December 1, 2012 | Deserving

The word I write about today is the word “deserve”. 

It was James’ birthday on Thursday. Lacking the ability up until that day to really plan anything, the three of us spent the day perusing Seattle enjoying the gift of life. Along the way we bought him a wooden make-your-own dinosaur, a bunch of flowers, a hide journal, and of course, hot dogs. 

That I was up and able to walk, dance (in the bathroom in front of a mirror) and eat out was a gift in itself.

I’ve always known life is a gift but now, it’s undeniable. Yesterday, we spoke to the surgeon who will be cutting out a fist-sized chunk of my skull on Tuesday. I guess up until this point I’ve maintained some form of hope that it’s really just some swelling, that they’re going to tell me that it was just all some big mistake, or that it’s just benign and will all be gone and the ordeal will be a story to tell. 

But tumours aren’t like that. They keep growing. Yes, they’ll get out as much as they can, but it’s not the end. Chemotherapy and radiotherapy, those dreaded words that I always saw as the burden of an unfortunate few, are now real possibilities. With the surgery, I’m going to lose my hair either way. It’s all real, and all this stuff that all seemed so foreign and unimaginable actually applies to me.

I paused as I wrote to James in a little birthday card that he deserves everything. Yes, I believe that with all my heart. But I wonder, what do we really deserve? Do I deserve to have a brain tumor? Does everyone around me whose brains are free of tumors not deserve one? Is it simply coincidence, or is there more to it? 

I really don’t know anymore, if I ever did know. But I do know that when I look back upon my life I see so many times I didn’t really believe I was deserving. I didn’t really deserve to be loved, and when everything in life seemed to be going well deep down I often felt that surely, something had to give.

With a persistent awareness of inequality and the massive challenges faced by so many people throughout the world, it was my view of life as a balanced system that works for equilibrium that sometimes fed this belief that a bit of bad fortune must surely accompany good fortune. 

When I first knew something was wrong with me I was scared. I was terrified. I tried not to show it, plastered on a smile and pretended everything was okay. I remember lying in bed one night and almost hyperventilating with secret fear, knowing that the diagnosis of MS was wrong, knowing that there was something growing in my brain. 

My fear wasn’t of dying - I’m not afraid of death itself. But it was the fear of leaving those I love, of not being there for people, for not extending and sharing the hope that I want to share in this life. 

The fear was in imagining my eulogy, wondering if the reason I had done so much already in this life was because by some unknown force I knew my time was limited.

Do I deserve to die? Do I deserve to live? Our society doesn't really encourage us to ask these questions, and so we as a species have waltzed around with an attitude of entitlement. 

I lay in an ER last week next to an old man who told the nurses that he had no-one. No family left, no friends. I almost cried - for most of all, through all this, I have learned I am loved. And with that, I;ve come to feel that yes, I am deserving of love and yes, I am deserving of life.

Granted, I believe the brother of mine who passed away many years ago was also deserving of life. But I have a choice. I still believe, perhaps more than ever, that there is some form of intrinsic equilibrium to life, but I can choose whether to see it as good bringing bad, or to see it as the greatest challenges in life can bring the greatest rewards.

This is not some celestial punishment for being fortunate. It is another challenge in life that will have it's own rewards, rewards that I'm already beginning to experience.

Essentially, we're all choosing to live. We believe we deserve to live. Now faced with the concept of death, I see that we are all in the same situation - we all live each day with the knowledge that each day is one day closer to the end of our lives.

But perhaps more importantly than making the choices to put off our impending deaths for as long as possible, how would our lives be different if we decide to truly choose life? And I don't mean choose life in the way screaming hordes do in front of abortion clinics. I mean to live with utter gratitude that we have this chance to live a life, to seek the breadth of flavors and smells and colours available to us.

Are we living to die, or are we dying to live?

December 6, 2012 | Godspeed: A Story From James

Hello all. It's been an interesting time, and I'm not sure I know quite what to make of it all yet. But I thought maybe I could share my reflections in the best way I know how. I've written a story for you.

James

Godspeed Good Godwit

There is only one thing I can promise you when the night stretches beyond limit. You are not alone.

Deep in the darkest and mirkiest blues, the moon shone through a speck of cloud. That very same moon who hovered above the earth for seemingly days on end. Beaming, shining, and glowing, the moon didn't move. Like never before, he just towered above the wilderness in an endless midnight kingdom.

The animals began to gather along the ocean shore to stare at the marvel, there up above gleaming in giant ripples across the ocean. They wondered at this spectacle. How could he just sit there? Why wasn't he driving steadfast across the sky chased by the sun? Would she never return?

When the sempiternal night clenches white knuckle tight, Good Godwit must go, its time for flight.

When the sun hides away, abandoning her northern stay, Good Godwit must go, to save the day.

Soon everyone was congregated in a bewildered horde, muscling back and forth, arguing amongst one another. Worried seagulls fluttered about the heads of walruses, aimlessly diving for minnows amongst the brilliant puddles sparkling on the beach. Dark black crescents crashed around frightened heads as a moose stepped with long lanky strides over seal pups, in search of her daughter. The wolf family crowded the flanks, singing haunted choruses as they corralled the chaos. Ptarmigans bumped blindly into foxes before beating away in the knick of time. Salmon huddled in a pool of silver moonbeams, confused by the enormous bodies of orca and bowheads who glided past into shallow shores. The great commotion was deafening as brothers called to sisters and mothers calmed children.

Desperate cries of hunger and cold, plagued the eyes of younger and old.

They began to see, something must be done. For it was clear to all, they needed the sun.

Desperate cries of hunger and cold, plagued the eyes of the scared and bold.

They began to see, they needed someone. Who could search the darkness to find the sun.

The crowd began to argue, escalating the chaos with accusations and bickering. The orca began to shout at the bowheads. He blamed them for not paying proper respects to the sun, they should have left earlier to meet her where the ice grows. A long bearded mountain goat stepped forward, berating the caribou. Then the fox snipped at the wolves, and the wolves growled at the looming ice bears who peered in from the foggy depths. Soon the entire mass clashed with foaming teeth, howls, and bellows, a whirl of splashes and wingbeats, and gnashing antlers. The rapacious assaults and raucous retaliations could barely be made out in the darkness, but escalating yips and grunts, followed by squawks and roars bore the most horrific cacophony one could imagine. Just at the point where the rolling stones, splashing waves, and stumbling boulders were deafened by the violent gathering a giant beast appeared. Barreling forward out of the darkness, as if incarnated by the fury to calm the wreck of shoving masses.

This does no good to hurt one another, stop this instant my sisters and brothers.

Don't you see, something must be done. For it's clear to us all, we need the sun.

Stop, do no more harm to each other, I'll climb the mountain to find our mother.

They began to see, what must be done. Brother bear would go retrieve the sun.

A little voice in the back protested, claiming Great Grizzly could not find the sun, only her, Good Godwit, the small flighty one. The godwit came forward, landing near the bear's trunk of a leg, standing barely above his paw. Her beak was long and slender, leading back to a chestnut plume, poised with graceful and confident posture. The animals, now more confused than before, stared blankly at this bold character who stood on the shore. The silence fell unanimously like the whisper of morning, only to be shattered by delayed laughter bursting into devilish uproar. How could this small beast possibly believe she was the one to save them. Her? She was the one to end the endless night? No, certainly not her! What could she possibly do that the others could not? Good Godwit could not fly as high as Eagle, and he had never touched the sun. She could not swim like Gray Whale, who never found the sun's resting spot across all of the depths of the ocean. Good Godwit could not run like Caribou, and she certainly never found the sun in all of her treks beyond the tundra. They shouted at her, and belittled her. Even if she could find it, she would never be able to bring it back, they said. She's too little, too weak, they said. The wolves howled, loons laughed, foxes yipped, wales sang, and moose snorted. They all laughed and laughed until finally Good Godwit bursted into a flustered and defiant flight. She yelled down to them, to stay in their misery, to fear and moan in the darkness, to have no faith, it mattered not, for she would return, and bring all of the warmth, hope and good grace of the sun upon her shoulders. Rolling in a tortuous tangle of laughter below her they scoffed, and sneered. They yelled sarcastically behind her, godspeed Good Godwit, godspeed! Interrupted by bursts of cackling madness, they screeched, do come back and save us! Godspeed! She quickly vanished into the horizon.

Godspeed Good Godwit, godspeed! You've got to believe Godwit, believe!

Full speed ahead Godwit, full speed! Yo've got to succeed Godwit, succeed!

Because of his strength, his wisdom and prowess, the animals agreed the bear was their champion. Following their disparaging farewell to Good Godwit, they laid all of their trust into the old chief. And with that settled he lumbered off through the willows. Great Grizzly travelled through the cascading streams, gurgling quietly in the still valleys. He marched up hillsides, through the northern yarrow and mountain heather, past the pines. Up and up, over and over, through the deep night he journeyed. His powerful paws carried him farther than he had ever been before, continually headed east, where she rises to bring a new day's hope. He came to the base of the Mighty Mountains. He peered into the dancing emeralds and sapphires that twirled above the ebony peaks. He began to climb, higher and higher, until the winds whipped his hide. Great Grizzly's massive coat stayed true. He fought through the banshee gales, past the ice caverns, and glacial tombs.

At last, long awaited and hard to climb, the mountain is conquered at this precipitous time.

Now fast, where's the sun you came to find, through valleys, hills, and over mountain side?

Finally, with ice clinging to his fur, crystals in his breath, and a view above the clouds, he surveyed the horizon. Even at this peak the only light came from Moon, who sat pridefully above the world with his troop of ballerinas. Searching far in the east, along the horizon, he looked for even a sliver of light. Anything beyond a moonbeam. But no, there was nothing but boundless blackness. He turned to the south, back to where he came from, to the north, nothing. This couldn't be. Darkness, eternal, stifling darkness was all that could be seen from the highest peaks of the Mighty Mountains. Great Grizzly returned to the shore with his head bowed in sorrow, bowed in shame.

When he returned from whence he came, he bowed his head in perpetual shame.

The beasts spoke not a word of blame, not even to mention as much as his name.

The others said not, they knew what was found. All hope was forgot, there stirred not a sound.

The stillness of the mournful crowd was overbearing. After silence like glass the whales began to moan in agony, followed by the wolves. They cried up to the moon asking him to bring back the sun, together the families howled at the obstinate king of the night. The moose could muster not a single sound, petrified in worry of the future to come. The others wailed in their own ways. All of the animals huddled in tighter, forming a mass of solemn kinship against the bleak shoreline. They stared out into the ocean, each secretly asking, secretly hoping, but daring not to say a word. Their sullen faces longed to see Good Godwit return, to bring the sun upon her shoulders. Finally, Great Grizzly spoke.

All hope is not lost and we are not done, for we still have strength to find the sun.

You each have talents, unique unto you. Travel the darkness, follow through.

Those who swim, swim, and run, run, All of you like Good Godwit, find the sun.

You each have strengths, endowed unto you. Travel the darkness, may your hearts be true.

With that said they all took off. Each creature took to their own pathways. The orcas, bowheads, grays and other whales pushed out from the shore. The bison and caribou took to the arduous plains. The terns, eagles, and swans stormed the air in a flash of feathers. Mountain goats searched for the highest peak, as the vole looked for the deepest underground passageways. Everyone did their part. They bumped along through the darkness, forever they seemed to disperse. The birds flew farther than they ever had before, beyond their usual lakes, beyond the mountains, beyond the forests, where the weather was warmer, even hot and wet. It was of no use. Beaten and desperate the famished beasts returned. One by one, the hooves clattered back to that cobbled shore. The wings touched down, and paws padded over the logs and creeks. Each exhausted animal collapsed back into the huddled mass. The wolves smashed against the moose, the ptarmigans warming the fox. Not a beast even had the energy left to turn on another. Shrouded in the ink of the universe, with hides dowsed in sweat and ripped by wind, bleeding claws, hoofs, and talons, frozen coats, and sitting along the shore of deep and dark waters, the life of the world heaved from their failing lungs to gasp their remaining breaths. Afraid and weary, each began to retire. Each looked out unto the sea, each muttering their final words. They released their prideful desires with one last glance, finally unabashed, they whispered, godspeed Good Godwit, godspeed. Their oppressor stared down in flagrant apathy, beaming over the hope lost in his infinite kingdom, the joy that seeped into the darkness.

This is the end of the world. This is the end of all things. When shadows consume all hope, and joy is lost. Death is no evil, no looming cretin waiting to devour the hearts of all those that love, all those who pump fiery passion into the springs of life. Death is no monster, slashing and burning, casting lots into the ovens, cutting throats, and milling through the souls of those lost. All of the heartless and deranged misfortunes of an erratic and unstable universe, are mere vehicles. They are the deliveries, dumping bodies at the feet of eternity. They are not death. Death is deep, cold, hollow, and alone. Huddled in our masses of hope, we are slowly ripped away, one by one, by one. Death is eternal night and endless shade, it is the obstinate misgivings of an oppressive kingdom.

As the last beast closed his eyes, he felt the most intense joy he had ever dreamed, warm and calming. It stilled his massive heart and brought peace to the wounds and worries of an incredibly tired old bear. Great Grizzly felt the fire of life warming his coat as he drifted, further away into hidden memories, the best ones. Those special moments he saved for himself. His first salmon. The willow patch next to the two pronged log. The view of storms barraging the range. Those moments, the ones that remind him of how happy he is to have lived his life. As the memories stirred, so did his blood. The giant heart lurched piping blood through his veins as he felt himself floating into the warmest pools and brooks. He thought of his cubs with their mother, drifting through the meadows, splashing with the minnows. For the first time in his entire life, he realized how truly happy he was to have it. He did well.

Death is not a choice.

But time is. And this, my friends, is not that time.

As Great Grizzly drifted into the warm springs, the others experienced this sensation as well. Their eyelids warmed as they thought of the love and joy they knew, the happiness of arctic squalls crashing an ice bed from deep below, the spring flowers dotting an endless expanse, the pups, cubs, and kids. Life was more beautiful in their moment of death than they ever knew. The warmth spread, tingling throughout as they relived their individual worlds. This is the beginning of the world. The heat grew and grew into a raging wave of immense pleasure, until they opened their eyes to see the golden brim of the sun crowning over the sea, blasting rays of hope, disintegrating black to blue, to purple, with cascading oranges and yellows of a reborn meadow. The ocean radiated in scales of golden and silver embers, blinding the moon, and relegating him to a fleeting existence forever amongst his troop of twirling sisters. Eagle began to screech, look there! Look there! All eyes awake, all in awe, the animals stared in amazement, as Good Godwit pulled ahead. Starting a speck, just a silhouette, dashing ahead of the incredible chariot, she came streaming towards them, sun on her back. Brought to their feet, cheering, barking, and screaming, the animals strained into the sun to see their hero. The livelier pulled the weaker, the big helped the small, all working together, renewed with hope and faith in the world. She did it. She truly did it! That brave and beautiful little bird did it!

Godspeed Good Godwit, godspeed! You've believed Godwit, and succeeded!

Full speed ahead Godwit, full speed! You've found the sun Godwit, and retrieved!

The creatures were ecstatic, jumping and splashing, diving and dashing, and running all about. She truly pulled it off. They were saved. That is, all except one. The great bear still lay where he rested, smiling and thinking of fresh flowers in the glen, cubs, and salmon. For Great Grizzly was ready, he had been to the mountain and back. He had grown old, and seen his cubs. He was ready. For Godwit however, she needed to know that there was still a world full of love and beauty. She had more to see, more to do. She had a choice. She knew it was worth fighting for, traveling to the ends of the earth for. Good Godwit flew nonstop to the ends of the world, to pluck the sun from its hiding place. Her graceful wings carried her with confidence, despite the fears and doubts of others. She was unbeatable and courageous, gorgeous and passionate. She launched herself through an endless night to find the one she loved. She needed the sun.

Godspeed Good Godwit, Carry on!

Godspeed Good Godwit, be strong!

December 8, 2012 | A Little Off The Top: James

Today I got a haircut, I think it's the finest I've ever had. Here's to you B.

I'll try not to bore you with my musings on life, but perhaps I can share a short insight. There seem to be a million theologies, philosophies, and ideologies for where we come from, what we're doing here, and where we'll end up. Whether we meet in the sweet by and by, are reincarnated through transforming energy, or become Gods of our own device, there seems to be proselytizers for any who will have them. Does it matter which one we choose? Not to me. However, just as I choose not to window shop for afterlives, I also have no interest in condemning others' beliefs. It makes little difference to me whether my neighbors attend the Native American Church, or the tabernacle. That is, as long as they possess a sense of dignity and loving respect for the world around them. While I do not believe in atheists, I find this to be a fitting time to share my personal observations as an agnostic.

Bethany's condition comes as a grave indicator to me of the incredible beauty in the world. I suppose in times like these it would be simple enough to shake my fists and cry into the heavens, God Damn you! Perhaps I could wallow in despair, break my knuckles in anger, or drown myself in ecstasy to escape the absurdity of such a situation. I suppose it's also a fitting time for a 'come to Jesus moment' as well, bowing lowly and begging forgiveness, asking that my transgressions be relieved, and asking to be taken back into faithful service. Cliches come easy in times like these, “It's so unfair” or “how could this happen to such a wonderful person?” Yet I find little reward in these circles, and refuse to stagnate in bitterness. I cannot be afraid, and I cannot retreat. It makes little sense to do so, and although I can't quite find the logic in all of this yet, I'll keep trying.

One line of reasoning does occur to me in these sifting hours. Suppose we take the most cold approach to this entire conundrum, and view life as nothing but straightforward. Say for argument's sake, we take away the archangels, sacred cows, and origin stories. Let's assume for just a moment that there is nothing after we die, no one cares what sins we commit, and that our inclinations to hang tooth and nail to every scrap of life are simply genetic programmings passed from millions upon millions of years of organisms with a will to live outcompeting their more complacent counterparts. Remove the symbolism, remove the glass panes, and just view this thing in the moment. Sure brain cancer changes some of our plans. Of course I don't like to think about the labyrinth of possibilities. But what's really happening? Here. Now. Simple. I'm in love. I've found the person who makes the most sense to me in the entire world, and she's alive. We're alive, right now. Even more so, there are things to celebrate every single day. And I don't mean in a stale, glass half full kind of way. I mean really celebrate.

Today started with Bethany vomiting her breakfast in her lap, sitting cross-legged on the bed. She was not smiling, nor was she happy to take pills, sit up, eat, sleep, talk, or do much of anything else. Not a great start, but it left a hell of a lot of room for improvement. We thought we might travel back to Moscow today. That was a bit presumptuous. Instead we extended our stay and focused on healing. We cleaned Bethany, the bed, the clothes, and the dishes. Then we focused on tidying the room, organizing her personal pharmacy, and settling into some simple goals and priorities for the day. A few hours later, with another attempt at medication and food, Bethany once again heaved our efforts into the toilet. That's a start right there. It may seem simple, but having someone vomit into the bowl is a lot nicer than on herself. Furthermore, we had a place to start. With patience and love, we steadily made it through the day finishing Bethany's pill regiment, holding down food, and getting some good sleep. We also were able to start exercising, making multiple trips scooting up and down the flights of stairs. To top things off we were able to start carrying conversation, and smiling once again. I played secretary while she napped, filing through the incredible lengths of loving support that people all over the entire world send this miracle of a woman. And lastly, we laughed. All of us, together, in pure joy and overwhelming love. Those were all moments worthy of celebration.

When you watch the other half of your inner being dramatically shift into an opiate zombie, paralyzed with pain and drowsiness, bedridden and fragile, a part of you comes alive that you didn't realize existed before. Whether it's a soul, a heart, synapses firing in the right spot, or a natural inclination to fend for your family, this thing inside of you shudders in breathtaking awe and compassion for the beauty before you. The tough, hungry little girl with a swollen face and scars running a zigzagged railroad across her shaved head, suddenly becomes more beautiful than any starlet to grace a magazine cover ever dared to be. And when she laughs, you want to cry, those salty tears that come when you feel Atlas' burden beginning to lift. I'd say that's worth celebrating. I'd say staring into the mirror as the barber gives you your solidarity cut, and the man in the neighboring chair covers your bill when he overhears the motivation for the haircut, that's worth celebrating.

If for no other reason, is not the simple beauty and mystery of every day compelling enough to live for? Regardless of whether we live with divine direction or not. Is the love of life not reason enough?

Whether one believes in God has no bearing, we all live by some form of dogma or another. It matters not whether it's bestowed upon us from an elderly virgin in a golden throne, or the enculturation processes of life. We all have our codes. For me, I believe in God. I just don't call her the same name as others. My God doesn't carry a staff or have a flowing beard, sitting on clouds to judge the quick and the dead. My God reaches peaks through suffocating cloud cover, is made of the deepest greens and the bluest blues. She is enormous, and incomprehensible. She is simple and sweet with tranquility that flows and ebbs, and vile with tempests that rage in furious horror. My God is absolutely, unfathomably gorgeous, and worth celebrating.

Furthermore, I am a reverent man. If ever there is something a god would like for us in our magnificent days, it would be to appreciate the living artwork and beauty present in every single moment, of every day. I cannot weep anymore, and pity serves no one. The love of my life loves life, and so shall I.

January 9, 2013 | A Letter to James

I wrote this to you last night after heading down to bed. I hope you don’t mind me posting it here.

I woke this morning wanting to write to you and it was in my list the whole day. As always (yes, even when you are with me, if that’s not too strange to say), I can’t get you out of my mind. I keep thinking about how it will feel for you to drive in to Moscow and to wonder at the strange loss of the feeling of coming home, or to see all your friends that so clearly love you and to know that you must be kept apart from them by distance, money and all that stuff, and most of all, how it will feel to walk into 120 South Polk and see the remnants of our life strewn about there. The weight of what you are doing for us is unfathomable. It’s silent but for the wind down here in the den and I have little tears gathering at the corners of my eyes at these imaginings.

My guilt is sometimes, just sometimes, overwhelming. Guilt for turning not only my own but other peoples lives upside down. Guilt for acting differently after surgery and as I waited for treatment to begin. For not being strong enough or loving enough. This is my own choice to feel this guilt, and you know that I refuse to dwell on things that can’t or couldn’t be changed. I choose to feel it because I know I could have been more loving and dynamic and brave over the last few weeks, and it only makes it worse that you too knew it, and was the only one to voice your belief in me…and I let you down. It’s funny, that’s been the hardest thing. Not the surgery, not the jabs, not the fear of death, I’m really not too worried about that stuff. It’s the fear of letting you down and of being a burden.

I’ve felt really great in the past few days. I’ve wondered if I should feel guilty for saying that, as it’s not something polite people say to others just after they have left. But as you know, ‘polite’ isn’t the first adjective I shoot for (there are much more exciting ones, like wondrous, phenomenal, sparkly or intrepid). Anyway, let’s just say it was since our breath-of-air escape into the mountains that I’ve felt good, that perhaps the fright in the night and the icy water woke me up a little. In the past few weeks I’ve taken the saying ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone' (or compromised, or limited, etc.) to be a metaphor for life…. and in the meantime, was forgetting that it’s the goodies inside of life that go unappreciated. The little tears keep wanting to creep back as I think of the awful nights you spent with me in hospital, or tending to me when I could hardly walk, or even worse, putting up with me as I recovered from the ordeal physically before mentally.

Today I ran the Highbury Fling twice. The feeling was incredible, flying through that greenery and feeling my body strain up the hills before gasping that gorgeous clean air and dodging the twisting trees on the way down. I sat by Harriet by the fire and discussed her favorite books and how she gets them out of the library, and cooked a lovely meal for Karen and Carolyn with ma with Electric Guest on full volume. She and I hugged as I wandered down to bed tonight and as I hugged my wheatie-bag, amongst a chorus of sweet “goodnights” between everyone. And now I stare at your pile of clothes and can’t believe that you have traveled across the world for all this.

I can only hope that during this time away you will be able to understand that this here isn’t the life I’ve chosen either…that neither was necessarily Moscow. These things have happened and we’ve found ourselves amongst them, and learnt to adapt and enjoy them wholly along the way. No, the only life I’ve really chosen is the one with you. I may be looking forward to radiation on Monday and be happy being with family, but I loved our life we were and are creating and there is absolutely no way I will ever give up on it. Our dreaming brought us together and we must cherish our dreams always, wherever we are.

The wind is gusting at 140km/hour tonight, and I’m blowing you a kiss good night. I hope it’s carried right to you across the seas, and I love you for knowing what a kilometre is (thanks).

x, your B.

February 6, 2013 | Migration: A Letter to B, from James

Migration

Bethany, I think it's time I write you a letter. My Uncle Eric is deep in the South. His beard has grown thick and full. The grey mask reminds me of my father. He's working on a pipeline right now. Not managing it, not supervising, and not fighting fire. He's just working his aching bones into the ground. It's the kind of work usually reserved for strong backs just out of high school. Why is he there? Because life's messy. The retirement benefit for all of his years of breathing acrid smoke, smashing doors, resuscitating lives, pulling drunks from mangled wrecks, and grieving the innocence lost, is not enough for him to survive as an aging man. He'd love nothing more than to sip on a dram of Islay malt, taste Cuba, and watch over his black-land fields. Yet that remains an elusive dream. He wouldn't have me pity him though. He wouldn't have me pity myself either. And he most certainly wouldn't have me pity you.

Perhaps the thing I love the most about the old chess master is his undying love. His ability to smile a Texas smile at the sunshine before he puts his head down and drives a fence line. And he laughs. Babe he laughs so big, that big hearty bellow that could only be produced from the depths of such an immense heart. I always call Eric when I'm at my lowest points. I guess it always felt like his back was big enough for both of us. He rode his bike all the way from the Red River to Moscow just to see us on our proposal. He never complains. He's never lazy. And he's always a Southern gentleman. That good kind of Southerner, that maintains the old values but keeps a progressive mind. Maybe I love him so much because he always seemed like the version of my dad that I could be friends with. Anyways. The whole point of bringing him up is because I called him yesterday. He listened well and gave me good advice in that story teller way – unassuming yet relatable, with anecdotal advice from a life of adventures, riddled with failures in the midst of great joys. He placed a particular remark in the puzzles of my mind with poignant accuracy. “You're a control freak.”

I guess I am. I never really thought about it like that, but it seems to make a lot of sense. Wouldn't you agree? Although it may be nicely disguised, and there may be a good amount of leeway, it seems to make sense. Why am I so competitive? Why do I strive, sometimes at ridiculous lengths, to win any competition? Why did I care so much about my 4.0? Why do I still care so much about having the best grades? Not even content with A's, it infuriated me if anyone even scored a point higher on a test. And work, there it is again. I could have skated through and made similar money. Perhaps to some extent a healthy amount of a controlling attitude is a good thing. Yet, when it's not about grades, money, or making friends – when it's about something like feeling forced to move, forced to leave, forced to dismantle, then what? Why should it bother me so much? I should be thrilled to go to New Zealand. I should be thrilled to start a new adventure with you. To have a chance at something great, together. But perhaps it's as simple as choice. Even though I faked it well, I've been having trouble convincing myself that I want to do what we're doing. Unfortunately, my inability to cope with the ebb and flow of life catches you in the rip. I'm not saying that because of this new understanding I will be able to put all of my frustrations behind me and start thoroughly enjoying our situation. But I guess what I am saying is that I am able to start working on healthy decisions for the both of us. I've never liked being told what to do, and I hate being dragged into situations outside of my control. Yet, I realize that if I can't get a grip on the tangible in this scenario, I will most certainly make the situation worse for both of us.

The tangible? Well, I guess a lot could be considered tangible here, but a great deal of it is in my head. The loneliness, pity, regret, and sloth are not caused by our new found environment. They are caused by my inability to adapt. I'm not a happy person. In fact I'm incredibly depressed and bitter at the moment. But I do understand that it is up to me to make that a fleeting state, or a landslide. You don't deserve a man who can't be there to support you. And for that reason, I am dedicated to changing the man who writes you now. I'm sorry I've been falling apart. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair to our future. I love you more than anything in this world, and it's time I get back to showing you the truth in that statement. I'm coming home babe. XOXO

February 7, 2013 | James: A Godless Communist

A Godless Communist

There's something about home cooked meals, hours of sleep, and conversations with loved ones that resets an inner compass. This essay is no more political than a love note. Granted, love can be a controversial subject at times.

After a battery of debates with my father regarding different 'hot button' issues, the most recent of which was my stance against civilians owning military grade fifty caliber sniper rifles able to tear a hole through the side of armored vehicles. I was described in jest to my mother as a Godless Communist. Now obviously, there's some truth to his statement, despite the love backing this portrayal. Despite the brevity of my escape to the motherland of red mud, cowboy hats, and barbeque joints, I was able to pull to the surface some much needed strands of insight from their dormant abyss. Ben warned me about his trip back to Oklahoma. He said that it was the best conversations he had ever had with the parental units. In fact, it persuaded him to stop running – at least for now. It always seems that reflecting on my values, and seeing my roots, tends to make problems shrink.

My father and I went back and forth every chance my mother wasn't there to intervene. Father - son bonding time I reckon. Whether we were discussing homosexual rights in regards to the Boy Scouts of America, gun control, socialized medicine, homicide rates in the 'developed world', the importance of a standing army, abortion, or taxes, two themes continued to circle like vultures as we realized we were arguing in a similar direction, with different solutions. People should have incentive and accountability. Why is food service in New Zealand often abysmal? Because they don't treat front of house staff as well respected members of society. Commission and percentages speak a hell of a lot louder than wages. Why do you have to be extremely cautious when picking your favorite saltena vendor in Bolivia? Because you're not getting a dime out of anyone in court for losing three weeks of your life to the oral and anal flood that will ensue if you choose poorly. People must have accountability for their actions, and they need incentives to perform immaculately.

Of course it seems like I'm derailing this blog, but I can assure you there is a legitimate point I'm trying to build. Through the midnight hours of discussing possible solutions to the myriad of issues that are continuously thrown into simple yes/no bins of patriotic conservatism, or flaming liberal propaganda I began to realize this isn't so different from the issues I'm facing in my life. I don't honestly give a shit if someone wants to call themselves a member of the Tea Party, or a libertarian, or a progressive. It doesn't really mean much to me. Secondly, I don't think it really means much to the progression of solutions for our society. It's easy to get worked up about things that seem awful in our lives. It's easy to join the ranks of some new hope, fighting the villainy of past transgressions. It's easy to do nothing in your life while you scream bloody murder on Facebook. It's a lot harder to sit down and think about realistic options available in the wake of grief or chaos.

I've been trying to dig into my own issues with this affinity for accountability and incentive. There has to be a way to pull myself back on course. Back to the love I know is within me, and the strength to be a good steward, while maintaining an optimistic and realistic view of the future. Of course there is, and I believe, finally, I'm headed back to the right path. What is a Godless Communist after all? An indirect compliment? I think it's probably a way of describing my love for life on earth, and passion for strength in our families and communities. Obviously, it's a bit of a false moniker, as I would describe myself as more of an agnostic who finds serenity in the sacred tabernacles of nature, and a capitalist with heavy socialist leanings as far as community outreach and general standards of living are concerned, but I think he was on the right track. It has become clear to me that disappointment is directly related to expectations and goals. Bethany and my quality of life are products of our accountability to one another and the incentives to reach our expectations. Our incentive is a product of the expectations of our goals, which are completely up to us to decide. Furthermore, the accountability to remain dedicated to achieving our goals is also completely up to us. So perhaps redefining my goals is in order. I know I've convoluted a relatively simple argument for apparently no reason. But I suppose it's therapeutic for me to work out all of the little twists the rabbit takes in my mind. The elevator pitch of this entire essay is straightforward.

Bethany, I started to find myself lost without the clear goals we had spent so much time establishing, and subsequently eased my grip on my own accountability towards such goals, which threw me into quite a spiral. But I see once again, so many of those goals we once set are truly subsidiary. The only priority I absolutely have to work on right now is getting the two of us through this mess as smoothly as possible. Everything else can wait. And, in due time, bit by bit, we'll start building our empire once again. After all, as a Godless Communist, I'm only here to survive, there are no pearly gates for me. So I'd better make the best of it then, and I need you for that. So what do you say babe? How bout we get back to basics, and start focusing on just you and me? I'll see you in the morning.

Sharing the journey

...as if, you have a right to think, I haven't done that enough. This expose has been sitting in almost every coffee shop in Wellington for a few months now. Sorry for not posting it sooner.

Bruises and Brains

You may have seen recently that I've been toying with the idea of changing course in this blog and heading more into research. This, by my journalism instructors definition, is a "rant-style" blog, and is too personal for a journo.

Early last week, James was tickle-attacking me (I call it attack because he isn't ticklish and I am rendered defenseless) and my fingernail brushed my thigh.

It was a light brush, but something in my squealing tone must have changed as I was taken aback by unexpected pain. Tingles shot up into my groin and down to my knee, and a few minutes later tiny, black bruises had splotched themselves on my white, winter skin.

It was all revealed a few days later when I was sitting in the reclining leather chair in the day ward for my chemotherapy, chatting with the nurses and the old man opposite me on his IV line.

"Have you noticed any strange bruising, Bethany?" a concerned nurse asked. I laughed. My platelets are at a record low: 34. The average range is 150 - 450.

Staring down at my now-enlarged bruise the other day, I realized I can't simply research. If I did, the little stupid personal things would be lost, as would my space to express word in whichever way they want to paint themselves on the page.

And so, I made a new site specifically for researching brain cancer. I'm focusing on compiling new innovations, approaches and understandings about tumors of the brain. If you're not of the mind to be bogged down by cancer and all it entails, I've formatted it to make it easy to do a quick scan of the important bits and then take off running!

If you're interested, do check it out: www.brainbuzz.org.

You and I

Dear Mum,

You’ve just asked me when I am going to write a “nice blog about you”. That’s fair. I suppose it is about time isn’t it? Lately things have been up and down between us, so I suppose now is the time to write this. Not only write something, but also explore in the best way I am able – words – this fragile relationship of a bond that began in the womb, here in Wellington, 22 years ago.

Breaker Bay, 1991

“Congratulations” is commonly said to people that decide to get engaged to be married. We both think this is a little strange don’t we? Congratulating someone for deciding to be the lifelong partner of another when it’s such a personal decision. However, I do believe “congratulations” is a fitting word for successfully raising two children on your own, and this is most certainly a great, if not the greatest, achievement in life. It overwhelms me sometimes to think of this journey we have been on together since we last lived in Wellington in that little dark flat by the crashing, cold waves of Breaker bay.

You did everything for us. Gave everything for us. Sure, you didn’t hug us much, but you showed us the joy of a stormy day at the beach, the thrill of biking down a long country road, the warmth of the fire of a hut on the mountain as a storm rages outside, and always, always the value of health. You provided and fostered a love for delicious healthy food and relishing the outdoors, and you consistently led by example. We were always the ‘healthy’ ones of all our mates – there was no other way; it made sense. We treated our bodies and minds with the respect you taught us they deserved.

And now you have to sit in your car and watch a family of young children saunter across the road in front of you with bright blue sugary, caffeinated drinks, and think “I would never give that to my kids”…and yet your kid has cancer. “Unexplained” cancer. It’s not fair, is it?

It must be so much harder for you than it is for me. You told me at that restaurant in Seattle with a tear in your eye (yes, one!) that you would take it from me upon yourself in an instant. That you did everything you could to protect us and it didn’t work. Of course, I scoffed at that, saying that it’s my challenge and I can do this, I’ll take it on for myself thank you very much…

… But you know, having the cancer is the easy part. The hard part is having to watch your daughter; the daughter that you fed from your breast, took for a first haircut, and watched almost drown with horror as you sat bleeding on a jagged rock thinking only of her, sit in a cancer day ward smile to cover the grimace as the needle pierces her hand. The hardest part is to know that all you did and gave wasn’t quite enough to protect your precious daughter. It’s to hear her tell you when you wake that she was up in the night vomiting alone, refusing to tell anyone, and know that her staunchness comes from you. It’s easy for me, in a way. I just have to go for the ride. The only guilt I must battle is the one of the burden I now put upon those I love.

I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you to come to understand that there is another person in the world (apart from dad) that loves me as much as you do. How could that be? You are the one who raised me; you are the one who has been there the whole time! But mum, at some point I hope and plead that you will come to appreciate the family I have now chosen.

James is my inspiration, my partner and buddy in everything. He is the one that makes me smile and laugh every evening. He is the one I dream with and make plans with, and it is a future with him that I am living for. His dedication to me is overwhelming and his love for me carries me through. He lifts me up when I need it, and vice versa. You must understand this. I admire and am inspired by his goodness, his ability to take on challenges and his drive to succeed while helping others. I know you see your differences, which of course there are, but it breaks my heart that you are not able to see and be excited for the utter joy and love we have. You both want the best for me and it’s quite obvious, but sometimes it’s okay for people to have different views of what is best. Aside from having a different, more scientific educational background, love also drives him and he also only wants the best for me. I am privileged to call James my family and I think you should be too.

We will always have a special bond, and you will always understand me in ways that no one else does – for this is the bond of a mother and daughter. It won’t and can’t come under jeopardy, as it is based on not only a lifetime of formative experience but also an actual, physical bond that nothing can ever take away. I’m delighted for you that you have found a man that compliments you perfectly and is endearingly supportive, fun and kind. It matters so much to me that you are happy, so much. I can’t help but care and it’s always been that way with us, hasn’t it? Even when I would sit in the bathroom with you and chat with you about how your boyfriend at the time wasn’t great for you, I cared. When I would come up for breakfast in the morning and share with you what I had learnt from my various philosophy books the night before, I cared. Please, don’t forget that. Please, let us remember that each other’s happiness is paramount and although your little girl has grown up and gone in search of her own happiness, she will always be your girl. No matter if she goes off into the world and loves and is loved deeply by another, she will always be able to read your facial expressions and understand why you get the giggles. She will always be beside you sharing private jokes and common understanding, because that is what we have.

I love you. 

Excuses, Excuses...

Look what I just found!

"People who have had chemo and have problems with thinking, memory, or concentration often call it chemo brain or chemo-fog. Some people report having these symptoms even before they start treatment. Others report it even though they haven’t had chemo." - The American Cancer Society

So I admit I was out searching for academic verification of chemotherapy making me more emotional when I stumbled upon this alleged "chemo-fog". Who would have thought?!

No seriously though, does this stuff not make people more emotional? It's something I would have scoffed at, but now I'm in it, I'm starting to wonder. It's been amazing, embarrassing and annoying, this 'being emotional' thing. It's like it's a roller-coaster that I can't get off. 

Today we were at the table discussing whether James and I will move out, and mid-conversation I had the overwhelming sense that the world wasn't appreciating James and seeing how incredible he is! What to do when one has a sudden rush of admiring and loving emotion for a person? Naturally, one bursts into tears of course. 

Even writing that almost brings tears to my eyes, as it reminds me of just how lucky I am to have such a capable, wise, creative and inspiring man by my side and I just can't handle it, I just want to tell the world!

That's ridiculous right??

Oh, who cares. Bring on the fog and all its flying colors of emotion and love and messiness!