room left before me. He had a juice box in his hand, and one in this pocket...he winked...and we both said out good lucks. I think that he will be fine. I really believe that...of course, it could be the drugs, but whatever.

I have two more days of pumping, then a few days of the come down. The drugs keep me up at night. So, I'm sure this is to be continued.