100 words a day

Dear 100 Words A Day,

I have sadly neglected you. I cant pretend this will be the last time, and if you read back through my posts you’ll see it’s not the first time I’ve come crawling back, ashamed.

I have no good excuse: I haven’t been stuck on a deserted island without internet access, nor have I been in jail or laid up in the hospital. I’ll chalk it up to lazy and lack of self-confidence, if I’m really being honest.

And that’s one thing I have always given you, my dear 100 words, is honesty. Scout’s honor.

I’ve had way too many people and way too many things living in my head – rent free for way too long.  I’ve allowed people and things to clutter my thoughts with worries and despair and I’ve ended up making so many wrong decisions.

The space inside my head is valuable.  Allowing people to live there without returning my feelings and concerns has been the single most destructive force in my life.  My head and heart have been rent free for so long I didn’t know any better; until now.  There’s a rent increase and eviction notices have been sent out. 

Today would’ve been my Mom’s 75^th birthday, but cancer took her a few short years ago.  Those years seem like minutes.   My Dad will spend today worrying about starting a new chemo drug; a powerful one designed to help his cancer from spreading.  He’ll spend it missing his wife more than usual – if that’s possible.  No one asks for cancer.  My parents certainly didn’t sign up.

I think my Mom would have liked to have celebrated three-quarters of a century today.  She was always up for a party with friends and family around.  Happy Birthday; we’re glad you’re always here.

Rehab and recovery are a lot like tides.  There’s constant ebb and flow along with brilliant moments of stillness and the uncertainty of impending storms.

Poetic words for explaining something un-poetic.  Recovery from ANY addiction is hard.  The success rate is lousy and almost –ALMOST every addict I’ve ever met has either slipped or flat-out lied about using again.

“Progress, not perfection” is the oft-repeated mantra which carries a great deal of wisdom.  Problem is that wisdom is usually only understood by other addicts.  Well-meaning supporters don’t always understand why addicts just don’t “Just Do It.”  We try; every day. 

I knew an over-the-phone breakup wouldn’t do, so we agreed to meet at my place after he got off work.

“I have some things to say, and besides there’s something I’ve wanted to do with you for some time,” he said.

He arrived amid rain showers and strong winds with an improvised plan; laid out blankets in my living room and set up flashlights inside a box pricked with holes.  We communicated with words and with silence under the ersatz stars.

He vented and asked questions. I tried to answer them.

I fought urges to hold him.

I fought tears.

Loved: the architecture and detailing, the enormous scale of Chateau de Versailles, the pyramid at the Louvre right alongside the older wings, walking everywhere, Nike of Samothrace, that wine and cheese were so inexpensive, Pere Lachaise Cemetery, the double-decker dessert with the chocolate inside, almost every piece of art inside Musee d’Orsay, finally reaching the top of the hundreds of stairs at Notre Dame right after yelling, “I HATE THIS”.

Didn’t love:  that meal where I thought I was getting steak frites but instead got a giant slab of seared ground beef, bright red and still cold in the middle.

I did not wake up this morning planning to break up with my boyfriend, but I suppose I knew it was coming.

Chris and I have been together 6 months.  He has been the most mature, communicative, easygoing boyfriend.  I recently got back from an enchanting week in Hawaii, and when I returned home found myself in a weird place. 

I didn’t miss him.

Not like a boyfriend should miss his boyfriend, but like a friend would miss a friend.

22 minutes and 29 seconds on the phone solidified the transition.

Why do I feel like I’ve made a mistake?

I spent the last two days agonizing over National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo.)  During that time, I wrote exactly zero words, which put me about 3,300 words in the hole.  In an attempt to kick-start myself, I re-read the story inspiring the novel and became even more depressed and discouraged.

The story has potential.  But stressing about NaNoWriMo is not going to get it written.  I need to write it over a longer period of time, with less pressure.

To my fellow NaNoWriMates:  Forge ahead and meet your goal.  I’ll be waiting at the finish line to cheer you on.

My father always said the only doctors who know what they’re talking about and tell people the truth are coroners.  Forensic doctors are the only ones who can say for certain what made a patient sick.

 My dad has cancer and my mother died from it and in both cases, the truth is really just guessing.  Most people have the same experience from their physician whether it’s the flu or something more serious.

I was lucky.  My surgeon saved my life a few years ago and always told the truth.  Halloween was my surgery anniversary and he remains my friend.

I know something is wrong before she says hello.  A daughter can read her mother’s facial expression, even over the phone.   Then she uses the word diagnosed in the same breath as grandmother.  My legs go numb.  Time slows and it feels like I’ve lived two lifetimes by the time she finishes the sentence.   When she does I feel the blood return to my legs.  Parkinson’s.  I know little of it other than Michael J Fox has it and is trying to fundraise his way to a cure.

I feel guilty I’m relieved; I thought the news would be worse.