Birthdays & Ass Cancer

Today is Julia Robert's birthday.  And mine.  We were born during "the week of intensity" according to an astrology book I once read.  I'd have to agree with that.

I recently found a hard little bump while showering.  No, it wasn't a breast mass.  It was an ass mass.  How humiliating.  My first thought was of Farrah Fawcett and her long agonizing death, how Michael Jackson stole her thunder by dying of mysterious causes on the same day.

My second thought was that I had to see this mass up close so yes, I took a picture of it with my cell phone.  Then I Googled "anal cancer", saved and compared photos.  Then I called Dr. Gerald Bailey, a colon/rectal doctor who shares an office with...wait for it...Horace Butts.  Seriously.

I've had every disease and cancer imaginable.  In my mind.  But this time felt different, like every time does.  Still, while you're convinced you may have ass cancer, you think about how things will go.  I wondered what my hair would be like when or if it returned after chemotherapy.  I nonchalantly asked my hair dresser about her cancer patients' hair and she said, "Their hair is never the same.  It's coarse and thinner.  So sad."

My vanity kicked in and I panicked.  I'd age thirty years after all the stress, chemicals, radiation and weight loss.  I'd be suddenly old.  With ass cancer. 

The day of my appointment with Dr. Bailey, I packed an extra pair of socks.  I badly needed a pedicure and didn't want him to see my dry heels.  Where were my priorities?  He'd be looking at my anus and I was worried about my feet?

Anyway, as I drove in gridlocked traffic to the Houston, Texas medical center, I watched trailers of Farrah Fawcett's Playboy video, All of Me. I'd never seen the video but heard about how ditzy she'd seemed during filming.  She had a beautiful body though, at fifty, no less.  In one scene she covers her entire naked body in brown paint and rolls gleefully on a giant canvas.  She bounces on the canvas, her painted butt leaving a chain of brown smeared ovals.  This was a few years before her cancer diagnosis and I wondered if, as she created this legacy on canvas of her rear end, her cancer was already growing.

I drove up eleven stories in the parking garage before finally finding a spot.  I'd worn my favorite orange shirt and brought my journal.  I was prepared to chronicle the beginning of my cancer journey.

Wanda the nurse took my blood pressure not long after I arrived on the 23rd floor of the Smith Towers building. She sat me in an office to wait for Dr. Bailey.  There was nothing in his office except a desk, three chairs, and a creepy painting on the floor (a red, faceless, naked human perched atop a sand-colored staircase leading to an infinite ocean).  There was also a drawing hung on the wall, an image of a 19th century doctor sitting beside a dying little girl, her distraught mother weeping, her head down on a wooden table.

In addition to a computer on Dr. Bailey's L-shaped desk, there was a telephone and a book titled The ASCRS Textbook of Colon & Rectal Surgery.  A fake ivy sat beside the window.

Because the office was so bare, I suspected he had either just moved in or was soon to move out.  That, or he just didn't care.

Maybe he was depressed, or young and fresh out of residency.  Or maybe he was older and bounced from job to job in an attempt to stay ahead of a dark past.

When Dr. Bailey entered, I immediately asked, "Is this really your office?"

It wasn't, thankfully, and he promised to show me his real office after the exam.  Then I told him I had pictures to show him, certain I was one of his rare proactive patients.  "Do many patients take pictures of their masses?"

"You'd be surprised," he answered while typing something into his computer, eyebrows raised.  He was an older man, white hair and enough wrinkles that I trusted him.  I stood with my cell phone to show him the pictures, enlarging the image with my thumb and forefinger when necessary.  He thanked me, cool and calm, then looked back at his computer screen and began to type again.  I was just another asshole, but that was okay.  He seemed intelligent, experienced, and had a far less depressing office somewhere.

In the exam room Wanda asked me to kneel on what looked like a church kneeler.  "You don't have to take your clothes off, just kneel, pull your pants down and bend over."

I waited for her to leave the room so I could have some privacy, but she just stood there.  Apparently, Dr. Bailey was outside the room and ready to get started.  So I quickly moved to the gray vinyl kneeler, got on my knees, and pulled my pants down mid-thigh.  I immediately thought of Sister Christian at Holy Name Catholic School, her long thick paddle, the thwack of the wood against my plaid uniform.

Wanda covered me with something the size of a Bounty paper towel.  It fell to the floor just as Dr. Bailey walked in.  He joined Wanda behind me, which made me feel like anyone would feel with their pants down and two strangers standing behind them.  Then I felt the warmth of a bright light just before I heard the sound of air being pumped into me.  It felt like a tire up  my butt.

"It looks healthy in here," said Dr. Bailey, the first human to thoroughly investigate my interior terminus.  "I think you have a little hemorrhoid with a blood clot.  I'm really not worried.  Just take a few hot baths and it'll be gone."

I was still bent over, my arms and face resting on gray vinyl in this gray-walled room.  But I was seeing color again, even as the doctor scraped my little bump for biopsy.  "I guess I can stop Googling Farrah Fawcett now," I said.

"Yes, you can."

Dr. Bailey's actual office was full of credentials, family photos and owl figurines.  I'd liked him immediately, even in the dreary first office, but now I adored him.  I figured he was old enough to be retired by the time I was old enough to really worry about ass cancer.  Therefore this was the last time we would see each other under these particular circumstances.  It wasn't a sad thought, just one of those stops you know you'll never make again.  Then he said, "You know, you'll need a colonoscopy when you turn fifty next year."

Another reminder that I'm getting, we're all getting, older.

Even so, I am especially grateful on this birthday to know that now is not the time to die.  I will not have to shamefully explain to anyone where my cancer was, lose my hair or age thirty years in six weeks, not yet at least.  I can plan for another year, schedule that colonoscopy, celebrate not having yet another illness.  This gratitude is best described in the following poem, which is about all bliss.  Enjoy, and live fully.

Oh, and Happy Birthday Julia.



The feeling is an acoustic guitar and a wooden porch, a crisp spring blue and nowhere to be.

It's a hammock swaying in the steady center of the world.

The mood is lavender in a breeze, laughter like dandelion puffs caught in playful currents.

It's a road without stops, a giant gulp of air, a birthday cake two hundred stories high.

Your heart is wrapped in other hearts, clear skies and eternities.

You were born today.

Field (Autism)

In the dream I dig away endless fields of dandelions.

A voice asks who you'd be without them.

I picture a future where the weeds never were, where you marry and grow a son to love as I have.

I meet you there, a future never planted and you're taller than I imagined, stronger than your father, and you tell me not to worry, to make healing tea from forgotten flowers, to dance as the weightless pappus born to trust.

You say a single flower can set another hundred free.

I hold you in the middle of the golden lion's teeth, priest's crowns leaning with invisible winds, then I wake in your blue room, toy trains and cars scattered, your small hand in mine in the only field we know.

The Babes of 2013

It's 8:49 AM on the first day of the new year.

The year looked modern at first, that two thousand in front of the thirteen.  But then I imagined what people thought of the new year when it was 1913.  How modern did they they feel?  What will 2113 feel like?

I just don't believe we're the big shits we think we are.  We're just ego fat, overly proud.  And this is dangerous.

I woke up this morning thinking about Korea, that their missiles can reach us.  I thought of Kennedy and Cuba.  I thought about the newly approved tax increase on the "wealthiest Americans" and what Obama's agenda must look like.  I'd just woken from a dream about holding a baby boy, my grandchild in the dream, and trying to explain to a stranger how I obtained the child and why he had tattoos all over his forehead -- green snakes and red paisleys, vines and leaves and tiny dots.

Baby new year?  Who knows.

Today means black-eyed peas, though no one will eat them beyond the obligatory one bite.  We just want luck, that's all.  Dumb tradition, but aren't they all?  Sweet and dumb.  What I should really be doing is making out my Will.  I started filling out paperwork over a year ago then stopped.  I suppose it was disturbing, giving away my stuff while I'm still alive, planning my burial and such.  But it has to be done.

But not today.  Maybe next week, or the week after.  I'll get to it.  I promise myself this.  And my tattooed grandchild.

I'll be babysitting my actual grandchild tomorrow, my first, a little girl.  Her mother goes back to work and the nanny is already leaving town for four days.  So I'll have two month old baby London for three days this week, and we'll see what I can remember about infants.  It's only been five years since my youngest was born, but I'm getting old and can't remember much, or maybe I've blocked out the horrors.  It's hard to say.  I think I'm resting on my laurels, looking back at my work -- four kids -- and feeling like the big shit I'm not.  What if my kids were within an inch of their lives all along, and I just got lucky?  Or they did.  But they didn't know to wish for it, eat peas for it, or that they were small and vulnerable.  I don't think any of us are aware of how vulnerable we are until much later on, when we're remembering all the times we drove a little tipsy or slept with the guy whose name we couldn't remember or that time we missed death by a mere micrometer.

We never know exactly how lucky we are, or when that luck will run out.

I had a thought last night, just after midnight while New York was cleaning up all the confetti in Times Square.  I imagined living in a war zone.  I imagined what other humans consider normal, not natural but normal.  A normal nightmare.  I imagined what the bombs must sound like, how much cortisol rushes through a targeted population daily.  I imagined being hungry, vulnerable, dirty.  Homeless.

It took a while to fall asleep but I did, even as a few fireworks continued in the night, illegal here but they happen anyway.  It was like the fourth of July, the brand new year, the beginning of what will seem old one day.  Those in 2113 won't remember me, will never know I existed, though I fell asleep thinking of them.  And wondering about luck.

Ornaments

There are no ornaments on our Christmas tree, not because we've already removed them, but because they were never hung.

Making time to pull out boxes and unwrap ornaments was an off and on conversation, my husband finally deciding he was too tired after work, me deciding I was also tired and had other things to do, more important things like organizing cluttered closets and plucking tiny hairs from my chin. 

Priorities, you know.

The tree is artificial with built-in lights that come on automatically at dusk.  The lights match those coiled around the stair balustrade, bright points tucked in plastic green garland, and mine, a skinny strand as old as my marriage, is falling apart.

The only other decorations are two four-foot nutcrackers, three smaller ones, some fake poinsettias and other shiny, glittery, sparkly things that are easily lifted and set down; no assembly or unwrapping required, no ladders needed or repackaging.

Easy.

I felt bad for the children, for my seven year old who asked three times when we could decorate the tree.  We offset this desire by planting enthusiasm for all the gifts she would receive this year, those from Santa beneath our bare tree, and those from extended family in San Antonio where we travel each year.  Eventually we won, or materialism did, and Christmas came and went without another word about the missing ornaments. 

We forfeited the usual ceremony of family and tradition, dismissed the memories not made.  And I regret that.

Tomorrow the tree and nutcrackers will go back upstairs to the storage closet.  We'll welcome 2013 in some underwhelming manner, probably before it's time since midnight just seems too late to stay up for anymore.  There's not much fanfare associated with celebrating the new year when you have young children, when you choose to stay home because you're too tired to go out.  The TV metro hoedowns are shallow, the celebrities with glitter eyeshadow and microphones, cheerful falsettos.  But we watch them anyway, and won't bother staying up for morbid reasons, to see if Dick Clark's speech has improved, because he's checked out of the New Year scene now.

We will hang up new calendars, two in the kids' bedrooms, one of baby animals and another called Cats Doing Yoga.  Ornaments for the passage of time.

I have secretly vowed to override my own or anyone else's excuses for not hanging Christmas ornaments next year.  I used to step up and take over when everyone else's enthusiasm deflated, but I was deeply a-spirited this year.  Cheerless.  This is no excuse for robbing the children of tradition, of holiday process and cheer. 

I'll just have to buy a taller ladder, to reach the peak of the artificial tree, top it with a bright plastic star. 

Get Out of the Way

Writing prompts that involve several words have never appealed to me. I need something very basic but full of possibility, like a single word. If someone says, "Write about faith" or "Write about filth" I might write about religion. If they say, "Write about worms" or "Write about politicians", it's the same topic. But I get to interpret with fewer boundaries. No one is asking me to incorporate "Tea, sidewalks, amusement parks and trout" into one writing. That's too narrow. I have to really think about it which gets in the way.

Thinking too much is self-consciousness, like pulling fragile petals from blooms.

I think we write best when we stop thinking about writing, about words, grammar and spelling. Those concerns are for the later edit. The left brain. Stephen King once wrote that we should write our first draft "with the door closed". We should write without concern that anyone in the world will ever read it, without any thought that anyone else even exists. It's just us and our story, a whole that moves unselfconsciously, like a toddler or Mother Nature without pruning.

I do struggle with this. In fact, I edited the last eight words I wrote twice before I put a period at the end. It's like an itch I can't ignore, fixing something the moment I know it's wrong. But did I lose my flow? Forget my point? Lose a bloom of right-brain wholeness as I pulled the petals off mid-flower?

There are few instances that we don't have to worry about how we are perceived. Those moments usually happen when we're alone, windows covered, doors locked. We can walk around naked, watch infomercials or eat an entire gallon of Blue Bell peppermint ice cream. We can pass gas, scream expletives or touch ourselves. No one will see. No one will ever know unless we tell them or gain fifty pounds from the Blue Bell. But personal writings meant for the public eye are subject to criticism.

Writing is the only art measured by itself. Paintings aren't critiqued with more painting. Songs aren't reviewed with more singing. Only writing is reviewed using the same canvas, brushes, microphones and voices. And this difference makes it more vulnerable somehow. It is easier to take apart "i" with another "i".

Maybe we'd write better if we weren't so nervous about being naked, so protective that we stand in the way. Maybe every writing prompt should begin with the phrase: Get out of the way...

I wish I could.

I Miss Pencils

I've never bragged about being computer savvy. I'm not. In fact, I have two documents I can't send at the moment because I can't seem to turn off the "underline" element. I highlight the text from top to bottom, click the hell out of the Underline icon and nothing happens.

I lost my car manual long ago. It tells me what all the buttons of my Mercedes do, way too many buttons, just like my computer. Way too many buttons like my home alarm system, thermostat, and TV remote control. Even if I had a manual for these things, they'd be too thick to read in any button emergency.

My iPhone and iPad are different. They explain themselves, communicate telepathically. Here, tap this. Yes, that's it. Good girl. You're there now. My other devices taunt and insult, ignore me. I hate them. I hate complicated things that look down on me, live without my input, require no intimacy.

What ever happened to the good ol' pencil? You didn't have to call the Geek Squad when your pencil broke. It didn't get viruses. It didn't crash. It didn't cost much more than a postal stamp.

And what was so wrong with typewriters? Or at least tell me, why do we need so many buttons? How many fonts do we need to communicate? Why can't we choose one margin and tab setting and live with it? Why do we need so many useless confusing features?

There's an underlying premise to all advertising: Convince consumers they need what they don't. Selling is just that. Pushing a choice that will make the seller money. Food and clothing aren't just that anymore. They're necessities broken into a zillion unnecessary options. Choices gone awry. Viral. Expensively so. Grocery stores and malls give me hives. There's too much sensory input, price tags everywhere, carnivorous kiosks, blinding strobe lights and hypnotising ad campaigns. How many versions of ketchup do we really need? How many brands of sanitary napkins? C'mon.

So I'm about to send one hundred pages littered with underlining to an editor because either my button's stuck or I'm still stuck in the pencil era. He'll probably decide I can't be represented if I can't operate my own equipment, if a simple button has me baffled. I can't say I blame him, but the ultimate insult would be for him to reject me by snail mail. Plain stationary. Cursive. All in pencil.

Conversations With the Dead: 2/283 Seabrook, Texas (1307 Bellgrove - Letter from Mom to Charlotte)

Dear Charlotte,

Just thought I'd drop a line or two, to prove I do write once in a while.

I think Teresa is coming up there this coming weekend.

I'm going to group therapy every Monday night and the head doctor has put me on a medication like you're taking (it's safe). I feel a lot better taking it. I don't have those weird mood changes. Kind of levels me out. He thinks I have a chemical imbalance of something. And I sure can see a difference. Been taking it right, too. (You couldn't get high if you took the whole thing!).

Hope you'll take Teresa to the health place so she can get her birth certificate (or get it from Jay). And she's so excited about her new car she's getting. I'm excited for her.

P.S. I've tried to call you several times. Line busy or no answer.

Love,
Mom

~~~

"You couldn't get high if you took the whole thing!" Which Mom did. The bottle was empty.

This is the last of anything Mom wrote to anyone. It is written on stationary with a little girl on the front wearing a bonnet, prairie dress and patchwork apron. It is raining and her umbrella has a patch sewn on it. The girl is pulling a small cart behind her filled with bread, vegetables and daisies. I imagine she'll eat the daisies, smoke the bread, and throw the vegetables at her enemies.