Getting ready for work this AM. Pulling a double shift. She's feeling better, able to eat and going most of the day without pain meds. So I feel safe to go out. It's going to be hot, into the 90's. The political forums are getting boring so I was wandering the internet for entertainment. What I found had a significance now that had not been there before.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Point of Origin Pt. 6
I cannot remember where we were at the time, other than to say I know it was outside of a house. We were in the yard, but near the door. We were arguing. Not a big one, not the straw breaker. Just some disagreement. It was summer.
I moved closer to her, an attempt to sooth the rising emotions. She moved away, away from the door and away from me. There was distrust in her eyes, searching too. It seemed an over reaction for the subject matter and the circumstance. She stood there, studying my face. I was staring back, trying to understand what she was doing, what she was asking.
“I don’t like this, ya know?”, she asked.
I didn’t know, I was totally lost. I was trying to come up with words.
“You could ask me anything and I’d do it. Do you know what that means? Do you know how dangerous that is?” She was almost in tears. A hint of fear flashed in her eyes.
The responsibility fell heavy on me, demanding all my attention. I struggled for words to fight it off. I understood, I was getting lost too, swept up in the current. I couldn’t think of anything to say, I could not imagine how we would stop it, how we would build back the safety mechanisms that kept our individual selves safe. We were part of something greater, far more powerful and important and the gravity of it,..I was not strong enough to pull back.
I let my eyes fall from her to the ground. I wanted to cry and I didn’t want to have her heart in my hands. I didn’t trust myself to do it right. She walked to me, now crying, and fell into my chest. She frightened me in a way I’d never thought possible. I put my arms around her. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Current Phase Pt. III
It's been a rough week.
She's been in pain a lot. There have been those scenes where she's crying in her sleep and I'm cooling her brow with a damp cloth. When she hasn't been in pain, I've been terrified of leaving for work, sure that she'll be gone when I get home. I stayed with her. Work just seems an absurd, abstract and irrelevant distraction.
Yesterday we had the meet with the chemo doc. The biopsy confirmed the nodes in her lungs were cancer. The growth rate was characterized as aggressive. He noted the cancer is highly resistant to chemo, having doubled in growth during treatment earlier this year. He'd recommend us to a trial study if we wish, but we'd have to move to where ever the study was being performed. Nothing like that happens in little rural America.
He can make her comfortable and somewhere in the future, he can try to slow the growth with more chemo. But we know the chemo makes her sick. It diminishes quality of life. We should chose that time wisely. We should travel and do, while we can.
This morning she finally had the talk with our son. He's 21. She laid it all out. I stayed back a bit. It was their time, he's very close to his mother. He and I will have what she has not, time.
I've been pre-writing more, planning what I want to write about us. I cannot tell you what it has meant to me to be able to do this, how much my head has cleared as I've gone along, what it means to hear the feedback from you people I've never met. I'll continue, it just takes time and that really is an incredible commodity right now.
She's been in pain a lot. There have been those scenes where she's crying in her sleep and I'm cooling her brow with a damp cloth. When she hasn't been in pain, I've been terrified of leaving for work, sure that she'll be gone when I get home. I stayed with her. Work just seems an absurd, abstract and irrelevant distraction.
Yesterday we had the meet with the chemo doc. The biopsy confirmed the nodes in her lungs were cancer. The growth rate was characterized as aggressive. He noted the cancer is highly resistant to chemo, having doubled in growth during treatment earlier this year. He'd recommend us to a trial study if we wish, but we'd have to move to where ever the study was being performed. Nothing like that happens in little rural America.
He can make her comfortable and somewhere in the future, he can try to slow the growth with more chemo. But we know the chemo makes her sick. It diminishes quality of life. We should chose that time wisely. We should travel and do, while we can.
This morning she finally had the talk with our son. He's 21. She laid it all out. I stayed back a bit. It was their time, he's very close to his mother. He and I will have what she has not, time.
I've been pre-writing more, planning what I want to write about us. I cannot tell you what it has meant to me to be able to do this, how much my head has cleared as I've gone along, what it means to hear the feedback from you people I've never met. I'll continue, it just takes time and that really is an incredible commodity right now.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Point of Origin Pt. 5
It was before she was pregnant. Before we were we. The time when couples tacitly agree to experiment with the alchemical components to see what can be created, revise the recipes and review the outcomes. We were in the old Nissan traveling across the one lane, sometimes paved Bear Camp Road from Grants Pass to the coast. We had the top and doors off and I stopped several times along the way to maintain the aged beast with brake fluid and motor oil. We climbed higher and higher into the sunshine pouring over the coastal range of mountains, showing her all my favorite spots along the way.
"Here at Taylor Creek, we go skinny dipping, but only in late summer, the water is too cold otherwise."..."We go rafting from here down to Graves Creek because the upstream is just too slow and boring." and "I lost a tire here once." or Mike and I got a 3-point here two years ago."
When we reached the summit I had stopped to deal with the rig. The warmth of the sun sent the smell of bark, needles and cones up into the gusting breeze, blending with hints of cool sea air, sweet grass and red clay. We were overlooking a massive interior valley that showed no sign of human intrusion, listening the the Douglas Fir trees sing tributes to the wind, and saying little. I was holding her hand, seeing her hair dance across her face in my peripheral vision. A thought struck me and I pointed out to a spot near the bottom of the valley.
"Right about there, I think.", I said.
"What?" she replied. Her voice was quiet and soft.
"Our house" I said, as the idea grew on me. "I bet there's a creek right about there."
Her brow furrowed a bit and she turned to me. "There's no road. How will people get to the house?"
"They can hike in!" I said, growing amused. I'd never had a problem being alone. She was not cut from that cloth and it showed. "We could put a helicopter landing pad there, your folks could fly in." I added, just to prod her. I wasn't entirely serious of course, but it was not entirely jest, also. I had already grown weary of the family drama.
Those moments and comments lead to a longer conversation, one that took years. Eventually Tati and I, to at least a small practical degree, ended up changing positions on. She wanted less and less to do with people while I became far, far more social and political. Let's amend that. To a large practical degree I became quite public. I even dragged Tati and our son, Suzie and our foster daughter into the public eye, while Tati worked diligently to protect our privacy and divorced herself from her entire family.
We continued along that road, losing elevation as we dropped down into Agness and then Gold Beach and the cool temperatures and fog. We were ill prepared for the change and Tati wore my jacket, making it smell of her perfume. She teased me about the Nissan but I think she might have been terribly impressed with my knowledge of the area and the backroads. She never fed my narcissism though, I was doing well enough on my own.
I was entralled with the wet and green of the fern and Snap Dragon, Sal-Lal, Sitka Spruce and Huckleberry and Azalea and moss and the rugged, rocky cliffs and wind swept beaches where southern Oregon and the Pacific Ocean do battle. The smells and imagery seduced me, as they always do. But Tati grew cold, the fog and damp settled into her until she could no longer go without suggesting we return. We got to her home near dark, where the air was still warm.
"Here at Taylor Creek, we go skinny dipping, but only in late summer, the water is too cold otherwise."..."We go rafting from here down to Graves Creek because the upstream is just too slow and boring." and "I lost a tire here once." or Mike and I got a 3-point here two years ago."
When we reached the summit I had stopped to deal with the rig. The warmth of the sun sent the smell of bark, needles and cones up into the gusting breeze, blending with hints of cool sea air, sweet grass and red clay. We were overlooking a massive interior valley that showed no sign of human intrusion, listening the the Douglas Fir trees sing tributes to the wind, and saying little. I was holding her hand, seeing her hair dance across her face in my peripheral vision. A thought struck me and I pointed out to a spot near the bottom of the valley.
"Right about there, I think.", I said.
"What?" she replied. Her voice was quiet and soft.
"Our house" I said, as the idea grew on me. "I bet there's a creek right about there."
Her brow furrowed a bit and she turned to me. "There's no road. How will people get to the house?"
"They can hike in!" I said, growing amused. I'd never had a problem being alone. She was not cut from that cloth and it showed. "We could put a helicopter landing pad there, your folks could fly in." I added, just to prod her. I wasn't entirely serious of course, but it was not entirely jest, also. I had already grown weary of the family drama.
Those moments and comments lead to a longer conversation, one that took years. Eventually Tati and I, to at least a small practical degree, ended up changing positions on. She wanted less and less to do with people while I became far, far more social and political. Let's amend that. To a large practical degree I became quite public. I even dragged Tati and our son, Suzie and our foster daughter into the public eye, while Tati worked diligently to protect our privacy and divorced herself from her entire family.
We continued along that road, losing elevation as we dropped down into Agness and then Gold Beach and the cool temperatures and fog. We were ill prepared for the change and Tati wore my jacket, making it smell of her perfume. She teased me about the Nissan but I think she might have been terribly impressed with my knowledge of the area and the backroads. She never fed my narcissism though, I was doing well enough on my own.
I was entralled with the wet and green of the fern and Snap Dragon, Sal-Lal, Sitka Spruce and Huckleberry and Azalea and moss and the rugged, rocky cliffs and wind swept beaches where southern Oregon and the Pacific Ocean do battle. The smells and imagery seduced me, as they always do. But Tati grew cold, the fog and damp settled into her until she could no longer go without suggesting we return. We got to her home near dark, where the air was still warm.
Friday, August 5, 2011
In the Daylight, I Turned On the Lights.
We were in surgery prep room 3 this morning. It's familiar, we've been in that room at least 3 times in the last 6 months. The plan was to stick a needle through her back and into the left lung and into one of the nodes, to take tissue from it for biopsy. Since starting this blog some of the poison has cleared, some of the pain subsides, and I am able to be with her the way I think I should be. I can love her and want her, and I can be her friend. We read magazines while waiting. I picked up a New Yorker, May 23, 2011. On page 36 words jumped off the page and stuck in my throat.
"In the daylight, I turned on the lights,
in the darkness, I pulled closed the curtains.
And the god of More,
whom nothing surprises, softly agreed ---
each day, year after year,
the dead were dead one day more completely.
In the places morels were found,
I looked for morels.
In the houses where love was found,
I looked for love.
If she is vanished, what then was different?
If he is alive, what now has changed?
The pot offers the metal closest to fire for burning.
The water leaves." ~Jane Hirshfield
"In the daylight, I turned on the lights,
in the darkness, I pulled closed the curtains.
And the god of More,
whom nothing surprises, softly agreed ---
each day, year after year,
the dead were dead one day more completely.
In the places morels were found,
I looked for morels.
In the houses where love was found,
I looked for love.
If she is vanished, what then was different?
If he is alive, what now has changed?
The pot offers the metal closest to fire for burning.
The water leaves." ~Jane Hirshfield
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Point of Origin Pt. 4
During the courtship rituals of coffee and tiny sandwiches, Tati revealed numerous concerns with regard to her family. In particular, her mother and the strange relationship between her mother and Tati's younger brother. The man that I had met and was signing my checks was not her paternal father. That man resided in Connecticut and had worked for Harley Davidson. Tati's step father produced major racing engine components for nationally well known racing stables. (Generic enough? I think so). The income from such enterprise was reflected in the home and lifestyle. It was something Tati had grown up with, and reviled. I'll come back to that a little later.
But because of the radio interference Tati felt our relationship was in danger of being crushed out before it began. She told me I didn't understand how powerful they were, and that her mother had ruined relationships in the past. She deemed it necessary, therefore, to keep our trysts secret. She had a plan to meet me one night, in the new stable. I think I arrived near the property at about 11PM, making my way across the field to the stable. Once inside I could see warm light from under the door of the tack room, I could smell incense. She had the place decked out in candles. A bed was made in the middle of the floor. Again, this is where I have to stop, never mind this is among my favorite parts of any story. Sweet, wonderful, and I think epic would not be completely out of place here. And it went on like that from there.
A couple of months passed and she frequented my house more and more. I cannot remember exactly what day it was, we were in the tiny kitchen and I was holding her. Something had changed. I quite literally smelled it. A couple of weeks after, she sat me down for the serious talk. She had missed her period. We had some decisions to make.
I think it important to understand the circumstances she was facing at the time. Her mother literally hated me. I just didn’t give a fuck about their money and I was obstinately uncontrollable as a result. Her brother, in my opinion, was an emotionally retarded funster, if not an outright sociopath with a penchant for abusing nearly every female he had contact with. He also had a significant problem not stealing money from the family business, and a long history of celebrity attorneys hired to defend him whenever he stepped over the line with people outside the family.
Tati was the hall monitor. Her defense for growing up in insanity was to read. It was a gift from a neighbor when the family was still in California. They saw what was going on. She received her first book. She set about learning how to combat the sweeping psychological and sometimes physical violence, as best a 12 year old girl could.
My lifestyle as an often unemployed redneck kid with a high school diploma contrasted sharply with the Anaheim Hills home, Jaguars and Izod clothing. The hot water heater in my house didn’t work with the old plumbing. The toilet needed assistance to flush. My car was an absolute pile of crap. One of the more important cultural clashes resulted over the issue of hunting. I did hunt. I had since I was a child. All my family had. It was, for lack of a better justification, my heritage. It terrified Tati. It scared her that a human could do that. Later, the issue would become pivotal in our relationship.
For now though, we sat on the sofa and talked. A long one. We talked about and eliminated the option of abortion. That meant we had to talk about what it would mean to agree to raise a child. She lined out the commitment, what it would mean in terms of years and the effort we would be putting forth to raise a kid that wasn’t the product of the home she grew up in. She wanted our kid to be mentally healthy, happy, and nothing like the people she knew. We had to be there, and that meant we’d have to make that final commitment to each other.
More to follow!
But because of the radio interference Tati felt our relationship was in danger of being crushed out before it began. She told me I didn't understand how powerful they were, and that her mother had ruined relationships in the past. She deemed it necessary, therefore, to keep our trysts secret. She had a plan to meet me one night, in the new stable. I think I arrived near the property at about 11PM, making my way across the field to the stable. Once inside I could see warm light from under the door of the tack room, I could smell incense. She had the place decked out in candles. A bed was made in the middle of the floor. Again, this is where I have to stop, never mind this is among my favorite parts of any story. Sweet, wonderful, and I think epic would not be completely out of place here. And it went on like that from there.
A couple of months passed and she frequented my house more and more. I cannot remember exactly what day it was, we were in the tiny kitchen and I was holding her. Something had changed. I quite literally smelled it. A couple of weeks after, she sat me down for the serious talk. She had missed her period. We had some decisions to make.
I think it important to understand the circumstances she was facing at the time. Her mother literally hated me. I just didn’t give a fuck about their money and I was obstinately uncontrollable as a result. Her brother, in my opinion, was an emotionally retarded funster, if not an outright sociopath with a penchant for abusing nearly every female he had contact with. He also had a significant problem not stealing money from the family business, and a long history of celebrity attorneys hired to defend him whenever he stepped over the line with people outside the family.
Tati was the hall monitor. Her defense for growing up in insanity was to read. It was a gift from a neighbor when the family was still in California. They saw what was going on. She received her first book. She set about learning how to combat the sweeping psychological and sometimes physical violence, as best a 12 year old girl could.
My lifestyle as an often unemployed redneck kid with a high school diploma contrasted sharply with the Anaheim Hills home, Jaguars and Izod clothing. The hot water heater in my house didn’t work with the old plumbing. The toilet needed assistance to flush. My car was an absolute pile of crap. One of the more important cultural clashes resulted over the issue of hunting. I did hunt. I had since I was a child. All my family had. It was, for lack of a better justification, my heritage. It terrified Tati. It scared her that a human could do that. Later, the issue would become pivotal in our relationship.
For now though, we sat on the sofa and talked. A long one. We talked about and eliminated the option of abortion. That meant we had to talk about what it would mean to agree to raise a child. She lined out the commitment, what it would mean in terms of years and the effort we would be putting forth to raise a kid that wasn’t the product of the home she grew up in. She wanted our kid to be mentally healthy, happy, and nothing like the people she knew. We had to be there, and that meant we’d have to make that final commitment to each other.
More to follow!
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Current Phase Pt. II
We're back.
Friday we do a CT guided biopsy of the nodes in the lungs. The following Friday we will know what the real plan is. Today we discussed contingencies. The doc is an incredible person, honest and deliberate, and stressed to have to deliver the kind of news he had.
In short, he believes this is indeed metastatic cervical cancer. There are far too many nodes to treat surgically or even with radiation. 1 to 5, maybe it could be done. They haven't even attempted to count them all. I remember seeing at least 12 when I looked over the last CT scan, and those were the ones that my untrained eyes could grab while the slides scrolled in front of me. The rate of growth of the nodes is also telling. 5.5mm to 11.79 during treatment, for one of the nodes.
The nodes were visible in a scan from April of this year, but no one caught it. I raised the issue today with the doc. I told him it would not have made any difference in the outcome, the cancer had metastasized before we caught it. It would have made a difference in treatment though. We might have bought some more time. The doc agreed. I told him that on behalf of future husbands and wives, that she be addressed. He agreed with that also.
The long shot for biopsy result is that the nodes could, on a far outside chance, be a fungal infection. A side effect of a immune system compromised by radiation and chemotherapy. The doc said, "Don't ask me what the percentage of cases are, just know it does happen." We're good with that.
Barring the fungal infection, we face the question of how we attempt to slow the cancer while maintaining some quality of life. He and we want to see how fast this grows, see if we can "kick the can down the road a bit", before we make her sick with chemo. Give her some more time to take a run over to the coast. The bottom line, he said, is that he has no magic for this advanced cancer.
We went to the Chinese restaurant afterward, it's become a tradition. It's across the street from the hospital. We talk and laugh and cry there, the staff must think we're some serious drama queens. I told her about the fear I've been struggling with, about seeing her skin turn gray some days, and how this blog and telling our story seems to actually be helping me cope with that. Helps me get back to the now. She doesn't want me to do any sex scenes. WTF? That's the best part, for cryin' in the sink.
Friday we do a CT guided biopsy of the nodes in the lungs. The following Friday we will know what the real plan is. Today we discussed contingencies. The doc is an incredible person, honest and deliberate, and stressed to have to deliver the kind of news he had.
In short, he believes this is indeed metastatic cervical cancer. There are far too many nodes to treat surgically or even with radiation. 1 to 5, maybe it could be done. They haven't even attempted to count them all. I remember seeing at least 12 when I looked over the last CT scan, and those were the ones that my untrained eyes could grab while the slides scrolled in front of me. The rate of growth of the nodes is also telling. 5.5mm to 11.79 during treatment, for one of the nodes.
The nodes were visible in a scan from April of this year, but no one caught it. I raised the issue today with the doc. I told him it would not have made any difference in the outcome, the cancer had metastasized before we caught it. It would have made a difference in treatment though. We might have bought some more time. The doc agreed. I told him that on behalf of future husbands and wives, that she be addressed. He agreed with that also.
The long shot for biopsy result is that the nodes could, on a far outside chance, be a fungal infection. A side effect of a immune system compromised by radiation and chemotherapy. The doc said, "Don't ask me what the percentage of cases are, just know it does happen." We're good with that.
Barring the fungal infection, we face the question of how we attempt to slow the cancer while maintaining some quality of life. He and we want to see how fast this grows, see if we can "kick the can down the road a bit", before we make her sick with chemo. Give her some more time to take a run over to the coast. The bottom line, he said, is that he has no magic for this advanced cancer.
We went to the Chinese restaurant afterward, it's become a tradition. It's across the street from the hospital. We talk and laugh and cry there, the staff must think we're some serious drama queens. I told her about the fear I've been struggling with, about seeing her skin turn gray some days, and how this blog and telling our story seems to actually be helping me cope with that. Helps me get back to the now. She doesn't want me to do any sex scenes. WTF? That's the best part, for cryin' in the sink.
Current Phase
We just woke up. She's having hot chocolate, I'm having coffee. She wanted to know if I'm nervous about today.
Today is the day we meet with the chemo doc. We're going to come up with a treatment plan, find out how comfortable we can make her and for how long. I'm not nervous. I just want us to have a plan, I want to know what to do. It's 8AM. The appointment is at 11:40.
Are they executing an innocent woman? Not really, I know that. It feels like it though, to some extent.
Today is the day we meet with the chemo doc. We're going to come up with a treatment plan, find out how comfortable we can make her and for how long. I'm not nervous. I just want us to have a plan, I want to know what to do. It's 8AM. The appointment is at 11:40.
Are they executing an innocent woman? Not really, I know that. It feels like it though, to some extent.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Point of Origin Pt. 3
I sat on the end of the love seat, staring at the floor. Allison was on the sofa, the TV was on. Something pedestrian playing as I gathered the thoughts and the courage to express them. It had been months since we last talked. Really talked. We did try but they weren't really talks. They were contests, sometimes. Other times they were just me talking to the room and Allison trying not to be there. She had already conceded the battle or perhaps, didn't know there was to be a battle.
"Hey, Allison. I think maybe we need a divorce." I remember saying the words. I remember how awful they sounded, weak and hurtful at the same time. In the air they took on life and it was done. I could not bring them back.
"I know." she said.
And that was it. It was over. She knew. I later learned she had known for a long time. The passionate woman I had married a year before had been left in California, where we had married. It wasn't as if she did not try. She did. And she managed to keep her humor most of the time. It was hard for her. She had been 4 years clean and sober when I met her. She had networked with other addicts she had known her entire life. She lived in the same town as her family, her mother, her aunts, her sister and brother. I took her to this strange, redneck place. Just she and little Suzie. The rest was all my family and friends. So few of us addicts, she had no common footing anywhere. And yet she was going to stick it out, even if that meant doing so on the sofa.
I had met her two years before, after a string of those awful relationships one can get. The closeted lesbian, the friend with benefits, the love that doesn't return. It had been so long since I had been with anyone that I was actually in love with, that when I met Allison and her comfortable manner and her gentle spirit, I managed to convince myself that this tremendous friendship and painless daily existence must be the definition of mature love. I began to believe that the heart pounding, confused and messy on-going disasters that I had come to know as love, were simply a childhood thing. Adults, I thought at 26 years of age, are not subject to that explosive passion. So, we married. Then we moved back to my southern Oregon.
And a year later she is laying on the sofa across from me. I was trying to think of what I would tell Suzie. Her paternal father was just slightly better than homeless and subject to intense delusions. I had been the most stable male in her life and more importantly, I loved Suzie. I was helpless for it. She was my daughter. Now I was going to break her trust and her heart. Son of a bitch! My hands shook. She was eight years old and she could kill me just by being sad. I cannot remember how I spoke to her. I remember Allison was there. We talked about it together. I remember Suzie closing up. They were gone a week later, back home with grandma.
The next few years found me on the road quite often. 16 hour round trips from Grants Pass to Healdsburg, California to pick up Suzie and bring her home for a few weeks during summer or Christmas vacation. In 1999 Suzie moved in with Tati and I and shared our house for a couple years. Allison died when Suzie was 15 years old. Allsion suffered from extreme epilepsy and had apparently suffocated during a seizure, which she had endured almost nightly. Suzie had found her the next morning. She cursed God for it. She is married to a wonderful and gentle man, living in Canada, but planning to move back soon. She can still kill me by crying.
"Hey, Allison. I think maybe we need a divorce." I remember saying the words. I remember how awful they sounded, weak and hurtful at the same time. In the air they took on life and it was done. I could not bring them back.
"I know." she said.
And that was it. It was over. She knew. I later learned she had known for a long time. The passionate woman I had married a year before had been left in California, where we had married. It wasn't as if she did not try. She did. And she managed to keep her humor most of the time. It was hard for her. She had been 4 years clean and sober when I met her. She had networked with other addicts she had known her entire life. She lived in the same town as her family, her mother, her aunts, her sister and brother. I took her to this strange, redneck place. Just she and little Suzie. The rest was all my family and friends. So few of us addicts, she had no common footing anywhere. And yet she was going to stick it out, even if that meant doing so on the sofa.
I had met her two years before, after a string of those awful relationships one can get. The closeted lesbian, the friend with benefits, the love that doesn't return. It had been so long since I had been with anyone that I was actually in love with, that when I met Allison and her comfortable manner and her gentle spirit, I managed to convince myself that this tremendous friendship and painless daily existence must be the definition of mature love. I began to believe that the heart pounding, confused and messy on-going disasters that I had come to know as love, were simply a childhood thing. Adults, I thought at 26 years of age, are not subject to that explosive passion. So, we married. Then we moved back to my southern Oregon.
And a year later she is laying on the sofa across from me. I was trying to think of what I would tell Suzie. Her paternal father was just slightly better than homeless and subject to intense delusions. I had been the most stable male in her life and more importantly, I loved Suzie. I was helpless for it. She was my daughter. Now I was going to break her trust and her heart. Son of a bitch! My hands shook. She was eight years old and she could kill me just by being sad. I cannot remember how I spoke to her. I remember Allison was there. We talked about it together. I remember Suzie closing up. They were gone a week later, back home with grandma.
The next few years found me on the road quite often. 16 hour round trips from Grants Pass to Healdsburg, California to pick up Suzie and bring her home for a few weeks during summer or Christmas vacation. In 1999 Suzie moved in with Tati and I and shared our house for a couple years. Allison died when Suzie was 15 years old. Allsion suffered from extreme epilepsy and had apparently suffocated during a seizure, which she had endured almost nightly. Suzie had found her the next morning. She cursed God for it. She is married to a wonderful and gentle man, living in Canada, but planning to move back soon. She can still kill me by crying.
Point of Origin Pt. 2
It seemed like every question she offered was loaded, even the ones regarding the most mundane subjects. She would ask then lean back against the wall or shift her weight on her feet and wait for my answer. She never broke eye contact and most of the time, never lost that little crooked grin.
Three months passed. I had planned to be there six weeks. She brought out these ridiculous little finger sandwiches, tuna or cucumber, crust removed from the bread. Tiny and refined. She asked about everything. She asked about Allison and Suzie. Eventually she brought out these little question cards from a board game called Scruples. Questions of ethics, "what would you do if you had these 2 choices", type of things. We talked for hours on the deck over looking the creek. We drove up and saw the place my dad had been raised on. We talked about houses. We talked about her family, (when they weren't around), we talked about politics. I found myself in their kitchen and she would laugh at me and tease when I spilled coffee on the floor. "What does your kitchen floor look like?!". I could not take my eyes off her and apparently that inhibited my ability to not run into things.
Each night I would try to bring home the feeling, the excitement, to Allison. Each night I tried to engage her in the same way. Each night would end in frustration. There was a problem there that I did not understand, and did not know how to fix. I had no skills, then, no experience to rely on. And the more I pressed, panicked by my growing feelings for that Irish girl, the more Allison shut down.
(My wife has always been a private person, jealously guarding her anonymity on the net. For the purposes of this blog I think it prudent that I identify her as "Tati", the name of her avatars from online gaming).
It was summer now, and Evans Creek turned brown with the tannen from the leaves of the trees. We were standing in the stable, now with fresh roofing and pick Douglas Fir framing and bright gray concrete unstained from use. We were in the stall area where the newly packed degraded granite provided solid footing for the horse and soon there would be stall dividers. We had been swimming in the creek and her hair was wet. She had a stick in her hand, a fallen tree limb. "I have to tell you something, I'm afraid to say it out loud." Tati used the stick and in the sandy degraded granite, she drew a heart. We stared at it for a while. And then I kissed her. I wanted her badly, I had for several weeks. But there were some things I had to address first, before this inevitable thing could happen. I could not stomach an affair.
Three months passed. I had planned to be there six weeks. She brought out these ridiculous little finger sandwiches, tuna or cucumber, crust removed from the bread. Tiny and refined. She asked about everything. She asked about Allison and Suzie. Eventually she brought out these little question cards from a board game called Scruples. Questions of ethics, "what would you do if you had these 2 choices", type of things. We talked for hours on the deck over looking the creek. We drove up and saw the place my dad had been raised on. We talked about houses. We talked about her family, (when they weren't around), we talked about politics. I found myself in their kitchen and she would laugh at me and tease when I spilled coffee on the floor. "What does your kitchen floor look like?!". I could not take my eyes off her and apparently that inhibited my ability to not run into things.
Each night I would try to bring home the feeling, the excitement, to Allison. Each night I tried to engage her in the same way. Each night would end in frustration. There was a problem there that I did not understand, and did not know how to fix. I had no skills, then, no experience to rely on. And the more I pressed, panicked by my growing feelings for that Irish girl, the more Allison shut down.
(My wife has always been a private person, jealously guarding her anonymity on the net. For the purposes of this blog I think it prudent that I identify her as "Tati", the name of her avatars from online gaming).
It was summer now, and Evans Creek turned brown with the tannen from the leaves of the trees. We were standing in the stable, now with fresh roofing and pick Douglas Fir framing and bright gray concrete unstained from use. We were in the stall area where the newly packed degraded granite provided solid footing for the horse and soon there would be stall dividers. We had been swimming in the creek and her hair was wet. She had a stick in her hand, a fallen tree limb. "I have to tell you something, I'm afraid to say it out loud." Tati used the stick and in the sandy degraded granite, she drew a heart. We stared at it for a while. And then I kissed her. I wanted her badly, I had for several weeks. But there were some things I had to address first, before this inevitable thing could happen. I could not stomach an affair.
Point of Origin
On New Hope Road, near the north end where it meets with Williams Highway there is a small farm, perhaps 7 acres. It is the home of Dan and Betty and they conduct a small operation of horse training for pleasure and western riders and their respective horses. I had known Betty since high school, she was the friend of a woman whose son I had gone to school with. A wise woman, in her own country way and with a modest Native American ethnicity. Dan was a slim, slow talking country gentleman with a knack for "whispering" horses, even the ones that had issues.
It was early spring of 1989 when I rolled into their driveway in a brash and unkempt 1967 Nissan Patrol. It had bad brakes and the rod-knocking engine smoked profusely but you could remove the top and doors, and that made it the cowboy dream that I wanted. My hair was wavy and down to my shoulders and I sported a full beard and mustache along with the tan boots and crumpled cowboy hat. Grizzly Adams meets Kenny Chesney, for the love of God.
Stopping by to visit was a weekly or monthly event that consisted of drinking coffee and shooting the bull, with me drooling over horses I might never afford. Dan and Betty had hired me the year before to build a deck from the main house. It happened on this particular day that Betty had a message for me. They had a new client, some "rich Californians" had boarded a Tennessee Walker there, wanting the horse and their daughter trained. They were also in the market for a carpenter to build a stable and tack room for the horse. Betty made sure to get me the phone number, they were out in Rogue River.
I had married the year before. A lovely-but- disturbed woman named Allison who took up residency on the sofa upon our arrival from the wedding. Years later she confessed that she had built up the concept of marriage to the degree that she actually had no idea what to do after achieving that goal. Child rearing was out of the question as she had already had a hysterectomy prior to our meeting. She had an eight year old girl from a previous marriage, Suzie, who remains my daughter to this day. I was the only income earner for the house, getting by on my $7 to $10 per hour.
And it was in this context that I drove out to meet with the patriarch of this "wealthy" family, past Rogue River, up into the hills north of Wimer to a point on East Evans Creek Road that was not far at all from the 160 ranch my father had grown up on. I rolled down the dirt road that serviced this home and several others and into the driveway of a grand, Northwest Architectural home. It was a home well outside the economic classes of anyone I knew, with clear redwood siding and massive redwood deck over-looking Evans Creek and landscaping beyond anything I knew of homeowners work. I met with a deliberate and well groomed man who took me from the house out to the location he had selected. He wanted the stable attached to the existing vehicle and storage building. It would need a foundation attached, the roof would be just so, the tack room will be in that corner, there should be water lines to here, yes insulated, and we can pull the electrical from over there. I Ieft with my measurements and notes. I planned, drew and mulled it over and after a week, I called.
I gave him the numbers, secretly anguishing over the cost. He didn't hesitate, "When do you want to start?"
A week later I was ready and called ahead. I was instructed to head out to the house, knock on the door and let the family know. So back up that driveway I went, parking in the circle drive near the front door. I knocked. I heard thump-thump-thump, someone coming down the stairs. The door opened and there was this girl with huge boobs and a whiskey grin. She didn't say anything, she just grinned at me, holding the door with her right hand. She was early 20's, was that gray in her black hair? Her eyes were brown, deep brown. Was she slightly cross eyed? There's something odd about that one eye. She keeps grinning. One of her front teeth is slightly turned. "Hi. I'm Dave. I'm here to build your barn." She kept grinning. "I'm married." (Did I just actually say that out loud?!) "Okay! I'll be right out!", and she slammed the door. Thump-thump-thump, back up the stairs. I stared at the door for a bit. I had tools to unload. I didn't want to start the Nissan back up, she'd see it smoke. Maybe if I moved it before she got back,...(she has freckles),..I should get started,..(I can't keep staring at her chest, that would be bad,..). Thump-thump-thump,..(crap, she's back). "Did dad tell you where we were going to put it?" (Had she changed her shirt?) "Yeah, out at the tractor shed?" (Is that perfume now? And why is she still grinning?) "I'll meet you out there."
It was early spring of 1989 when I rolled into their driveway in a brash and unkempt 1967 Nissan Patrol. It had bad brakes and the rod-knocking engine smoked profusely but you could remove the top and doors, and that made it the cowboy dream that I wanted. My hair was wavy and down to my shoulders and I sported a full beard and mustache along with the tan boots and crumpled cowboy hat. Grizzly Adams meets Kenny Chesney, for the love of God.
Stopping by to visit was a weekly or monthly event that consisted of drinking coffee and shooting the bull, with me drooling over horses I might never afford. Dan and Betty had hired me the year before to build a deck from the main house. It happened on this particular day that Betty had a message for me. They had a new client, some "rich Californians" had boarded a Tennessee Walker there, wanting the horse and their daughter trained. They were also in the market for a carpenter to build a stable and tack room for the horse. Betty made sure to get me the phone number, they were out in Rogue River.
I had married the year before. A lovely-but- disturbed woman named Allison who took up residency on the sofa upon our arrival from the wedding. Years later she confessed that she had built up the concept of marriage to the degree that she actually had no idea what to do after achieving that goal. Child rearing was out of the question as she had already had a hysterectomy prior to our meeting. She had an eight year old girl from a previous marriage, Suzie, who remains my daughter to this day. I was the only income earner for the house, getting by on my $7 to $10 per hour.
And it was in this context that I drove out to meet with the patriarch of this "wealthy" family, past Rogue River, up into the hills north of Wimer to a point on East Evans Creek Road that was not far at all from the 160 ranch my father had grown up on. I rolled down the dirt road that serviced this home and several others and into the driveway of a grand, Northwest Architectural home. It was a home well outside the economic classes of anyone I knew, with clear redwood siding and massive redwood deck over-looking Evans Creek and landscaping beyond anything I knew of homeowners work. I met with a deliberate and well groomed man who took me from the house out to the location he had selected. He wanted the stable attached to the existing vehicle and storage building. It would need a foundation attached, the roof would be just so, the tack room will be in that corner, there should be water lines to here, yes insulated, and we can pull the electrical from over there. I Ieft with my measurements and notes. I planned, drew and mulled it over and after a week, I called.
I gave him the numbers, secretly anguishing over the cost. He didn't hesitate, "When do you want to start?"
A week later I was ready and called ahead. I was instructed to head out to the house, knock on the door and let the family know. So back up that driveway I went, parking in the circle drive near the front door. I knocked. I heard thump-thump-thump, someone coming down the stairs. The door opened and there was this girl with huge boobs and a whiskey grin. She didn't say anything, she just grinned at me, holding the door with her right hand. She was early 20's, was that gray in her black hair? Her eyes were brown, deep brown. Was she slightly cross eyed? There's something odd about that one eye. She keeps grinning. One of her front teeth is slightly turned. "Hi. I'm Dave. I'm here to build your barn." She kept grinning. "I'm married." (Did I just actually say that out loud?!) "Okay! I'll be right out!", and she slammed the door. Thump-thump-thump, back up the stairs. I stared at the door for a bit. I had tools to unload. I didn't want to start the Nissan back up, she'd see it smoke. Maybe if I moved it before she got back,...(she has freckles),..I should get started,..(I can't keep staring at her chest, that would be bad,..). Thump-thump-thump,..(crap, she's back). "Did dad tell you where we were going to put it?" (Had she changed her shirt?) "Yeah, out at the tractor shed?" (Is that perfume now? And why is she still grinning?) "I'll meet you out there."
Endless Vacation
Just outside of Florence, Oregon is an area of upper end homes dotting the shore line of Woahink Lake, a little freshwater lake just large enough to have, at one time at least, surface enough to allow small seaplanes to take off and land there. I know the area because, when I was a small child I did the summer vacations there at my grandparents little mobile home. Back then there weren't any upscale developments. The grandparents lived in what we would today call an RV resort. That's what it is, by the way. I got to thinking about that time and place last weekend when I took the wife and our 21 year old son to the southern Oregon coast for an over niter. We loaded up the pick up just the way my dad had done when I was a kid, with my boy and the dog riding in back in the canopied bed with blankets and pillows. Had the ice chest with drinks and goodies, and off we went, dog whining incessantly about all the unusual change and activity.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Directional Fix
She's dying. Not in a figurative sense. Not a metaphor or a philosophical note. She has cancer. We thought it was just cervical. The docs treated her for cervical. It was in her lungs too, throughout treatment. They just didn't see it until a couple weeks ago. We should have known, she was too tired, too hurt, during treatment. She didn't respond well, didn't recover as fast as they thought she should. She lost too much weight, too fast. But, they didn't see the lung cancer until they did the assessment, the one that was supposed to tell us how well she had responded to the radiation and chemo. That was when they saw the nodes. They had grown during treatment, instead of shrinking. Nearly doubled in size over two months.
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