Today my sister told me she has cancer. I am upset and depressed. Others in my shoes would be optimistic, hopeful and positive. I know this, because I once was like this. 18-1/2 years ago, when my husband was diagnosed with cancer, all those things applied to me. But as those three short months went by and he lost his battle before my eyes, I became hardened.
Let me make this clear, I want to be optimistic, hopeful and positive. I want to feel that way more than I can say. But I don't. All I can do is cry. Because I know all the hoping and praying and pleading won't change the outcome. It reminds me of Steelers fans. They have these crazy superstitions when it comes to what they do/wear/eat during a football game. Some of them have a special way they lay their terrible towel on top of the TV. Others have a good luck jersey. Some of them only eat wings made from Frank's Hot Sauce. Whatever their superstition is, they believe doing/wearing/eating that will make the Steelers win. But really the Steelers will win or lose regardless. And that's how it is. Whether I'm optimistic or pessimistic, hopeful or cynical, positive or negative, what will be will be.
But my sister. My sister. She's the world's greatest mom. A much better mom than I could ever hope to be. First of all, she's a stay-at-home mom. She's ever-present in her children's lives. She makes sure each one of her kids has their own personality and she caters to their preferences. I encourage independence in my kids. She's devoted to her family. I remember once her husband wanted to move from L.A. to Vegas. My sister wouldn't do it. She couldn't be away from her parents. I moved across the country without a thought.
To make a long story short, when my sister told me about this cancerous lump, I was in the middle of my own health crisis. But I automatically thought, "Why HER? She doesn't deserve this. I can handle it, not her". But things will be as they should no matter what I do, wear, or eat.
So I sit here and cry. Because that's what I feel like doing. I don't want my sister to have to go through this. I want her to go shopping at Sam's Club. I don't want her to have to pray quietly before her surgery that things go well. I want her to go to her PTA meetings. I don't want her husband and children to worry about her. I'd rather they wonder what's for dinner.
But things will happen as they happen. And I am upset.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
What's Your Music Timeline?
Ever notice how music can take you back to a specific moment in time? I was in the car with my favorite sidekick cranking my ipod. I have a great Party Mix playlist that has everything from Sublime to the Ohio Players to Justin Timberlake to Snoop Dogg to.... you get the picture. To be in my Party Mix, you have to be a song that you either want to hear while you're on your way to a party, or at the party itself. As you know, no self-respecting Party Mix would go without Flashlight by Parliament. My Party Mix has self-respect. So on this specific day, when my sidekick heard the guitar at the beginning of Flashlight, he said (as he's said every single time he hears said guitar riff), "did I ever tell you about the time I performed this when I was in junior high....". And he proceeded to tell me the story yet again.
Later, when Give It Away by the Red Hot Chili Peppers came on, I told him (probably for the gazillionth time) how it reminds me of my friend Keith. Keith died last year and so that song takes me back to a particular Happy Hour when a few of us got in someone's car and that song came on the radio. We all started bobbing to the music and when we realized what we were all doing, we collectively started laughing.
I loved spending time with Keith and Ken, my two sales buddies. Ken and I still are friends. He and I both like the Rolling Stones. We agree that they're much cooler than the Beatles. I told him about how my dad used to play their High Tide and Green Grass 8-track in his Chevy Van back in the early 70's. Whenever we were on a long road trip, my dad would crank that puppy up. To this day, I love that music. It takes me back to the roots of my life. The fact that he liked the Rolling Stones (and still does) automatically makes my dad cool to Ken, who has never met him.
My daughter used to do ethnic dancing. I say ethnic because some of it was Arab, some Spanish, but most was Mexican. She performed in shows at the L.A. County Fair, charity events, weddings, etc. Every year she performed in a big show that included all the children that the instructor taught. This was the only show for which you had to buy a ticket. They had it at a large auditorium and a live Mariachi band would play during a few songs while the girls danced. One particular song was called "La Negra" and every time I'd hear it, I'd get goosebumps, teary-eyed and I'd be filled with pride for my ethnicity. While they danced to this song, the girls wore the traditional Mexican dresses and made them flow to the music while they stomped their feet to the beat. I was so proud that this little white daughter of mine had pride in her ethnicity. Nowadays, whenever I hear La Negra, it takes me back to that box seat at the San Gabriel Civic Auditorium.
About 18 years ago, I mecca'd from Los Angeles. back to Lansing, Michigan (where I was born). I spent the summer there hanging out with the friends I'd left just a year before when my family moved across the country. While I was there, we spent a whole lot of time partying. We were young, restless, and literally had no cares in the world. There was an older lady (probably my age now) who used to let us come over and hang out with her son and his friend. Aside from the partying, it was all very innocent. We'd put on records (yup, full blown long playing records) and play Eucher. I could never play Eucher now, I'd have to relearn the game. But I'm pretty sure I still remember all the words to Van Halen II, and REO Speedwagon's You Can Tune a Piano But You Can't Tuna Fish". We would go down to her basement, someone would put those two albums on the turntable and turn it on. We knew every song from both sides. Sometimes we'd mix it up with some Styx or maybe Bob Seger, but that was rare.
When I was a kid, I loved Lady Marmalade by Labelle. To this day, I can't figure out why my parents let me play that record over and over and over again. If you know my parents, you'll understand why I say that. If you don't know my parents, suffice it to say they are religeously conservative. When I hear the words, I just shake my head now. Either they never listened to them, or they figured I had no idea what they meant (I didn't).
The things I've mentioned in this blog aren't necessarily important, life-changing moments. But whenever I hear any song that reminds me of a certain person or time frame, well, it makes that person or time significant. What does your life music timeline look like? Whether it's rock, hip-hop, ska, country, alternative, reggae, or even ethnic, it's full of moments in your life that are waiting their turn to come to your memory.
Later, when Give It Away by the Red Hot Chili Peppers came on, I told him (probably for the gazillionth time) how it reminds me of my friend Keith. Keith died last year and so that song takes me back to a particular Happy Hour when a few of us got in someone's car and that song came on the radio. We all started bobbing to the music and when we realized what we were all doing, we collectively started laughing.
I loved spending time with Keith and Ken, my two sales buddies. Ken and I still are friends. He and I both like the Rolling Stones. We agree that they're much cooler than the Beatles. I told him about how my dad used to play their High Tide and Green Grass 8-track in his Chevy Van back in the early 70's. Whenever we were on a long road trip, my dad would crank that puppy up. To this day, I love that music. It takes me back to the roots of my life. The fact that he liked the Rolling Stones (and still does) automatically makes my dad cool to Ken, who has never met him.
My daughter used to do ethnic dancing. I say ethnic because some of it was Arab, some Spanish, but most was Mexican. She performed in shows at the L.A. County Fair, charity events, weddings, etc. Every year she performed in a big show that included all the children that the instructor taught. This was the only show for which you had to buy a ticket. They had it at a large auditorium and a live Mariachi band would play during a few songs while the girls danced. One particular song was called "La Negra" and every time I'd hear it, I'd get goosebumps, teary-eyed and I'd be filled with pride for my ethnicity. While they danced to this song, the girls wore the traditional Mexican dresses and made them flow to the music while they stomped their feet to the beat. I was so proud that this little white daughter of mine had pride in her ethnicity. Nowadays, whenever I hear La Negra, it takes me back to that box seat at the San Gabriel Civic Auditorium.
About 18 years ago, I mecca'd from Los Angeles. back to Lansing, Michigan (where I was born). I spent the summer there hanging out with the friends I'd left just a year before when my family moved across the country. While I was there, we spent a whole lot of time partying. We were young, restless, and literally had no cares in the world. There was an older lady (probably my age now) who used to let us come over and hang out with her son and his friend. Aside from the partying, it was all very innocent. We'd put on records (yup, full blown long playing records) and play Eucher. I could never play Eucher now, I'd have to relearn the game. But I'm pretty sure I still remember all the words to Van Halen II, and REO Speedwagon's You Can Tune a Piano But You Can't Tuna Fish". We would go down to her basement, someone would put those two albums on the turntable and turn it on. We knew every song from both sides. Sometimes we'd mix it up with some Styx or maybe Bob Seger, but that was rare.
When I was a kid, I loved Lady Marmalade by Labelle. To this day, I can't figure out why my parents let me play that record over and over and over again. If you know my parents, you'll understand why I say that. If you don't know my parents, suffice it to say they are religeously conservative. When I hear the words, I just shake my head now. Either they never listened to them, or they figured I had no idea what they meant (I didn't).
The things I've mentioned in this blog aren't necessarily important, life-changing moments. But whenever I hear any song that reminds me of a certain person or time frame, well, it makes that person or time significant. What does your life music timeline look like? Whether it's rock, hip-hop, ska, country, alternative, reggae, or even ethnic, it's full of moments in your life that are waiting their turn to come to your memory.
Monday, March 23, 2009
States of the Union
I actually plagerized this post from another site, but I liked it so much, I decided to add it to mine too. Feel free to steal it yourself!
Bold the states you’ve been to, underline the states you’ve lived in and italicize the state you’re in now…
Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C /
I had the benefit of growing up with parents who took us on vacation every year.... and drove! We lived in the mid-west, and vacationed in California, taking the north route on the way there, the south route on the way home - camping the entire time. So I've seen many states and have so many fond memories of them!
Bold the states you’ve been to, underline the states you’ve lived in and italicize the state you’re in now…
Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C /
I had the benefit of growing up with parents who took us on vacation every year.... and drove! We lived in the mid-west, and vacationed in California, taking the north route on the way there, the south route on the way home - camping the entire time. So I've seen many states and have so many fond memories of them!
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Time Heals All Wounds?
The title of this blog is the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard. There are some wounds that time cannot heal.
Every year, I dread the last week of January. I dread it because 18 years ago, January 30, 1991, the love of my life lost his battle with cancer. I dread remembering him telling me he didn't have a fight in him anymore and he just wanted to die. I dread hearing his response to me asking him didn't he want to spend the rest of his life with me and our children, and their children, which was, "No I just want to die now". Those words have stuck in my head since then. I've felt unloveable, inferior, unworthy, etc. Pick any word that you can think of when you realize that someone would rather die, than fight to be with you. I know now that he was in pain and very sick, but knowing this doesn't seem to take away the feelings of not being good enough.
I dread the thought of getting that call at work from the hospital social worker, telling me to come to the hospital immediately. They wouldn't tell me why, but I knew. It was the only day in his fight that I didn't go see him during my lunch because I had to take our tax documents to the accountant. He died alone in his room at 12:14pm. I should have been there, I wasn't, and I've hated myself for it ever since. I dread remembering getting to the hospital first (I worked only a few miles away) and touching his still warm hand, forehead and lips. I dread the feeling of that lifeless hand not holding back. I dreaded having to tell his mother and father, "he's gone". I dread feeling that lump in my throat when I tried to get those two words out. I dread still feeling the weight of his mother in my arms when she collapsed in a heap. I dread remembering the sounds of our sobs, moans, both of us pleading with God. I dread opening my eyes and seeing his father sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, saying, "my boy, my son, my first born". I dread the image of the nurses standing back, but still crying with us.
This week is a week of nothing but dread for me. Time doesn't heal all wounds. There are days and even months that go by and it seems my wounds are healed, but they aren't. This week comes for me and the wounds are gaping, open and raw. They'll never heal.
Every year, I dread the last week of January. I dread it because 18 years ago, January 30, 1991, the love of my life lost his battle with cancer. I dread remembering him telling me he didn't have a fight in him anymore and he just wanted to die. I dread hearing his response to me asking him didn't he want to spend the rest of his life with me and our children, and their children, which was, "No I just want to die now". Those words have stuck in my head since then. I've felt unloveable, inferior, unworthy, etc. Pick any word that you can think of when you realize that someone would rather die, than fight to be with you. I know now that he was in pain and very sick, but knowing this doesn't seem to take away the feelings of not being good enough.
I dread the thought of getting that call at work from the hospital social worker, telling me to come to the hospital immediately. They wouldn't tell me why, but I knew. It was the only day in his fight that I didn't go see him during my lunch because I had to take our tax documents to the accountant. He died alone in his room at 12:14pm. I should have been there, I wasn't, and I've hated myself for it ever since. I dread remembering getting to the hospital first (I worked only a few miles away) and touching his still warm hand, forehead and lips. I dread the feeling of that lifeless hand not holding back. I dreaded having to tell his mother and father, "he's gone". I dread feeling that lump in my throat when I tried to get those two words out. I dread still feeling the weight of his mother in my arms when she collapsed in a heap. I dread remembering the sounds of our sobs, moans, both of us pleading with God. I dread opening my eyes and seeing his father sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, saying, "my boy, my son, my first born". I dread the image of the nurses standing back, but still crying with us.
This week is a week of nothing but dread for me. Time doesn't heal all wounds. There are days and even months that go by and it seems my wounds are healed, but they aren't. This week comes for me and the wounds are gaping, open and raw. They'll never heal.
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