Letters to the Universe

I almost forgot.  Happy birthday, Dad.  I'm still angry.  I'm still heartbroken.  I'm still wounded.  I'm still haunted.  I still love you, anyway. 

You're the only father I'll ever have.  I wish everything could have been different, that you could have been different.  Nonetheless, without you, there would have been no me.  For better or worse.

Thank you for the gifts you gave me, even though they were harsh gifts.  Thank you for the many lessons in compassion.  You had a terrible life, that I'm sure of.  I celebrate your will to survive, at whatever cost.  I celebrate your talent and intelligence. 

In the infinite, numinous universe, we have always been in agreement.  You were the Buddha sent to teach me.  I hope I learned those lessons well.  I hope you're finally proud of me.

I miss your craziness.  I mostly miss the hope  that I could understand your pain, that I could heal you of your suffering. 

Happy birthday, Daddy.

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Clink.  Clink clink.  Clink.  Clink clink clink.  A teenager sat to my left, opening and closing windows at the speed of light on the public computer.  Her bangle bracelets jangled together every time she moved her arm.  A couple of men of Middle Eastern descent walked arm in arm from the elevator area to Nuclear Medicine, on the far side of Internal Medicine, where I sat, waiting.  They passed in front of me ten times in the two hours I waited for my appointment.  I never could figure out where they were going or why they had to keep leaving and coming back.  I wasn't nervous about it; I was puzzled.  Over the two hours, four people wandered up to the coffee machine, some of them stood there and looked at the empty carafe for a few minutes before they left.  Others actually attempted to make coffee, going so far as to remove the coffee basket, only to find that the filters and coffee were nowhere to be found.  Being a pro, I knew they were locked in drawers under the cabinet.

Two hours.  My appointment with the Internal Medicine physician began to seem like an incredibly stupid idea.  I'd already completed the 50 page (no, seriously) questionnaire within the first half hour.  Why wouldn't I get up, leave the questionnaire and drive home?  Why wouldn't I just continue to be exhausted?  I was getting ready to check myself out when they called my name.

I'd handed over my completed questionnaire an hour earlier, but no one could locate it.  I guess a search party was organized.  They found it about ten minutes after I'd been sitting in the tiny exam room, still contemplating whether I could get up and leave.  I knew the exam was going to be lengthy, because I had two scheduled, back to back.  I had the Advanced Nurse Practitioner, then the Internal Medicine doctor.  I was almost certain there would be blood work, which would mean I'd have to probably wait another 45 minutes in the lab area.  Then there would be a four hour ride home. 

Fatigue is hard to quantify.  On the questionnaire they asked things like, "How much does your fatigue interfere with your ability to clean the house?"  Please define the word "interfere" in this context.  "Can you walk around the block?"  Yes, but then I have to lie down for two hours.  There was no place on the form to note the toll the walk would take.  I can do virtually everything, but there is an energy cost and it's high.  They attempt to quantify by assigning numbers to all of the answers and adding them up so that you fall into a range of fatigue levels.

Luckily, my new doctor didn't rely only on the answers to the questions.  The nurse and I talked for about 45 minutes, then I spent another hour with Dr. Escalante.  It was worth the wait.  She listened to me, prompted me when she needed more information, then examined me.  She ordered lab work.

Dr. Escalante reminded me that long-term fatigue is very common among breast cancer survivors and it's more likely for those of us who've had multi-modal treatment.  That's a fancy way of saying that they've beaten me down with chemo, radiation and four surgeries.  Of course I'm tired.  There are some new research studies underway to try to determine why this is so, what internal mechanisms are factors in creating fatigue, but no one knows exactly why right now.  Dr. Escalante acknowledged that I'm doing everything I can to improve my quality of life, so she suggested another alternative.

My new anti-fatigue drug is Ritalin.  The other drug they use is something called ProVigil, which is FDA-approved for treatment of narcolepsy.  I understand why that works, I think.  I fall asleep sitting up, using the bathroom, anywhere I have a moment of inactivity.  It's supposed to help with chemobrain, too.  Some days I'm able to think clearly, but mostly not.  I'm in a perpetual fog.

I got home around 11:00 Monday night.  Wednesday night there was a terrible storm.  We're still dealing with the aftereffects.  It's been a long, long week.  I can't feel any upsurge in energy since I started Ritalin.  Next week, I'll tell you about Loathsome's take on the fatigue issue.  You're going to love it.

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It was a standard-issue M.D. Anderson day:  Arrive early and wait...and wait...and wait.  I thought I had an appointment with Dr. K.'s nurse to have myself tattooed.  Brenda and I had a difference of opinion, though.  I wondered why she never appeared on my schedule.  We had a couple of phone conversations about it, but she neglected to pencil me in.  After about 30 minutes of waiting as she scurried around getting the necessary approvals, we got down to the ink.

It took a couple of hours to finish, including the prep time spent finding the right colors, drawing the template, etc.  There were a couple of areas where I had some pain, but I'm virtually completely numb.  In case you don't know, scabs will form that must not be disturbed or the color will come off with them.  I can't wear a bra for 5 days and I have to apply Aquaphor twice a day.  I hated to see the jar of Aquaphor.  They gave me that during chemo to stave off the sores on my hands, but it did absolutely no good.  My brain automatically rejects everything that was related to chemo.

So here I am at work, bra-less.  Being a member of the groovy generation, I used to go without a bra rather frequently, before propriety and gravity asserted themselves.  I don't think, even in my youth, that I ever showed up at a job lacking adequate foundation garments.  Today I wore a large NBA tee shirt from the year the Phoenix Suns were in the Finals, but the Aquaphor almost immediately created a dark round spot the exact size of the tattoo (or aureole).  I'm not sure how I'm going to get through the rest of the week.  I simply don't have that many XL tee shirts, even of the NBA variety (of which I have quite a few).

The other issue is one of bounce.  The girls are pretty perky and, no matter how slowly and carefully I walk, they tend to move around a bit.  The thought that Loathsome or Mr. Moneybags glimpsing the girls actually moving makes me a little queasy. 

There's ever so much more to share; the day actually went downhill from there.  However, in my absence, Crazy Employee has managed to make part of one of the databases malfunction.  I can't figure out how she did it.  She's gifted, I suppose. 

Due to database repair and exhaustion, Part Deux tomorrow. 

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We're having an off-site bridal shower today for one of our Crazy Land employees. I am so not in the mood. Nothing like spending a couple of hours with Crazy Employee and the Foot Lady. Obviously, I need to work on cultivating a more positive attitude about this.

The Information Superhighway, the Ladies' Man and I just spent about ninety minutes talking about the Superhighway's husband. He still hasn't gotten a job, but he suggested last night that they drive a friend of theirs to Canada, then come back via the East Coast. Yes, that's sane.

Hemorrhoid Guy is out playing golf with Mr. Moneybags and the Golf Pro. H.G. called me this morning to point out that we all owe him now for getting Moneybags out of the office all day. I'm sorry for the Hemorrhoid, but I take some wicked pleasure that the Golf Pro and Mr. Moneybags are having to spend the day together. They hate each other. Well, everybody hates Golf Pro. Except me. I'm like Switzerland; I'm officially neutral

Monday, I'll be in Houston once again. I'm having the tattoo done finally. I also have an appointment with an internal medicine physician to talk about pain and fatigue.

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Hubby and I both forgot our anniversary a couple of weeks ago.  It dawned on me over the weekend that we'd missed it...again.  I'm not good with the anniversary/birthday/spec ial event thing.

I wonder if that's because, as I was growing up, we never celebrated anything.  I'd get a birthday gift and Christmas gifts, I got cards for my Mom and Dad and bought gifts when I could.  It always felt like work, though, even (or especially) when I was the recipient.  "Celebration" was never a word that had much meaning to me.  Observances of that type were onerous and treacherous.  Bad things were guaranteed to happen; they were danger zones that cropped up from time to time in the endless, gray progression of time.

As I grew older, I learned how important it is to honor special days or rites of passage.  Celebrating became a "should" in my life.   If I'm a mentally healthy, spiritually grounded person, I should incorporate some times for rejoicing in my life.  That's the rule.

Unfortunately, because it was never a part of my growing-up experience, those observances never became a habit.  It feels like something I've tacked onto my life and, when I forget anniversaries or birthdays, I feel like a failure.   If I manage to remember and make special arrangements for festivities, it's stressful and joyless. It's a lose-lose proposition.

Every day I get up in the morning and give thanks for all of the blessings in my life, past and present.  This is celebration, also.  I have to remind myself that I'm not a failure if I forget "special" events (including my own birthday).  I have to remind myself that, because every morning begins with prayer, every single day is a celebration. 

Hubby and I forget our anniversary on a regular basis.  It doesn't mean we don't love each other or that either of us feels unloved because we've forgotten.  It's a thing we laugh about together. 

I'm trying to learn to let myself be as I am, especially right now as I continue to struggle with fatigue and pain.  Learning that lesson and living it is its own challenge.  Everything in my life is exactly as it should be, including the consequences of a life I did not choose.  I'm officially lightening up.

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I was going to post something of substance today, but I took a trip to the dentist instead.  I'm not really in pain; I feel like I've been run down by an 18-wheeler.  Then, of course, there's the drooling issue.  I hate it when you're drooling and you don't even know it.  On the up side, maybe it makes people reluctant to talk to you.

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I spent most of Friday morning with Owner, liberating kitties stuck under our office building.  We'd had some people out to close up all access to the areas underneath both buildings.  Unfortunately, we forgot to check whether there were any live animals under there.

Owner called me while the Information Superhighway and I were having our usual pre-8:00 a.m. conversation.    Owner buzzed the Highway and wanted to know if I was there.  I knew my day was going to get off to a bad start.  He wanted me to find a hammer so he could break some boards the workers used to permanently close a crawlspace door.  I couldn't find a hammer.  Wait a minute.  It immediately felt like a bad dream from my childhood. 

My dad could never find his tools.  He never looked for his tools.  He either made me, my mom or his wife go look for them.  If we couldn't find them or if we didn't find them fast enough, bam!  Another great opportunity for him to physically hurt someone.  I tend to get anxious when people ask me for tools and that kind of post traumatic stress disorder anxiety is hard to get rid of once it's arisen.  It was with me all day.

I couldn't find a hammer.  Owner called again and demanded that I get downstairs.  We'd only been at the task for ten minutes, but it already felt like years.  I went downstairs and found he'd broken the boards without a hammer.  The next problem was that we needed to ensure that the cat(s) got out before we boarded it back up.  We sat at the patio table and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Owner told me I had to stay there until the cat(s) came out.  Again, it seemed too familiar, like when my dad told me to go outside and look for a lost ring and not to come back in until I found it.  Or a million other times when I had to stay somewhere until I accomplished something inherently impossible, knowing that when I was unable to accomplish it, my dad would use it as an excuse to hurt me more.  (There would be some physical violence during the attempts to accomplish the impossible, on a periodic basis, depending on how good my dad wanted to feel.)

Friday morning, as I sat there and tried not to think about the number of allergens in the air, Foot Lady came out to smoke a cigarette.  She wanted to know what was going on, so I filled her in.  She made some comment about the workers boarding up the entries to the crawlspace under the main building.  Something clicked.

I hadn't seen my black and white boy kitty and his best pal in a couple of days.  I'd also noted that not much food had been consumed during that time.  I had assumed that they were hiding out, waiting for the workers to go away.  It dawned on me that they had to be under the building.

I walked along the side of the building next to Lillian's house.  I called as I walked and, about half way down the alley, I heard a little meow coming from one of the air vents.  Good news, bad news.  They were going to be liberated, but I had to tell Owner in order for that to happen.

Owner came downstairs and found a way to let the cats out.  Black and white kitty stuck his head out of the hole about 15 minutes after it was opened.  He's always been very skittish and you know being trapped under a building for a couple of days couldn't have done much for his nerves. Later on, I found him lounging around the monkey grass as if nothing ever happened.  I was still worried about his pal, but she showed up Saturday morning.

The funny thing is that, until I started writing, it didn't dawn on me how triggering the whole event had been.  My conversation with the Superhighway first thing that morning triggered a flashback and I wrote off my all day jumpiness to that.  I guess Friday was an all-around Remember Dad day.  I hate it when I have those days.  Another is coming up.  His birthday is May 16.  I'm going to start steeling myself for it right now.   Maybe someone would like for me to find a hammer.  Or a child's ring in a huge yard.

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I had a migraine yesterday and I feel the onset of another one any minute now.  Must write now or never.

Wednesday morning, I spent about an hour closeted with Owner in his office with the door closed.  Seems Crazy Employee managed to get me involved in another one of her schemes. 

When we rescued Crazy's puppy, we took her to the vet our company uses so puppy could have the required vaccinations.  I had given them my corporate credit card when we took the other rescued dogs in, so I knew these charges would be applied, too.  Crazy took the dog home and, about two weeks later, brought her back to the vet to be spayed.  Late that same afternoon, Crazy came into my office looking meek. 

"Could I ask you something?  I don't really want to talk to Owner about it.  He makes me nervous."

That's good.  She should be afraid.  She should be afraid of me, too, though.

She'd spoken with the vet who informed her that, when they performed the surgery, they also discovered that the puppy had a dental problem that was best resolved early.  The vet tried to get in touch with Crazy, but failing to do so, had fixed the problem.  The surgery bill was $500.

Crazy wanted to know if I thought it was Owner's intention to continue to pay all the puppy bills.  Absolutely not, I told her.  I suggested that she speak with Owner herself, but I had no reason to believe that would be even remotely okay.  Once again, she didn't want to speak with Owner.  Crazy said she understood and that she'd make arrangements to establish a payment plan with the vet.  That conversation took place at the end of March.

When Information Superhighway looked at the statement we received from the vet, there was that charge.  She brought it to Owner's attention, knowing it had to be related to Crazy's dog.  Owner then called me in to discuss what I might know about it.  I recounted our conversation and went to my office to get my credit card so we could ensure that it was, indeed, a Crazy Land card.  Of course it was mine. 

Owner trusts me without hesitation.  When I was in charge of things for around a decade, I could have robbed the company blind had I been so inclined.  We've been friends for over 3 decades.  He knows he need never question my ethics.  Nonetheless, I could feel my face assuming the expression of icy rage that scares the hell out of people.  I couldn't wait to get out of the office and discuss the situation with Crazy Employee.

Owner called the vet's office to clarify exactly what had happened.  We were told that they called Crazy just that morning and made her set up a payment plan.  The charges will be taken off my card.  Owner told the vet to always get direct approval from him or me for any future charges of any kind.

He was greatly relieved to not have to talk with Crazy.  If Owner had a nickname for Crazy, it would be Loathsome.  He has a list in his head of the numerous examples of her bad behavior based on her profound sense of personal entitlement.  There are even some things he doesn't know about.  I finally staggered out of his office, still furious.

Technically, Crazy had indeed lived up to the assurance she gave me that she'd take care of the charges.  However, she didn't do that until the bill came due here.  I should point out that Crazy actually sees the bills before they get to the Superhighway.  She knew disaster was imminent.

I decided to take a walk and calm down.  On the way back, who should I run into but Lillian and another of her gentlemen callers.  One of the neighbors had called Animal Control the day we were trying to help the old dog and I was terrified she'd think I'd made the call.  I just kept looking at the sidewalk and hurried into the office. 

By then, I'd decided to let the Crazy thing go.  Owner has his list and I have mine.  I'm not sure which one of us she should fear the most.

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Yesterday started somewhere around 4:00 a.m. for me. My mom had a colonoscopy scheduled and was told to arrive at the hospital at 6:00 a.m. Late Friday afternoon, the hospital left a message telling her she needed to pre-register, but by the time she got the message, that department had already closed down for the weekend. She thought perhaps they wouldn't do the procedure unless she pre-registered, so I suggested that we plan on getting there a little early.

I am not a morning person.

We agreed to get there around 5:30, but I was anxious about whether my alarm clock would work, so I woke up around 4:00 and never went back to sleep. There's nothing wrong with my alarm clock. I have issues about being on time and I'm always afraid that the electronic devices that run my life are going to fail me in some critical moment.

I was at the hospital for a couple of hours, then I brought my mom over to my house around 9:00, took a shower and left for work. Things were going as well as could be expected when I got a call from our receptionist saying Crazy Employee wanted me to come downstairs and look after the dog from next door. The dog had been lying by the side of the road and she'd coaxed it to a grassy area between my office and Lillian's house. He was unable to go any farther, unable to stand up on his back legs.

Owner came downstairs with me and we tried to get the dog to stand up. We brought him some water and a couple of large bowls of kitty food. The poor creature wolfed down the water and food. I tried to slide my hands under his hips to help him stand up, but that didn't help, either. There was a high potential for me to get bitten, so I abandoned the effort.

Finally a young man, whom we believe to be Lillian's son, ambled out of the house and over to where we were attending to the dog. I noticed track marks on his arms. The first thing he wanted to know was whether anyone had a cigarette. If I'd had a cigarette, I'd have been smoking it. I explained the problem to Son.

"He can get up. He just doesn't want to," he said. I repeatedly assured him that wasn't the case. Son retrieved a cord from inside the house, slipped it around the dogs neck and tried to get him up. Couldn't do it. I asked if Lillian was around. She was asleep, her son said.

After several attempts, I suggested that maybe the dog needed to rest. I told the son we'd keep an eye on the dog from our upstairs window. He mumbled thanks and walked back to the house. I got the dog more water and more food. I called a number of mobile vets, but no one was able to come. Even if they'd had time, the dog doesn't belong to me and I have no desire to try to get Lillian to agree to treatment (even though she wouldn't have to pay for it). Also, I'd almost guarantee that the dog has never had a single rabies shot. Vets won't work with animals who haven't have rabies shots.

This morning, I was afraid I'd drive up and see the dog, dead where I left him. He wasn't out there, so I got the Golf Pro to look out of my window to see if he was in Lillian's back yard. He was lying in his usual spot. Crazy Employee came in a little while ago to tell me about how they got him back. It's really more than I can think about right now.

Nothing makes me angrier than children and animals being mistreated or neglected. Clearly Lillian has appeared in my life to help me find more compassion in my heart. I have a lot more work to do in that area, apparently.

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I wish I had something fun to report from our Admin. Professionals luncheon, but it was uneventful.  Owner has been very depressed lately, so he sat at the head of the table like a zombie.  He did manage to take a couple of shots at me.  Some of my co-workers patted me on the back, but no need.  I'm very tough.

 

I never, ever let people see what rattles my cage.  Hubby knows.  My mom knows some of them, but beyond that, I keep my vulnerabilities to myself.  That's partly how I was able to maintain a relationship with Former Friend for so long.  Owner is like a little boy who loves to pull little girls' pigtails.  I happened to be on the receiving end this time. 

I had a database meltdown on Wednesday afternoon; I thought I'd lost about 160 records.  Fortunately, I was able to get in touch with IT Boy and he restored it before the server could save the new, screwed-up file.

Most of the office is out today, having a good time.  The Ladies' Man, Loathsome, The Hemorrhoid Guy, Crazy Employee, Mr. Moneybags and the Foot Lady are all out.  This might be a very good day to get back to the database.  Silence.

Just for the record, I didn't mean to imply that I'm sorry to have lost the relationship with Former Friend.  I was relieved.  My therapist said I should write something more direct and to the point.  She thinks it would be therapeutic.  I'm considering it.

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I think I mentioned earlier that Loathsome is back with us.  (Settle down, ladies.)  We've already had more than enough interaction to last me about a decade.  We're in the same suite of offices, unfortunately.  Last week, we had a 30 minute conversation about what he and his psycho wife have for dinner every night.  This  was in the context of my own food dilemmas--what will Hubby eat, how much time and energy do I have to prepare it, etc.,  Loathsome had an extensive list of suggestions.  No, I've never heard of fish.  Ditto tacos. 

He's been stalking around the office, telling everyone that he's been to some big meetings the past couple of weeks and he's working on some proposals.  This should not be monumental, impressive news seeing as how it is his job.  Loathsome reminds me of a pigeon during mating season, his chest all puffed out, strutting through the building, looking around to monitor who's noticing.  He's doing proposals, people.  Sit up and look suitably awed.

You know how I am:  friendly, approachable.  Loathsome stopped me in the receptionist's area this morning to let me know he submitted a bid that will save the client tens of thousands of dollars.

"That's what you're supposed to do, right?  Save the client money?"

I couldn't figure out whether he was really confused about that or if it was rhetorical.  I answered yes, just in case. I was never able to ascertain whether he actually knew the answer before he asked.

Loathsome then waxed eloquent in excruciating detail all about the cost saving idea.  My eyes had begun to glaze over when the Superhighway walked in.  I excused myself and trailed after her, mumbling that unfortunately I had to immediately resolve an issue regarding another one of our offices.  I could see Loathsome pitied me for having to leave our spirited discussion of the requirements of the Americans with Disabilities Act.

Later this morning, Loathsome's name came up during a conversation with Mr. Moneybags.  He suggested that Loathsome's new office nickname should be Isaiah.  He was referring to the mind-boggling level of incompetence Isaiah Thomas brought to his job with the New York Knicks.  Thomas has been banned from even talking to the team, just as Loathsome was prohibited from talking to anyone in our out-of-state office after he returned from there to our corporate office.  Mr. Moneybags can be very, very funny sometimes.  I signed on immediately.  Of course, I'll continue to call him "Loathsome" in these posts.

We're having an office luncheon today to celebrate Administrative Professionals Day.  No one really wants to do it, but if we don't, Crazy Employee will be crushed.  I'm forcing everyone to show up, even Golf Pro, who would normally beg off.  No way, Pro.  We all have to honor Crazy's endless uselessness in all things administrative. 

Who knows.  It could be fun.  Owner will be there, so Loathsome will be the primary focus of his current bad mood.  Even Owner's relentless disdain won't diminish the pigeon walk, but you can't have everything.  If I find it amusing, I will most certainly recount the high points.

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We may have to find a  psychotherapist for our dog, Andy.  Yesterday, Hubby went to work at noon and accidentally left the little boy outside.  My mom didn't make it over for her puppy-sitting stint until around 1:00. 

She arrived to find Andy crying.  Sheba wouldn't take her treat from my mom until Andy was inside.  This is totally unheard of.  Under normal circumstances, she would have taken the treat and run to get into Andy's crate so she could be there when he entered the room.  Andy hates it when she's in his crate. 

After my mom let Andy in, he sat by the sofa and cried for a while.  He was so upset that he couldn't take his treat.  When he was able to pull himself together to drink some water, he had to take a little cry break in the middle.  Finally, he started to feel better and went directly into What Can I Do To Be Bad Boy mode.

We have a perfectly wonderful backyard where Andy chases birds and squirrels.  There are three dogs that live behind us and a small terrier who lives at the side.  We have some overhanging bushes that all of our dogs have loved to run through and a garage that has an exit door at the side near the back fence.  It's a veritable universe of canine fun potential, but Andy's accustomed to coming and going as he pleases.  He's also used to having his Woo outside with him a lot.

When Hubby got home, I told him about how traumatized little Andy had been.  Hubby felt guilty and dispensed treats all evening.  This morning, Andy wouldn't go out until the Sheba Woo went with him.  When she came in, so did he.  I need that pet psychic lady from television to come over and talk with him.

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As I was rushing around Monday, trying to get on the road to Houston, I heard a voice mail message being left by a former friend. She called to tell me that she'd run across my blog when she was checking around the Web to see if I was dead or alive. The "dead or alive" part creeped out Superhighway. I thought it was a valid question, the answer to which is, mostly not. Former Friend wanted me to know that I'm not quite so anonymous as I'd like to be.

"The people you're writing about can find you," she said.

I broke my therapist's no-contact rule and returned the call. I simply needed to find out what she meant. I didn't engage in any conversation, though I felt a little impolite. After I hung up, I called back to thank Friend and apologize for my abruptness.

Former Friend and I knew each other from high school. We met when we were both 17. We were friends, off and on, until about ten years ago. By that time, it had become very clear to me that we simply weren't going to be able to remain friends. I can't do friendship the way she needs and she can't do it the way I need.

She had raised her voice to me. Three times. I warned her twice that I will not tolerate being yelled at by anyone. Not by anyone. Not my husband. Not my employer. Not my family. I grew up in a violent and abusive family. I won't have it in my adult life. The third time was the last time. I can't have that kind of friendship.

Remember me? I'm the "pathologically independent" one. Former Friend wanted a lot more contact than I could tolerate. Not long before she told me not to call her and then hung up on me, Friend intimated that she was tired of putting up with my "limitations" (not having any herself, of course). I didn't see much reason why she should have to tolerate them. I could take her inventory here, but why would I? We're different, that's all.

At the end, I had been really ill for a couple of years from a stress-related disease so intense that it was all I could do to get through work every day. I was having some major repair work done to my house and I was in charge of the whole ordeal. My father was slipping into ever-deepening psychosis and I was his mainstay, no matter how many times I tried to establish limits. I was in the middle of coordinating a huge annual company event and...oops...I missed her birthday. I didn't even notice that I'd missed her birthday for several days. Oops. Now, if you miss my birthday, I'm fine. I might actually be better if you miss it. We're different that way.

I called to apologize and she was furious. When she hung up on me, I was furious, too. Oddly enough, the next day I was fine. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I talked to my therapist about it, about my "limitations," about what a bad friend I'd been, about what I should do next. Therapist proposed the no-contact rule. Her take on why we should just stop trying is not the same as mine.

I'm certainly not the perfect friend by a long shot. I can go long periods of time without talking to friends and yet still feel connected. I'm a little distant. I have very definite boundaries and, when they're breached, I become even more distant. I'm not inclined to argue or engage in veiled hostility. I like to step back and think about things before I talk with people about disagreements. I could be wrong, you know, and I like to examine both sides. Everyone, without exception, finds this difficult to understand. I'm only a great friend if you can tolerate a certain level of benign indifference. I'm fine by myself. I'm very, very independent.

Former Friend has reached out several times, but there doesn't really seem to be much point in responding. We will only end up right back where we are now. I can't do it and neither can she. We're just too different.

It's too bad, really. Former Friend is bright and we shared a skewed sense of humor, a source of great pleasure and connection for me. I have lots of lovely memories of times we spent together and the early years of our relationship are especially dear to me. That was a long time ago, though. On some level, we do not understand each other. On some level, we understand each other too well.

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I already had plans for today's post, but the plan has been thwarted.  I'm answering phones for several hours today because

Crazy Employee is out for the third day.  One of her children had strep recently and Crazy neglected to make her take all of her antibiotics.  It's back now and Crazy has it, too.

Our intelligent and beautiful receptionist is taking a day off.  (She really is beautiful and intelligent.)

The Information Superhighway is having her hair done.  It's going to take a while.  The Superhighway deserves a break and I'm happy to help her.

Mr. Moneybags' daughter is out today.  She's doing an internship for her degree in Social Work, so she's here intermittently. 

The men whose masculinity won't get in the way of answering the phone are out, too. 
That leaves the phone to me.  I hope to get around to the former, B.C. (before cancer) friend tomorrow. 

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Dr. Kronowitz agreed that I've healed enough to move on to the next step, the tattoo. We discussed the upcoming (final, I hope) surgery to remove a lot of necrotic tissue caused by the high radiation doses I received. He may also try to cut away some of the chelation at the donor site so that maybe I'll have less ongoing pain. We had originally discussed doing it in July, but now Dr. K. thinks his schedule may be too busy.

I guess that could be a good thing. I would have more time to continue to recover physically and psychologically. I'm less concerned about my physical condition than my mental strength to endure more pain. It's far easier to rehab physically than to rebuild psychological reserves. At least with physical strength and flexibility, there are identifiable milestones and definitive means towards reaching them. Though I may be in a lot of pain from tearing internal scar tissue while I do my exercises, I know the pain will end shortly after I stop working out. After surgery, there is no predictable end in sight. Pain will end when it feels like it.

Brenda is supposed to call me soon to set up the appointment for my tattoo and I suppose we'll discuss a surgery date then, too.

We rounded up the visit with some more steroid injections in the scars running across my tummy and my "umbo" (his PA's word for my navel). Jennifer also did some injections in my sides above my hip bones. I didn't realize we were going to be doing that until Dr. Kronowitz told Jennifer to get the supplies. It's probably good that it was a surprise. At least I didn't have a couple of weeks of anticipating the excruciating pain.

I'm back at work today, feeling mostly brain dead. One of my colleagues in Virginia called to ask about a legal issue and I could barely summon an intelligible response. I must look pretty beaten up, too, because everyone is giving hugs today.

There's some strictly lay-out work that I plan to do today so my diminished intellectual ability won't be a problem. Maybe tomorrow I'll be more capable of working and writing. I had a phone call from an old friend as I was scurrying around, trying to leave town on Monday. I'll try to get around to that tomorrow.

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I've always had one rule for all of the places I've ever worked:  I do not make the coffee.  Ever.  Once you start making coffee, people can get confused about your role in the organization and suddenly start asking you to go get some donuts on the way in or actually fetch a cup of coffee for someone.  I've been here forever, though, and I'm confident that everyone understands my limits.

I made coffee a couple of weeks ago, after having been directed by Hemorrhoid Guy to use 4 scoops of coffee.  The Foot Lady and Crazy Employee were apparently outraged that the coffee wasn't strong enough.  They felt justified in complaining bitterly about it to both the Information Superhighway and Hemorrhoid Guy.  He told them to pour it out and make some more.  Oh no.  That would be too simple.

Of course, all of this information made its way back to me via the Superhighway (that is, after all, how she got her name).  I've been waiting to exact revenge and finally found my opportunity this morning.  I got here first, dumped six full scoops of coffee into the basket and punched that "on" button.  The coffee is so strong that, not only can it stand up and walk away by itself, but if it meets you in the hallway, it will punch you out.

I was sharing my joke with the Superhighway a little while ago and she told me that she'd told Money Man that the coffee is "really crappy."  That's one of the things I love about the Superhighway; she knows she doesn't have to spare me.  She says what's on her mind.

Foot Lady and Crazy Employee haven't made it in yet.  It's only 9:00 a.m.  I can't wait until they get here and pour themselves a cup of coffee.

My job may not be fulfilling, but that doesn't mean it's not entertaining.  Back to the databases.

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I've been trying to find the name of a poet whose works are brooding and mystical, a longtime favorite.  I can't think of his name today, so I've been searching through poetry sites in the hope he'll be listed.  Instead, who do I find?  Naomi. 

I knew her when we were in college.  We were both poets, we dated the same religion professor, my one victory in this one-sided competition.  He found me more compelling.  It was small, comfort, though, because she had the heart of the one man whose attention I wanted and needed.  He was my English professor who invited me to come to the small university, who sent me a letter when I was a senior in college, encouraging me. 

It wasn't that I wanted to date John or have any kind of romantic relationship with him.  I wanted him to value me as a poet and, more importantly, to be my father-figure.  I'd already found a substitute mother, but what I needed the most was a man to care in something other than a romantic or sexual context.  I needed to believe that I could be special to a man who wouldn't hurt me, who could love  about me the things I liked in myself. 

John and I had a relationship, his door was always open to me.  He gave me pointers about getting in Phi Beta Kappa.  I took an upper division class of his when I was a freshman.  I never worked harder in any class; he was dazzled.  He was not dazzled by my poetry.  We had a conversation once about whether I should pursue that calling.  "Not unless you're willing to be a second class poet," he told me.  It broke my heart.  It spelled the end, really, of my creative writing.  I would always hear John's voice saying those words whenever I sat down to work.

John liked her better, he liked her poetry better.  I thought of Naomi as a bitter rival in a contest I couldn't win.  We never spoke, even though the campus was very small and I worked for a professor who officed right across the hall from John.  Naomi worked with John.  She called me once in my sophomore year, requesting a poem for the yearbook.  Coincidentally, both of our poems were about tennis.  I don't think she played; I certainly didn't.  I don't know if she knew about my relationship with Mackenzie or how I found out he had dated her, too.  Ours was a complex dance, negotiated without contact.

After I moved here, I ran across her name at various poetry readings.  I was still writing and doing readings, even though in my heart of hearts, I had already given up.  I gave up all writing, except for business, for over 20 years.  When we were on the same bill, I tried to avoid her.  Even hearing her name made me angry.

For a time, I thought I was over the Naomi-John thing.  I could see her name and be fine with it.  After all, I'd given up.  But seeing her name on the respected poetry website sparked that sadness again.  Why does she have that life?  Why did she have John's admiration and respect in a way I never did?  Why do I sit here in Crazy Land, living a life that brings me so little joy or satisfaction? 

The answer is obvious:  She was given her life and I was given mine.  There's no money to be made in poetry and who knows anyone who actually reads it?  I don't.  Nonetheless, seeing Naomi's name there reminded me of all the things I'm not, all the things I will never be, all the things I never had.  Joan Didion has a book called, "Play It As It Lays."  That's what I've done with what I've been given. 

I've never for an instant believed that life is fair.   However, right now my life seems very hollow.  I'm left with my databases, calling on logic, not creativity.  I'm stranded here in Crazy Land, feeling more bereft than ever.

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Again, so many things to say, so little time.

Monday, Hubby arrived from work, ready to complain about the assignment of shuttle routes.  Janitor Jeff assigned the plum routes (in Hubby-speak that means "scenic") to a couple of Asian girls.  Hubby gets the south side of town, over in apartment city, populated by students and some scruffy characters who prey on them.  I agree that it's not the prettiest part of this lovely city, but he's getting paid for riding around in it.  Janitor Jeff believes that the scenic parts of town are heavily populated by Asian students.

"It's depressing," he said, "This is worse than the IRS."

Oh yes.  Music to my ears.  Of course it's worse than the IRS, you crazy man.  You're dealing with students.  Remember being 19?  I wasn't anywhere near as nice and accommodating as I am now.  When he complains about their dismissive attitude about surveys, I remind him to practice detachment.  Besides, he's only been on the job a week.  If depressing scenery and snotty kids are the worst employment problems you've got, your job is pretty cushy.

Speaking of jobs, the Information Superhighway's husband (Repo Man) informed her on Tuesday that he doesn't plan to get a new job until after summer.  He's going to repair computers for the family business at $100 per job.  I don't know.  That pay rate seems low to me, depending on time spent and difficulty of repair.  Of course, if your life dream is to get up at 4:00 a.m. to work for pigs, you're probably not all that logical about profit margins.

Furthermore, Repo Man was denied unemployment compensation.  In Texas, you only get that benefit if you're laid off, not if you resign or are fired.  Repo Man noted on his application that he was fired, but when he received the denial letter from the state, he vowed to appeal. 

Superhighway is furious.  They have a brand new house, an RV they acquired last summer that hasn't been paid for yet and a new high end truck for the Man.  They have two teenage boys who can eat half their own weight every day. 

I'm praying for my good friend, Superhighway.  If he doesn't shape up soon, she's going to cut him loose.  Maybe that's why he still hasn't put the RV on the market.  Maybe Repo Man plans to live in it under some bridge (in the depressing part of town, no doubt) while he works on that dream of pig/turkey farming.

Yesterday, we had a "Ladies' Team Building" event here in Crazy Land.  I'm still trying to recover from it.  The train wreck is still too fresh for me to talk about right now.  By tomorrow I hope to have regained my sanity enough to write about.

I spent this morning working on a new database.  It's so much more rewarding than team building.  I have to admit that it always feels good to actually make a contribution to Crazy Land beyond providing accurate spelling, instant diagnoses of various ailments and all of my other value added activities.  Of course, there's a certain amount of user consultation required, but other than that, it's just me, the computer and silence.  It doesn't get any better than that in Crazy Land.

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I have a migraine today, so I'm really only capable of a few random notes.  My brain has an alarming tendency to shut down when it feels like someone's stabbing me in the left side of my head with an ice pick.  If I'm so great with thinking with both sides of my brain, wouldn't you think I could just switch to the other side?

It was an active weekend.  I planted some more flowers:  Two types of sunflowers and some canna lillies.  The morning glories are looking all perky from the rain we got this weekend.  You can actually see they're plants now instead of little eensy green things.

I find another great pair of black trousers at 80% off the regular price.  It doesn't look like I'm going to gain weight anytime soon, so I need something to wear to work.  I wear my baggy, baggy jeans a lot, but it's getting toasty now and I have no air conditioning in my car.

My car started overheating on Sunday.  It's at the repair shop now to the tune of $800.  Maybe that has something to do with my migraine.

Hubby cleaned the bathroom.  The whole thing.  If I had died at that moment, I would have died moderately happy.

The three good deeds a day commitment has become a a technical issue.  If I feed the kitties every day, does it still count as a good deed?  If I bring the newspapers in at work and place a couple in the offices of people I know like to read them, is that a good deed?  I do that every day, too.  I constantly wonder if I need to find some extra deeds to work in, just in case.  It's not that I'm opposed to, say, five good deeds, but sometimes three is hard to come up with.  They don't have to be big, but if I routinely....okay, that's enough obsessing about that.  I'll just continue on quietly in my head.

Ending on an up note:  The Information Superhighway noted that Loathsome hasn't spoken to her since his return to regular duty in Crazy Land.  She asked if he's said anything to me.  I told her he's been by my office a couple of times (more on that later).  "Of course," she said, "everyone loves you."  I'm certain that can't be true, but it's a nice thing to hear on a Migraine Monday.

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Today is the second anniversary of my final chemotherapy treatment!

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My dear friend C misses my posts when I'm gone.  (What a lovely thing to say! )  So here I am.

First, the Hubby news.  He has a job!  I'm not sure how long it's going to last and it doesn't pay as much as the IRS, but any extra income for any length of time is cause for celebration. He's working with his good friend, Janitor Jeff.  We've known Jeff for a little over three decades.  As a matter of fact, our first impromptu "date" included a visit to Jeff's and (his future wife) Kathleen's house.

Janitor Jeff is a trip.  He's a very bright man (I think) and a poet, but he's completely incomprehensible.  The Janitor is like a walking psychedelic experience (no doubt from his extensive use of something when he was much, much younger).  I stopped trying to talk to him twenty years ago.    Janitor Jeff and Kathleen built a business that has locations here and in Houston.  They've been quite successful entrepreneurs, but I'm certain Kathleen was the brains of the operation. Jeff is now working at our local university, after getting taken to the cleaners in his divorce.  (I'm sure whatever Jeff did, he deserved it.) For a while, he was making a living by sponging off his elderly parents' Social Security.  Finally, he took up his new, exciting career as a janitor.

Whenever Hubby considered applying somewhere, he always checked it out with Janitor Jeff and Stepson.  Yeah.  I'd check in with two of the most egregious underachievers I've ever known before I submitted an application, too.  I guess at some point Hubby decided it would be totally cool to work with his good friend, Janitor Jeff.  When the opportunity presented itself last week, Hubby rushed right out and grabbed that fabulous job.

He now rides around all day on shuttle buses, trying to get the little MP3 and cellphone addicted college students to fill out surveys about the bus service.  Sounds like fun to me, too.  When I looked puzzled, Hubby seemed to think it was a great job prospect.  I was just thrilled about any income-producing activity so I smiled encouragingly at him.

On Monday, during the orientation, Hubby discovered that Janitor Jeff is incomprehensible.  I was comforted that the communication hitch wasn't solely because I'm somehow lacking.  Hubby has to take direction from Jeff, so there's definitely a major snafu in the offing.

He came home from his first full day exhausted and grumpy.  Try to imagine how sympathetic I was.  I chose not to respond as I prepared dinner.  I have chosen not to respond when he does his Lawrence Olivier-inspired hunched over hurt back walk.  Things could only go downhill from there.

So  there you have it, the big exciting Hubby news.  After all, it's always been my position that all work is honorable.  It's just as honorable to be a janitor as to be Donald Trump (well, maybe a little more honorable to be a janitor).

On the Crazy Land front, the Information Superhighway is back from sick leave!  Crazy Employee is wearing a shirt that shows 3 inches of her stomach.  The woman has had two kids and gained about 20 pounds over the past year.  It's not good.  Loathsome stopped by for a visit, which was the occasion for my third and final official good deed of the day.  Whew.  Glad that's over.

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When I have some spare minutes, one of the places I like to check in on is Pastor Dave's blog.  Last week, he spent some time contemplating the television program, "Dexter."  Being a member of the clergy, something like "Dexter" is bound to make Pastor Dave ask questions.  It's made me ask questions, too, but not necessarily the same ones.
 
Pastor Dave points out that Dexter is an anti-hero who wreaks vengeance on some very deserving scary people, thereby blurring a bit the line between good and bad.  (Pastor, please forgive me if I accidentally misstate your position.  And, of course, feel free to correct me.)  I've puzzled myself for about a decade now what it is about our society that makes us so fascinated with serial killers.  What is the deal, exactly, with Hannibal Lecter's hold on the movie-going public?  I have no idea.

Pastor poses the question as to whether sociopaths are victims of terrible events or whether they make choices.  I think it used to be a truism that sociopaths are made, not born.  My therapist tells me that Jeffrey Daumer had a normal childhood, her proof that sociopaths may be born, not made.  I don't know.  It seems awfully convenient for everyone involved with him to embrace the idea that he had your basic, everyday childhood.  Maybe it's both:  They're born sometimes and created sometimes.  Maybe it's that unpredictable convergence  of nature and nurture.

I do know that we do not want sociopaths wandering around loose in society.  Pastor Dave is wrong in his assessment that sociopaths are generally just "troublesome people."  When you have no empathy, there's nothing to stop you from doing bad things, like hurting people.  Sociopaths, by their very nature, are dangerous.  He is correct in thinking that conventional teaching (or preaching) won't help.  If there's no empathy, there's no guilt.  If I were a serial killer and if, by killing you, I get something I want, then logically speaking, there's no reason why I wouldn't kill you.  Other than the fear of getting caught, of course.  Sociopaths are generally cunning and manipulative, so getting caught probably seems a little unlikely to them.

Those are Pastor Dave's questions and conclusions, though.  I think Dexter is an engaging character because in our deepest hearts, virtually all of us want vengeance against people who have hurt us or someone else.  We're really drawn to that "eye for an eye" rule.  Dexter eliminates the middle man (the justice system) and delivers swift punishment.

Americans love anti-heroes.  From the outset, this country embraced rebellion.  In order to form this separate country, our forebears did a lot of killing.  That doesn't make them very nice, but it does make them our liberators.  In our heart of hearts, we intuit that creativity lives outside the mainstream.  I can't create anything new or think of anything in a new way if I'm content to be like everyone else, if I'm unable to break a few rules.  We're drawn to fun-loving rakes.  We all like to get away with something, at one time or another. 

Dexter doesn't understand feeling, but he's very good at mimicking it.  He hides who he truly is behind a mask of normalcy.  He's constantly studying others so he can make himself seem to fit in.  He studies himself with some objectivity, too, so he can search out all of the places where the mask may be a little thin.  Now this is where Dexter becomes very interesting to me.

My childhood was not normal, the rules I learned were that punishment can come for no reason or any reason.  Life is capricious and very, very cruel.  The people who lived in my house didn't behave like people I met anywhere else.  (As to whether I ever wondered about what went on in other people's houses, the answer is yes.) 

My own father lacked the ability to empathize.  He was impulsive and self indulgent.  He could don a mask of normalcy sometimes, but his narcissism prevented him from hiding himself fully over the long haul.  Naturally, at home there was absolutely no reason to pretend that he wasn't dangerous.  My father was cruel and violent.  I had to pay careful attention when I was at home so that I wouldn't be seriously injured or killed.  Away from home, I had to study other people to find a way to fit in.  I had to hide who I truly was--an abused, neglected, terrified, enraged kid--so I could try to fit in with my peers.

I think everyone hides something.  None of us walks around in the world, being completely open-hearted.  That would be dangerous, wouldn't it?  We wear different masks in different situations.  At work, we wear the "at work" mask.  If your hobby is porn, you don't go around talking about it at work.  You've got your "at work" mask on.  If you're a racist, unless you live in a very specific milieu, you don't talk loudly about it in places where the objects of your racism might hear you.  That's your "don't kill me" mask.  If you hate the woman who lives next door because she puts her trash can too close to your driveway and you can't get out in the morning to go to work, you don't go over and scream at her.  You ask nicely.  That's your "good neighbor" mask.  There are a million of them and I'll bet any one of us could, in mere seconds,  come up with four or five masks we regularly wear.

We all have a "face to meet the faces that (we) meet."  Dexter is fully aware of which face he's wearing.  He creates a persona that leads other people to believe he's just like them.  To do otherwise would lead to getting caught.  And what fun is there in that?

"Dexter" has been tremendously popular because we see a bit of ourselves in him, I think.  He is the worst parts of us contained in a dry, attractive, palatable exterior.  I look forward to seeing the show every week so I can think about what I see in myself that's reflected in that character.

Of course, maybe that's just me.  I'm not whom I appear to be, either.  On almost as grand a scale as that character.  The only place I never, ever wear a mask is here.  And, of course, I'm never dangerous anywhere, not even to myself anymore.

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3.18.2008
Yesterday, Hubby gave me a copy of his latest book. This is the book he wrote while he was supposed to be contributing to our income, a source of prodigious conflict between us. It was published by an academic press and, though it's available at your local bookstore and I'd love to recommend it, doing so would require that I reveal personal information about myself. One of the things I love about the blog universe is that it's a private place for me. No one knows me, none of my daily friends even knows this blog exists. I'm truly, deeply myself here, in a way I could never be should those dear and not so dear gain access to it.

As I began reading, I remembered why I love Hubby, why I've loved him more than any single being I've ever met. It recalls for me, immediately and deeply, why our relationship endures despite stress, conflict and both the individual and personal erosions of daily life. Hubby understands my vision of life, the spontaneous recognitions that no one else can see with me. He not only understands, but he remembers and values.

His words cause me to see the world in new ways. They amuse me and move me in the deepest parts of my being. His vision of the world and mine intertwine. Perhaps that's so of all long-term relationships, that all couples create an insular existence, a language and value system uniquely their own. We all share a language singularly ours that communicates when it's time to leave the party or silently share a private joke amidst a crowd.

Our friendship, the many ways he intrigues and calls me to myself, sustain this partnership. We are very different in some critical ways. The erosions of daily life hone our separate personalities into our unique, authentic selves. As we grow into who we are, our differences are clarified and  magnified.   And yet, it is he who invites me to stand back and look at myself as an individual human being who is worthy of love.  It is he who invites me to step back and see him as the magical being sent for me to love.  Hubby knows things I don't know, his thought processes work differently than mine.  And yet, it is his words that recall for me how deeply our lives are entwined.

3.26.1008
I'm well into the book now, reminded as I read every word, turn every page, that love is a wondrous gift.  I'm grateful every day, no matter what, for the person who embodies that gift.

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Yesterday morning, one of my colleagues marveled at length about my "sunny disposition."  Hah!

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