My mother has stage six Alzheimer’s.
My daddy has a tumor in his lung.
And a girl with heavy, kohl eyeliner challenged my myopia tonight.
I keep trying to write here, and I keep getting nowhere. I’ve started and stopped, and started again. Over and over. Each post seems whiny and definitely not funny at all. I try to find humor every single day, and at the moment it eludes me. So I just don’t post anything. I go dark, and admittedly have found some solace there.
I’m not saying I don’t laugh at all. I do. People at work are funny and they say things in passing that make me laugh. Zoe regularly cracks me up, as does M. But I don’t have sustained, gut-busting, tear-inducing, therapeutic laughter. I haven’t had the kind of experiences lately that make me think, “Now that’s a funny blog post.” Instead, I’m feeling battered. I’m dodging curveballs and continually assessing and adjusting, and I’m so exhausted I can’t even imagine what might be coming next. I’m day-to-day right now. A friend told me that’s how I’ll get through this, and I know she’s right. I’m starting to truly understand that day-to-day is another way to say survival. I remind myself that this is where I am right now. I am going through this, but that’s the beauty of it…I are going through it. I am not standing still. I will come out the other side. Bruised but whole. Stronger in the broken parts. Hopefully.
I went to open mic tonight, having in mind one piece to read (which started as a short story but has largely just been an extended character study so far) and wound up changing at the last minute to something more light-hearted. The only thing I’ve written with any humor in it lately, largely inspired by half a bottle of wine. It was okay. It got a few laughs. People came up after and told me they liked it and I ran out of business cards, which is not as impressive as it sounds after I admit that I only carry three at a time. I was asked to join a critique group, which both thrills me and makes me wonder if I can handle adding anything else right now, even if it’s something I desperately want and need to continue to improve my craft. The critique group may have to wait. Maybe it won’t. Maybe it can’t. I’ll have to see when I get to that day. It’s on the fifteenth, I think. That’s a million miles away.
I woke up at 3 a.m. one morning last week and wondered how in the hell can I be a mother. I feel so lost, so unmoored…how can I be raising a child? If I don’t know what I’m doing, how can I guide her? It was unsettling, and kept me up. That one might fester for awhile.
I’ve been listening to Elizabeth Gilbert’s Magic Lessons podcast, on the recommendation of a dear friend who knows me to my soul and always seems to point me in exactly the right direction when I’m wandering lost. The podcast, perfect lengths for a commute to and from work, is like a little bit of oxygen in a starved environment. It helps me remember that I’m not alone, that other people are struggling to create (music, writing, paintings), too. Everyone has some sort of struggle. One woman Ms. Gilbert interviewed has found herself creatively stuck after losing her sister two years ago. I could hear her grief, which sounded as fresh as if she had lost her sister yesterday. And I am grateful, for at the very least, despite everything else I’ve got going on, I still have mine. (I tried like hell to lose her last week, but we persisted and she’s stuck with me and I know that even when we fight it’s because we love so very much.)
I cry a lot now. I’m all for a good cry every now and then. It releases everything, leaves the heart clear, fresh and shining like the world after a good storm. My crying, though, hasn’t been the good, clearing kind. It’s been the kind that comes unexpectedly when someone looks at me – really looks at me – and asks, “How are you doing?” Yesterday it was my monk who triggered my tears; he who contains whole worlds in his eyes. His students swear he can see into your very soul when he looks at you. I understand why they think that.
There is a group of women – mothers – where I work who have offered to help me, to help my family. They are offering to bring us meals. I received an email from one of them and burst into tears. Their kindness stunned me into speechlessness. I couldn’t even write back immediately. I waited until the next morning. I explained everything that is going on. She wrote back and said I know. She said I know exactly where you are. She said My dad had Alzheimer’s. I cried again and my heart broke for her and for me and I found comfort in this awful, shared experience.
I went to open mic tonight and when a girl with kohl eyeliner stood up and belted out two powerful poems, I was transported out of my world and into hers, just for the briefest of moments. It felt good to be challenged, to be reminded that there are so many other experiences happening every minute of every day. Some are just as painful as mine, if not more. Some are joyous and full of delight and wonder. The former gives me strength; the latter gives me hope.
When Nora Ephron’s mother was on her deathbed, she told her daughter, “Take notes.” She had also told her, over and over again, “Everything is copy.” I believe that, and because I believe that I write through it all, good and bad. So I’ve decided to just put this out there, and you all can see where I am right now. It’s not a happy-fun place. It’s nothing that will make you laugh. It’s simply where I am, who I am right now: raw and battered, red-eyed and exhausted, and definitely not funny. My mother has Alzheimer’s. My daddy has a tumor in his lung. As painful as this is, it’s my reality. Maybe you’ll find some strand of shared experience, something that makes you think, “Me, too” and realize you aren’t alone, either. Maybe you won’t, but you’ll get a glimpse into a life different than your own and learn something new. Maybe you’ll say, “Bah. I liked it better when she wrote funny.” Me, too, friend. Me, too.