More Pain, More Thoughts

My brand of  love scares away boys and sets back feminism 40 years. Writing about love is gauche now, anyway. That's why I get migraines--to give me something to write about. It's a through-line to my story, a  regular source of conflict, and a free pass to be self-involved.
Free pass is putting it nicely.
Screaming internal distraction that makes it hard to notice much else. Unless I lose myself in something. Today I spent a very long time figuring out how much something listed in an obscure currency decades ago would cost today (as in, today dollars versus then shekels, not how much it's actually worth today). I edited  photos, tried to write product descriptions, got frustrated and heard my brain fizzling, and finally settled in to watch a gazillion episodes of Twin Peaks.
I wanted to be functional this weekend. I even saved my shots this week and drugged up Saturday morning. No good. Pain pain pain since Friday. Before that, too? I don't really remember when this bout started. It's been a bad one. HDS leaves tomorrow and her husband and friend came to pick her up. I wanted to have a nice goodbye weekend. I want to feel well enough to know want.

I'm supposed to go out to see my mom on Tuesday and maybe go shopping with her. It's been less than seven weeks since she was diagnosed with cancer. Now she may be fine to drive and shop again. That's amazing. She's so lucky and we're so lucky and everything has been so amazing. But there's a part of me that also struggles with her getting better and better while I have no real "better" in sight. Mine isn't scary, mine can't kill me. That's huge. But there are no walks, no ribbons, no support groups, no t-shirts, no awareness months, no product lines, and no foreseeable relief for my migraines. I will never be a "survivor," and that's appropriate because there was never any threat. Cancer is something you survive. But migraines are something you suffer.

I don't expect life to be easy, I just feel the things that aren't.

Everything is true at the same time, Reality is the version accepted by the majority.

Not Real Sucky

Headline News on mute in my mother's hospital room has been nonstop coverage of Lindsay Lohan. I don't have to look up the spelling of her name online because I can look up and it's on the TV. Still.

There are four clear turkey baster bulbs attached to four clear tubes attached to the incisions in my mother's chest. The body tries to heal the wounds, sends blood and fluid, and something needs to be sucked out. The tubes are stretchy and need to be squeezed clear of blood clots. Then we have to empty the bulbs and measure the fluid.

I don't have to do any of this. I volunteered. I'm strangely good at it, except when I tried to feed her the applesauce and got more on her than in her. At least I thought to bring the applesauce. All natural, NOT chunky, no sugar added. My dad said she'd been really nauseous all day, and I'm an expert at nauseous. She has dry mouth, too, way worse than I ever did but at least I understand the feeling. Ice chips mixed with the apple sauce trumped everything the hospital tried to feed her. You'd think hospitals would know these kinds of things, but I suppose it's different for everyone. We're related, so I imagine our reactions are far more similar. Nausea requires cold. Cold and wet, but not clammy. I'll often run my wrists under cold water at rest stops to battle the car sickness. My mom was grateful and amazed that I knew to put ice chips on her wrists when she was at her wooziest. But with her, with Cancer, with life in general, there's so much beyond my and anyone's control. I want to say it's "nice" to be able to make her feel better in little ways for even a moment, but "nice" the wrong word. It's all I can do and I'll take it.

The past few days have been filled with heat waves and electrical storms and flash flooding. Our power went out three times in the last week, only once while it was raining. Driving to the hospital today traffic signals were out or blinking all over the place. Transformers 3 filmed in Chicago last weekend, with explosions and parachuting and fireballs. Tuesday HDS and I sat on the Wao Bao patio at State and Lake and heard a huge blast. Most people didn't even look up.

I feel like the world is getting more and more absurd. There's crazy shit all over and we have our far-fetched explanations because if you stop and really think about any of it, the whole universe is too insane to be real. My dreams make more sense than my awake. Nothing makes real sense, we just stretch and accept whatever gets put before us. We're incredibly flexible creatures. Turkey basting my mother's chest? Why not.