Friday Black Coffee

Black coffee. Work. Money. Walk dogs. Laundry. Clean house. Wash dog. Black coffee. Get up. Bed is so comfortable. Black coffee. Cramps. Black coffee. Get up. It's so nice with the windows open and the cool breeze. Hot Black Coffee. Financial aid application. Get up. So unmotivated. Hot black coffee. Hot. Black. Coffee. Espresso. Do the budget. Call the social worker back. Get up.

Everything smells weird.

I get up. I put my hair up and walk to the kitchen with as many glasses as I can carry. Yesterday I ended up collecting 6 glasses of liquids next to my bed. Most are still partially full. Green tea, peppermint tea, lemon water, stomach tea, coffee with soy milk, and cranberry juice. Took two trips. Nothing was quite right. The water with lemon, I think, was my favorite. Mmmmm, a fresh thin slice of organic lemon in water. So good from my nose to my tummy. I love fresh lemon. 

After radiation yesterday, I stopped by the grocery store. I had a craving for parsley and garlic with pasta. I had made a pasta earlier, just a little figuring I wouldn't be able to really finish it if I made the whole bag. On a regular day, I make the whole bag and pop the whole thing in the fridge for the week. These days, everything is in the freezer. It makes me hesitate when buying new food. 

I looked around the store. More than $8 for a small package of Benevolent Bacon. $7.50 for burrata. Almost $7 for parm? 

I stick to my little list: parsley, garlic, a squash, tomatoes, baby bellas, and a lemon. $15.25 in total. I pay cash from the garage sale money. It always feels weird to pay cash. I paid cash for gas, too. I guess it's okay to go in and say hello to the gas station guy.

I know I'm not going to be able to eat up all this stuff before it goes bad, so I make a vinegar and olive oil mixture with salt, sugar, and fresh cracked pepper. I finely chop all the parsley and a clove of purple garlic and put it in a jar. I get a bunch of baby bellas and cut them into chunks, and in they go. Next, a few thin-sliced lemons in. I pour in the vinegar and mix it around with a spoon. I taste it. It's pretty darn good. I do love chimichurri, and this is pretty close. I get a few bites of the pasta I made earlier. The pasta has broccoli, Abbott's chop chik'n, and kale in it. I used some good olive oil and pasta water in the cast-iron pan to make a bit of a creamy, saucy vibe. Kosher salt and cracked pepper, of course. The combo of the acidic parsley mix and creamy pasta mix was outstanding. I had about four spoonfuls of the pasta with broccoli, mushroom, parsley, kale, and chik'n, and I was done. But it was good. I get pretty stoked at good, fresh food. 

It's going to be even better tomorrow, I think, and pop a weight in the jar. I cover it with a soft lid, and into the fridge it goes. I think about toasting up some panko and salt to sprinkle on top tomorrow. Yum. The best part about all this is that it is a spot of happiness. Right now, I'm not feeling like there's much bringing me joy. I'm not sure what the endgame is here, mostly because I'm not sure I trust everything these docs are saying, since it's been a moving target since the beginning. One doc said I'd be getting Pembro injections for two years after chemo ended. Two years?! This was not a part of the original conversation. I guess they say what they need to to get you in and signed up.

One step at a time. Step one: overcome ennui and despair. Hot Black Coffee. Up we go.

The dogs always make me happy. They're so sweet and cute and innocent. They're probably a tad frustrated with me since sometimes they don't get their daily walk. Roxy wonders why the hell I'm here all day. Remy is just glad the bedroom door is open all day since I am here, and he can lie on the bed. I can tell they can tell that I'm sick. In the first few days, they wouldn't eat their food. Roxy was getting an upset stomach and drooled all night one night. I had to start adding something irresistible to their bowls to be sure they'd eat. Roxy would do a little dance. She much prefers I cook for her than just offer a bowl of kibble and lets me know it.

It's Friday, and I think about garage sale stuff for the weekend. It's supposed to rain on Saturday. I'll have to plan around that. Last weekend I had such a nice talk with my sister-in-law while sitting in the garage. The week went by really fast, and I can't believe it's the weekend again. It was good to have a good cry. I confessed to considering all the choices I've made to bring me to this point in life. She donated $100 to my GoFundMe and talked to me about wanting to help, that that amount would be easy, and not to worry. I'm not sure if it was feelings of guilt or gratitude or humility or regret or some combination, but it moved me, as I know she, too, is going through her own struggles.

In the time I've been going through this, friends have brought to my attention that this failing body has brought three beautiful children into the world (whether the said children like that or not), gone on adventures, done the best it could, has taken chances, tried to honor grandparents, tried to reconcile trauma, tried to right wrongs, and stood for things. It feels weak to me. In the layers of activists in the history of the world, I am near the middle-bottom. I am certain. Like when I check a race result, and although I might hit a PR, overall, I'm in the last quarter or third of finishers. Should I have trained harder? Should I have fundraised harder? Should I have been louder for my cause?

When I was little, I wanted to be a writer and a vet. I wanted to heal animals and help nature flourish, and write and draw about it.

When I was a teen, I wanted to be an advocate for girls and women in abusive situations, somehow. Maybe I could write about that. What would I write? But then, I found out about how many boys, too, were being exploited and abused. I started learning about the psychology of abuse. The complications, the cycles, the justifications, the perpetuation, the systematization of it... And then I started seeing all of the other writings, films, and documentaries on it. To this day, it is still something I cannot fully understand. We know it is there, yet it has been unstoppable so far. This illness some people have. I see it carried over into animal abuse and factory farm abuse, too. It is not comprehensible to me, the uncalled-for meanness, the disassociation from compassion, the greed. 

But I don't want to understand it. I want it to stop. Awareness is not the way, as people have been trying to share awareness of trauma and generational trauma for centuries, and we are not improving. After a while, the why doesn't matter because existence is ever-present. Now, it is exposed at the highest levels of world power, yet justice remains unattained. 

When I had cancer the first time, I was without insurance. I get The Gerson Therapy book with recipes, a book called How Not to Die by Michael Greger, and Un-Do-It by Dean Ornish. I watch videos and make the recipes and juice fresh, organic veggies. I do yoga and ride my bike everywhere since I had no car. I meditate and listen to healing frequencies. And I find Louise Hay's book of affirmations. These affirmations, she believed, would help reverse the subconscious attack we place on ourselves due to guilt, low self-esteem, or self-doubt. 

In Heal Your Body, Hay compiles a list of ailments in alphabetical order from Abdominal Cramps (Probable cause: Fear. Stopping the process. New thought pattern: I trust the process of life. I am safe.) to Yeast Infections (See: Candida, Thrush. Probable cause: Denying your own needs. Not supporting yourself. New thought pattern: I now choose to support myself in loving, joyous ways.). 

The 'new thought pattern' for each ailment seemed positive, harmless. Could help. Doesn't seem like it could make me worse. Maybe it'll change my attitude. Maybe it'll help me.

I keep reading.

Cancer. Probable cause: Deep hurt. Longstanding resentment. Deep secret or grief eating away at the self. Carrying hatreds. "What's the use?" New thought pattern: I lovingly release and forgive all of the past. I choose to fill my world with joy. I love and approve of myself.

I listen to healing frequencies and repeat: I lovingly release and forgive all of the past. I choose to fill my world with joy. I love and approve of myself.

My youngest, being a musician, doesn't believe in healing frequencies. All of the experts say it's nonsensical and ineffective.

I'm not sure what the harm is, so I continue.

Moreso, I'm fascinated by scientists who've hooked up wires to mycelium and tree roots to transmit bioelectric signals which produce sounds. What are these amazing vibrations? They are imperceptible to us, yet they exist, and I cannot think of anything more beautiful. Nature sounds. Are they communicating? Are they singing? What horror if the sound stops. What silence. I prefer they hum and move and vibrate and sing. They live so, of course, yes! They would have bioelectric signals that create patterns, vibrations, and waves of sound. The idea is so lovely to me, frankly, I don't really care if it is just nonsense.

I find a video interview with Louise Hay. It's old. From the 80's, maybe. I want to learn more.

In the interview, she said she had overcome "incurable" cervical cancer. She had been abused as a child and raped and kept this secret to herself for many years, like a shameful burden. Right or wrong, she believed her illness stemmed from this abuse. She did not mean to blame herself for what had happened, but somehow she felt the negativity manifesting in herself and in her body. Intellectually, she knew: it was not her fault. When she was diagnosed with a cancer in her female parts, she made this association and thought to deeply meditate on it to change the way she perceived herself, the rape, the blame, and the shame. She believed love and joy of and for herself would be healing. She chose to cherish her body and especially this part, which was now under attack. She put together an affirmation to remind herself to forgive and live with loving and joyful kindness toward herself.

I, too, took up this practice of daily affirmations and felt an appreciation for her strength and vulnerability and ability to overcome the many barriers she faced, including this illness and whatever shame that came with it. 

Despite the ubiquity of abuse in common women's lives, it seems our outspoken light posts are wealthy or famous women like Louise Hay, or Florence Foster Jenkins, who contracted syphilis from her first husband on their wedding night. Why are we not outraged by this in our history and this present-day reality? A reality where just this week our nation simultaneously removed murals of Cesar Chavez because of allegations of rape, while at the same time, a convicted sex offender added his name to our printed money.

​It is maddening.

I begin to think about Deborah Spungen's book title, And I Don't Want to Live This Life, about her daughter Nancy, who dated Sid Vicious from about 1977 until she died in 1978. This was the first time I thought about someone who suffered from psychosis and extreme selfishness for reasons unknown to me. I mean, was Nancy abused? From what was she trying to escape? The book is from the mother's perspective, so perhaps there were family secrets she did not reveal or even know about. The book title echoed in my mind.

The other book title I kept thinking about was Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain. While these titles kept coming to the forefront of my mind, and I can relate to the sentiments, I want to be clear, I am not suicidal. Instead, I think about this movement of beaten-down, impoverished, angry, neglected children and teens who turned lashing out into a cultural and musical movement. For some, there were extremes. For others, they sought a place to belong and not be beaten so badly. Beaten on by those who were charged with protecting them, I might add. This is the worst crime, in my humble opinion.

I think about Frank McCourt and his trilogy, which starts with Angela's Ashes. I think about the mysterious Irish origins of my grandmother, who came over in the early 1900's. Was she really one of 14 children? Were her adoptees German? Jewish? Were they fleeing Europe? Why would she choose to believe the church (pastor) over her own child, who claimed abuse? Who was that guy, and what was his gross story?

I think about the time I was hitching a ride with some hippies traveling with the Dead tour, and we picked up a skateboarder kid who had a thumb on the side of the road. The nice hippie dudes turned into Neanderthals real quick. Why pick this punk kid up if they were just going to be dumb and rude? Hippies. Not without contradictions and a lack of self-awareness, while simultaneously seen as free-loving, open-minded, and generous people. Not all, of course.

I think about my mom and how I'm a mom, and how, although I never really felt sympathy for my father, I did not like looking at my mom as abused or weaker or vulnerable when she was really so very strong despite her four-foot-eleven-inch stature.

I do not want to be seen by my children as vulnerable, I thought.

"So, Sam and Ryan don't know?" my sister-in-law asked.

"I don't know. I asked Delilah not to talk to them about it, though," I said.

"They must know. You posted it on social media."

"I'm not friends with Ryan on social media, and you know how kids are, they have more than one account, so Sam probably doesn't check the one we're friends on," I say. "That kid's going through their own stuff right now anyway. I don't expect to hear from her. I don't need to."

"You're protecting them," she says.

"No. I don't think I've earned the right to make that claim," I say. "I mean, I wish. It has always been an intention. But ... that's a big claim, and I don't know what they've gone through that they haven't told me. I mean, Sam was such a crazy, happy, and outgoing child, and I'm not sure what happened. What changed. What awareness is causing this brooding, and desire to forget... She told me she doesn't want to remember. She probably forgot even telling me that by now. One day, she wants to move to Chicago, and the next, she acts like she never said that to me. We had a whole conversation about how Delilah stayed with Ryan and his girlfriend for a while in their spare room and how it was fine, so she was going to try it too. Now, she says she likes Austin and isn't going to move. Delilah wanted to come down and stay with me, but between the travel garbage with the TSA and trying to sell this place, I said it's okay. Besides, I have a friend who says I can stay rent-free if I need to. If the house sells."

I sat in the garage with the door open. A car approached. I asked my sister-in-law to hang on while some people came to look at my glass bowls and power tools. I have so many things still from my mom and from my grandparents on my dad's side. Crystal bowls, punch bowls, China, actual silver silverware, silver serving ware, silverware with bone handles, kimonos, yukattas, a fur-trimmed coat. It's funny the things that are valued during an era. Or popular. 

My dad always liked the Japanese ways of doing things: clean, pure, efficient, exacting. My mom was thrilled with all things American: grandma's roasts - chicken, turkey, beef, pork, with all the trimmings, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, apple pie, chocolate chip cookies, strawberry rhubarb pie, porkchops and apple sauce, the fish-fry at the VFW, steak and potatoes, and instant coffee.

My dad would always throw a fit. 

"You made enough food to feed an army!" he'd yell.

"Hey, leave her alone," I'd say. "Why don't you do the cooking, then?!"

And he'd get so mad, he'd get up and leave.

I loved my mom's cooking. Even if it did make me fat. I loved the way she'd get those weird Entenmann's Danish breads and coffee cakes. And the fruit-filled kolaches from the Polish bakery. 

She'd make some Japanese and American-Chinese dishes too. Egg-foo yung and sukiyaki were regularly on the menu for dinner. Also, not healthy, according to dad. And, for breakfast, my mom would make fresh, hot Japanese rice and crack an egg right in it, which would cook because the rice was so hot. I'd always have to have plenty of roasted seaweed to wrap up my bites with using my chopsticks. I'd sip hot miso soup. The perfect accompaniment. Sometimes she'd make salmon and broccoli with hot rice. Another great little filling for my nori on the side.

My mom was steady. She didn't always know what she was doing, but she was always doing something for the good of us. She was the hardest-working person I've ever met. I admit to resenting Mom because, with all this strength and steadiness, she could not protect me. She could not tell her friends why I had run away. She could not bring my dad to justice, and my dad did everything he could to try to justify his way out of being guilty of anything.

Was there a rift in his brain? In his personality?

No. I felt no sympathy for Dad.

And I wonder if that is how my kids might think of me.

To be clear, I spent my whole life trying to not let what happened to me happen to my children. I worked very hard to give them every opportunity: dance, drama, music lessons, language lessons, church, swimming lessons, swim team, climbing lessons, climbing team, soccer, t-ball, Brownies, Boy Scouts, skiing, travel, and camping. I opened my own businesses to be available to them. To be there when they were little.

But I did divorce their father and other such selfish acts. It might be unforgivable. I don't know. What I do know is that every time my very unemotional middle child tells me he loves me, it brings me a deep and satisfying joy. And when I share quips with my oldest, I feel connected. And when my youngest gives me a hug as we part, I feel loved in the tiniest yet biggest way.

My life has not been a straight arrow. I've had targets before and tried laying paths and making plans. I've tied myself to machines meant to cut down forests, protested over hunting, gone to political rallies with signs and chanting, opened a cultural center to combat cultural ignorance in my fair town, only to draw out all of the xenophobic neighbors I didn't know I had. I've met great people who encouraged me to keep going no matter what. I've retreated into places of examination. I've rescued and rehomed countless dogs. I've stayed the course with my own rescue dogs despite many bites. I've always been an advocate for free and vast education and language and languages. I've never been a lover of politics, politicians, and their rhetoric. I've always appreciated philosophers and their wisdom.

But I've not been a straight arrow. Something that might've come in handy right about now if only I had a good savings, retirement, or prepared for possible healthcare issues. I suppose there's a lesson in there, but maybe not. I know people who lost their whole life savings due to being wrapped up in retirement funds, too. 

Life is not fair, and I don't think it is supposed to be. These journeys we are on are just that, and they are personal. Seeking fairness is futile. But we can create better systems where healthcare is policy. We can improve our humanity and culture. We can hold up laws that foster freedom, creativity, and a basic standard of living for people in our country. We can protect our wildlife and value natural spaces. We can prioritize education and humanity over warmongering and profiteering. We can end systematically abusive methodologies like factory farming and human trafficking alike... 

These endeavors are not futile. They are not hopeless. Other countries are doing it and better than we are, and we could take a lesson from the Finns, the Dutch, the Swiss, the Norwegians, the Japanese, the French, and the Canadians. I am so impressed by all those who continue to stand up against this oligarchy-wannabe. In some ways, we really have no choice.

Honestly, I never thought it would get to this. But I will not whine, as a friend from Eastern Europe likes to say I do. Whine about being a woman, whine about being old, whine about being cancerous, whine about the US. Strangely, I'm glad I have someone who will say such things to me, constantly making sure I am humble and that I act, not complain.

On this Friday morning, I have hot black coffee ... like a stiff slap in the face... Hot black coffee and things to be grateful for.

​And so, I am.