Day 50: Time, memory, and endings

Ever since I can remember, I have been fascinated and perplexed by the construct of time.  The measurement of time, the passage of time.  The idea that time exists as a limitless quantity, as the Rolling Stones famously sang that time is somehow on our side.   We waste it and squander it and tell ourselves that there is always tomorrow. 

Based on the Brit's recommendation, I began reading Julian Barnes' "the sense of an ending" last night and finished the final 18 pages this morning.  I was hooked from the first words to the last sentence on page 163.   At 163 total pages, Barnes' style could be characterized as economical but yet it is so densely packed with exactly the right words that conveyed the fungiblity of time, the fragility of memory, the mirage of change.   

I admire it for both its technical brilliance and its haunting resonance.  Take this passage: ‎"Or perhaps it's that same paradox again: the history that happens underneath our noses ought to be the clearest, and yet it's the most deliquescent. We live in time, it bounds us and defines us, and the time is supposed to measure history, isn't it? But if we can't understand time, can't grasp its mysteries of pace and progress, what chance do we have with history--even our own small, personal, largely undocumented piece of it?"

It evoked Salvador Dali's the Persistence of Memory with it's melting clocks and warped landscape.  

Day 49, Pt 2

i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body


e.e. cummings

Day 49: Happy Birthday to me or why 40 is the beginning and not the end

I am 40 years old today.  Officially as I entered this world at approximately 2:30 p.m.  

Let's review.  I am not where I hoped to be where I began this blog.  I had rather hoped to have myself sorted before this auspicious date arrived; a date that I have been dreading since I turned 20 oh so many years ago.   The only goal that  I managed was to become blonde for a bit.

The last days of October and the first couple weeks of November may have been the most challenging, frightening weeks of my life.  At the beginning of October, I had a "routine" surgery to have my gall bladder removed--an outpatient surgery where I was in the hospital for less than 8 hours.   October 29 found me dressed in a ball-gown skirt and at the formal wedding of a colleague.  Just as we sat down to eat what promised to be a sumptuous dinner in a room that looked a mirage in a desert, a sharp pain in the middle of my chest that radiated around my side to my back chased with an intense wave of nausea sent me flying to the ladies room and home early without dinner.

A long drive home; the pain abated by a bottle of Maalox procured from 7-11.  A hot shower.   The pain layered with nausea that intensified as the night wore on.  A call to my surgeon on Sunday morning.  Hospital admission, narcotic pain killers, anti-nausea medicine, and fluids by IV into my deep, tiny veins as I began to yellow--first my skin and then my eyes.   The conclusion that there were gall stones in my main biliary duct.  A scope down my throat that revealed and cleared out sludge but no stones.   Devils' Night and Halloween in the hospital as the pain abated and my bilirubin levels began to drop.  Discharged from the hospital with pain killers after 4 days....

Home sweet home or the closest thing to it--the place where my daughter is, where my heart is.  The next day a blur of nausea and pain kept at bay by Vicodin and hourly baths in water just this side of scalding.  The following day the pain even more intense than the first time.   Urgent care at my doctor's office.  Nausea medicine and blood work that revealed that my bilirubin levels had quadrupled since my discharge from the hospital.  I am roughly the colour of the cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz.  Admitted to the hospital with nausea-laced pain so intense that I can only crawl into a ball and pray to a God that I believe in but have neglected.

Caring kindness from a nurse ten years my junior who gives me peppermint-saturated cotton balls to keep the nausea at bay and wrangles a shot of morphine until they find an IV nurse to get the pain and nausea meds into my veins.  Finally, sweet relief from a strong narcotic, anti-nausea cocktail that keeps the pain at bay for a couple of hours but not the four hours that I have to wait between doses as I hurl into a small, kidney shaped container the colour of Pepto-Bismol.   Residents at a teaching hospital that look at me as part freak-show, part experiment convinced that there are gall stones somewhere in the tangled, messed up region of my gall bladder, liver, pancreas.

Terror and helplessness join the nausea-infused pain.  The realization that I am mortal and that I have no control over my body.   A longing to return to my basically good health.  Envy at the healthy people who care for me, who control the pain and nausea.  A late-night CT scan that combines my pain medication with anti-anxiety medication that knocks me out as I float in cylindrical space filled with strange lights and sounds--suspended animation that confirms two stones in the duct that once led to my gall bladder.  Trapped by the clip placed after the gall bladder was removed

A second scope down my throat the next morning that removes the offending stones wreaking havoc on my body.   The pain begins to abate and by Sunday, I am off the narcotic concoction that has made my last days bearable.  I press the doctors to go home and am permitted to have clear liquids for the first time in days.   I eagerly await Monday morning's blood test results, hoping that my bilirubin levels are on the decline and that I will be discharged.   The bilirubin levels are on decline but my celebration is short-lived when the resident returns to tell me that my blood test shows that I am developing post-ERCP pancreatitis, which is a common-complication from having the scope placed down my throat.   A complication from a complication that throws me into despair, hopelessness that means at least one more night in the hospital and a return to nothing to drink, not even water as food and drink aggravate the pancreas.

I turn to Google and further terrify myself as I read all about the pancreas and how vital it is too survival.  I name my pancreas Polly and begin talking soothingly to her, asking her not to develop full-blown pancreatitis  My dad died from pancreatitis, and it is incredibly painful.  Yes, he had several bouts of acute pancreatitis brought on by drinking.  Yes, it developed into chronic pancreatitis.   Yes, he was 20 years older than I am and had many more health problems.  Yes, my pancreatitis was sub-clinical and not full blown pancreatitits.  And I was not in pain.   But it felt like a bad sign. And made me relive losing my dad all over again.  And made me think about my beloved daughter growing up without me.

Finally, I was discharged after 8 total days in the hospital.  The pain was largely gone, save the occasional twinge, and the nausea was much improved.  No caffeine or booze and a low fat diet for one month.   My strength and energy are slowly returning.  The fear lingers.  The sense of my own mortality continues to press upon my psyche.  I am still not quite myself.  I am trying to be good.  To be the "perfect" mom.  To be a good daughter and sister and friend.   I don't know.

I am incredibly grateful to be out of the hospital, to be on the mend, to be given a new chance to begin again. So, despite the fact that I have not fixed my emotional and financial issues, despite the fact that I am not where I wanted to be by this milestone, I am here and that feels like a pretty, damn good start.

Day 48: One (un)true thing

Things that I think are true but are (1) probably are not true or (2) demonstrably false:


1.  Godzilla was part gorilla because of the "illa".

2.  There is a correlation between hand size and penis size.

3.  Guitar players are good with their hands in sexual ways, especially rock-n-roll guitar players

4.   Some things are meant to be, even when contradicted by all available objective evidence and logic.

5.  The universe sometimes speaks through signs.   Like songs on the radio.  The dark blue of the sky.

And here is one undeniably true thing:

Day 47: True Confessions

I am sitting in the basement, typing away with my feet on the bottom of the old office chair to avoid the rain-soaked carpet to write this.  Truthfully, I had intended to write about my newly discovered or at least, newly articulated, theory about my attraction to men in transition but a colleague's post on Facebook as led to something entirely different.

She, Mae West, wrote that James Cameron's Titanic was the worst movie ever and its sappy, cinematic awfulness was eclipsed only by sappy, vocal stylings of Celine Dion's song.   Now, Mae is a woman with great taste.  Just yesterday, she shared a brilliant, heart-rending clip of Pavarotti singing Ava Maria.   She also regularly rocks some of the fiercest shoes that I've ever seen.

As a movie lover and music lover, I concur with everything that Mae wrote.  Logically.  Which does not  explain why I saw the movie TWICE in the theater.  Or why I feel compelled to sing along every time that I hear that blasted song.  Or why I am singing it loudly and badly and with feeling in my damp basement instead of reading my book or doing anything with a quantum of social utility.  Say anything short of reading Sarah Palin's ghost-written biography and making moose-flavoured cookies or watching a "reality" TV show about housewives.

Do we all have a "Jack" (or Jesse) that haunts us?  A love that refuses to die, that has changes and transforms us forever?  Oh dear God.  Throwing up a little in my mouth....

One last time with feeling......*

Sigh.  Damn you, Mae West!

*Every night in my dreams
I see you. I feel you.
That is how I know you go on.

Far across the distance
And spaces between us
You have come to show you go on.

Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on
Once more you open the door
And you're here in my heart
And my heart will go on and on

Love can touch us one time
And last for a lifetime
And never go till we're one

Love was when I loved you
One true time I hold to
In my life we'll always go on

Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on
Once more you open the door
And you're here in my heart
And my heart will go on and on

There is some love that will not
go away

You're here, there's nothing I fear,
And I know that my heart will go on
We'll stay forever this way
You are safe in my heart
And my heart will go on and on 


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yd1uEvyzCmM&feature=related

Day 46: Shakabuku*.

*"It's a swift, spiritual kick to the head that alters your reality forever."  Grosse Pointe Blank

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zAlS_0wNUQg&feature=related

Day 45: These dark cafe days or "Jane, get me off this crazy thing..."*

Day 45: Dark cafe days* or “Jane, get me off this crazy thing...”**


When will these dark cafe days be over? They have gone on too long to be a phase. And I just cannot seem to get past them. 

Monday found me feeling optimistic and hopeful. Along with the optimism and hope came some flirty chatter. Male attention, being called doll and darlin' equals total kryptonite for me. What's that you say? 1950 called and wants its antiquated attitude back.

Three days of flirty, sexy banter with a blue-eyed man with broad shoulders. Good morning doll emails, sweet dreams darlin' emails, and lots of make-the-day-speed-by-smile-inducing chatter. Then, poof. Gone like Kyezer Soze.* I just don’t get the rules, I suppose.

And I cannot quite root out the genesis of my discomfort, the level of upset-ed-ness. It's only been a few days. We are probably too different for any sort of lasting R-word. Which I don't even want. But he made me smile. And feel pretty. And a little less lonely. And like there could be some physical chemistry.

It is interesting, albeit depressing to watch the pattern unfold, to recognize each crease. The beginning, the middle, and the limbo. To watch from outside of myself as I make the same bad decisions, choose the same wrong path...

So, it's a pattern. It's not manifest destiny. Is it? I am not one of those toiling mortals being bandied about for the Gods' amusement. Am I? I have free will. Right? Just because I have followed the same pattern that could be characterized as banging-my-head against-the-wall-and-expecting-different results, does not mean that I have to bang my head against the wall again. Do I?

Even my horoscope (I generally claim not to believe in such nonsense but sometimes it rings so true) warns about my patterns and letting go:  "You are trying to create healthy new routines for yourself with the Moon now activating your 6th House of Habits, but it's challenging to change established patterns. It's as if the weight of the past is leaning heavily on the present moment, restricting the potential of the future. Take the focus off your personal life and concentrate on the bigger picture, instead. This simple shift of your frame of reference can lighten your spirit enough to free you from an old habit or outdated outlook."

Ask me if I have learned anything at all from any of these insights? If I have followed the same patterns today?  And how, pray tell, does one shift one's frame of reference...

Mantra for the day:  He's just not that into you. He's just not that into you. He's just not that into you. He's just not that into you. He's just not that into you. He’s just not that into you. He just not that into you. He’s just not that into you.”  (How many times till it penetrates my thick skull???)

Song of the Day:  Fuckin' perfect, Pink.  
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1bcQMCZ5gU

*From Joni Mitchell's the last time I saw Richard.   "All good dreamers pass this way some day.   Hidin' behind bottles in dark cafes.  Dark cafes.   Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings.  And I fly away.  Only a phase, these dark cafe days."  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igj20M84hbo
**Originally from the Jetsons, a cartoon about the future where all food was in pellet form and everyone flew space ships, through the eyes of George, "His boy Elroy.  Daughter Judy.  Jane-his wife."  "Jane, get me off this crazy thing" was uttered by George to his wife, Jane.   Also featured is the dog called Astro.  

"Jane, get me off this crazy thing" was introduced to a whole new fan base in the movie "So, I married an axe murderer" as part of Charlie MacKenzie's beat poetry. Naturally, a movie from San Francisco. Because I suck. Because I am unable to break fucking patterns but able to break my phone. So fuckin' imperfect. http://www.youtube.com/watcv=GlkoQ4bUE5k

**From the Usual Suspects which is an excellent cops and robbers drama. As Verbal Kent explained: “Who is Keyser Soze? He is supposed to be Turkish. Some say his father was German. Nobody believed he was real. Nobody ever saw him or knew anybody that ever worked directly for him, but to hear Kobayashi tell it, anybody could have worked for Soze. You never knew. That was his power. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. And like that, poof. He's gone.”