I have a name. It arrived in the mail last week. Bonney Lee Eva King. That’s me. An official declaration by the Province of British Columbia on January 23, 2014. It was printed on one of those cheesy government certificates that are the same color as our fifty dollar bill. So it must be real.
Truth is, it feels surreal. And ironic.
Surreal, because it’s been a long time coming. I was 24 when I learned I wasn’t who I thought I was. Some of you know this story from a previous blog post called, “What Happens in 204 Stays in 204 and the Fine Art of Secret Keeping.”
The truth about my mistaken identity was revealed by the government of Canada when my ex-husband, who was my boyfriend at the time, and I decided to go to Europe. We mailed off our passport applications and within weeks he got his, no sweat. All I got was a letter from the government saying, essentially, that I didn’t exist.
Ridiculous. Preposterous. Insane. Impossible. Laughable if it wasn’t happening to me.
Little back story on the back story.
This is the conversation between me and Ma the night I called her to find out what the hell was going on. Taken from that original blog post, it went down something like this:
“Ma, a strange thing happened when I tried to get my passport.”
“What’s that dear?”
“I got this letter from the government saying I don’t exist.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Glo told me everything Ma.”
Silence followed. By a pregnant pause. By more silence.
“Ma why didn’t you just put The Old Man’s name on my birth certificate?”
“I didn’t know I could.”
So the truth was, I did exist. I just had a different last name than the one I had been using for 24 years. Legally it was same as my three older siblings. And appallingly, the same surname as their biological father, Ma’s infamous, and rarely spoken of, first husband.
Since Ma and The Old Man never married, I was their illegitimate child. Isn’t that a quaint expression? I think all children are legitimate. And once born, belong here on earth. Precious and valued. Being a veritable product of the sixties, I like to think that I was their “Love Child.” I can feel the earth in Northwestern Ontario rumble as the two of them roll over in their shared grave.
For decades I was crippled by an illogical fear that it would be intensely complicated, far too time consuming, and downright next to impossible to get my name legally changed. I viewed it as a colossal mess beyond anything I could handle, much less fix. Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt. I was also intimidated by the Big Government machine that declared me nonexistent at 24. This grew so epic in my mind that it prevented me from taking even the teeniest baby-steps towards change.
I was stuck.
Then something happened last summer that was a pain in the ass at the time. But turned out to be the proverbial kick in the ass I needed to transform my thinking. And take action.
I went to get my Drivers License renewed. No big deal. I do it every five years. Except this year, the Government of BC had implemented a new policy. Who knew? Not me. My bad.
Here’s my “Dummies” version. To provide better security, in a world of ever increasing fraud and deception, our Health Care Cards and our Drivers Licenses, or some other form of legal identification with a photo, are now connected. They’ll both be stored together like conjoined twins in one of those big bureaucratic organisms that is way beyond my comprehension. There’s also a hitch. Caveat. Proviso.
The names on both cards have to match.
And mine would have, had there not been an unfortunate typo on my Drivers License. I knew about the typo but it had been a non-issue until this new government policy was instated.
The plot thickens.
I also learned on that fateful summer day that if I didn’t have a connected Health Card Card/Drivers License I could be in big trouble in five years. The government health coverage, for which I have been paying up the yin-yang for years, will be compromised. Or worse. Null and void. I’m no Psychic but I see a hot mess on the horizon.
That was all it took. Scared the shit out me. Imagine a Canadian without health care. Unthinkable.
Long story short.
I finally went through the process of changing my name. One small step at a time. In the end it was no big deal, cost a little over $300 and a bit of my time here and there. Worth every cent and every second.
Now for the ironic part.
It took over 20 years and a chunk of money to get divorced from my first husband. Remember him? The guy I was going to go to Europe with when I was 24. During that 20 years, E and I were living together, had a Love Child of our own and in 2011, after a painful year of litigation, were married on the top of the hill behind our home. The night before we got married we filled out the paperwork with our Pastor for the marriage license.
In the space for my name I wrote, Bonney Lee Eva King.
At the Vital Statistics Agency I learned that, in my particular case, the most expeditious way to change my name would be to use the one on my marriage license. It was a ground zero document and a good place to start.
That presented a disconcerting conundrum.
Do I take the last name of the man I just spent over 20 years extricating myself from because it’s the swiftest thing to do? Do I take E’s last name because we are now legally married? Or do I change it to something completely different like Zelda Zooey because it might be fun to reinvent myself as a borderline fool?
In the end, I chose the name on my marriage license. Not because it was the quickest and easiest way out of all this messy name business. But because I’ve spent more time with that name than any other. It’s become part of my identity. Without realizing it, I grew into the name. It’s me. Feels right. Resonates. When I see it on paper, I recognize it.
Besides, I love the nickname and writing handle that goes with it.
Boo King. That’s me too.
I love spaghetti and meatballs. Always have. In fact, it’s one of the first foods that I remember enjoying. Picky Eater doesn’t even come close to describing my disinterest in food as a kid. But Ma’s S ‘n M was a whole other story. Now I’m no connoisseur, but I have eaten enough to know a good meatball when I taste it. Trust me, her’s were the best. And her marinara sauce? To live for.
It wasn’t so much what Ma put into this weekly Italian favorite that made it so spectacular. But how she prepared it that made the world of difference. Like all good cooks she had her secrets. Her little arsenal of remarkable tastes that you couldn’t quite put a finger-licking finger on.
One of my all-time fondest memories is the smell of Saturday morning at 204.
Fresh coffee brewing, bacon and eggs frying, Shaw’s white bread toasting. Fused with these intoxicating breakfast scents, was the savory smell of Ma’s spaghetti sauce simmering on top of the stove. Imagine waking up to that every Saturday morning. Trust me, it was the top of the comfort mountain. A warm hug from heaven. A kiss sweeter than your first. A gentle breeze fluttering through gossamery white curtains. Quite simply, nothing else like it.
I don’t have a recipe to share with you because Ma never cooked that way. Like all good cooks, it was pinch of this, a dash of that, a dollop and a handful. Everything to taste and talent. There’s a certain kind of genius at play, that’s impossible to describe. Besides, you don’t need the S ‘n M recipe anyway. For it’s not the physical ingredients that made it taste so good.
What made my all-time fave comfort food so lip-smacking, scrumptious and sinfully delicious were these 5 things:
1. Start early. Be the first one up. Breathe in those early quiet and peaceful moments just before dawn. Solitude in the kitchen is a divine gift. Cherish it. Let the whisper of God and the whistle of nature inspire you. Run your fingers over the fresh ingredients that will be the life of the sauce. Let your eyes feast on their colors. Inhale the herbs and spices that will infuse spirit into the sauce. Begin.
2. Good things take time. Never rush the sauce. Honor the process. Allow it to simmer on low. To slowly fill the house with its intoxicating delectable aroma. Room by room. Let it fill every inch with pleasure. Long and lazy that’s the key. Enjoy.
3. Double-dip family style. Let the taste testers dive in. All day long. Let the lid lift and open to an explosion of fragrant Italian goodness. Let the well-seasoned wooden spoon plunge into the saucy depths. Let them sip, sup and savor. Repeat.
4. Anticipation. Things taste better when filled with scrumptious expectancy. The longer the wait, the better the taste. Especially with marinara and spicy meatballs. As the divine bouquet fills the air, let your imagination wonder to the end of the day. Mealtime. Picture yourself there. Lick your lips. Savor.
5. Love. The essence of everything. The heart. The soul. The gist. The marrow of all good things. And all things that taste good.
There you have it. The delicious intangibles. The ethereal ingredients. The exquisite elements. The sorcery in the sauce.
Over the past year I have been asked if E’s cancer changed anything. What a preposterous question. Of course it changed things. It changed everything. But that’s not the question really being asked is it? You’re all too polite and kind to ask the big messy Q. Fear of intruding. Or opening wounds. Being considered nosey. But this is me you’re asking. I’ve been an open book since I started this blog in 2011. Poured my heart out. Spilled my guts. Let the cat out of the bag. Shared my deep dark dreary thoughts in this diary. So it’s perfectly okay to ask the real question on your mind.
HOW has cancer changed things?
If you were to peek into our house this Christmas, you’d probably smile, possibly sigh with relief, that everything appears the same. Sa-sa-sa-sa-same. Same family gathering. Same festivities. Same decorations and ornaments hung on the tree. It all looks very much like it did last year. And the year before. And the one before that. Right back to when E and I shared our first Christmas together. There have been a few different houses. We’ve all grown older. The kids are all now adults. There’s a grand daughter. A daughter-in-law. But the mood in the room is unchanged. Family jokes. Teasing. Cheerful banter. Laughter. Misty eyes. Magnanimous grateful hearts. Goodwill, and all that jolly ho-ho-ho.
Because of this ostensible normality it’s difficult at times to imagine that E is a cancer survivor. Sometimes I can’t even believe he had cancer at all. I think, did we really go through that? His 23 days in the hospital, now a distant memory slowly fading to black. I have to look at the photos that documented his stay there to bring clarity to my recollections. Fill in the gap between fact and fiction. Did this really happen? And sadly, have I diminished this life-altering experience to just another story that I tell?
Yet it was real. It did happen. Truth is, it changed everything.
There’s the obvious things. The loftier higher-self transformative stuff. Gratitude for a life being spared, given a second chance. Awareness of the fragility of our earth walk. Delight in the small precious things. Refined appreciation for all those we hold dear. Joy in the everyday and the mundane. Concern for all living creatures. Reverence for the fleeting passage of time. Appreciation of all that is good, for I am steadfast in my belief that there is more good than not. Awe and wonder at the sheer miracle of being here at all.
I thank God for this metamorphosis of the spirit. For giving my caterpillar heart butterfly wings.
But there’s more to this story. There’s the underbelly. The ugly shit that is difficult to admit. Even to myself. There’s the stuff I think I’ve kicked out the door and sent slithering down the road, only to turn around to find the ugliness standing in front of my kitchen sink doing dishes. Oh the shameful cowardly resentful thoughts I’ve had there. The devil’s face reflected in the white porcelain dinner plate. The monster in the bottom of the silver pot. The creep in the cast iron frying pan. All me.
There’s the fear that grips my gut and tears at my bowels. The anger that erupts and gasps and flares out of nowhere. The sudden and unforeseen tears that sting my cheeks. The frustration with a life interrupted. The impatience with everything, including E.
A foul tenacious undercurrent of dread flows through my nervous system. Silently terrified that cancer will return. It’s the uninvited guest in the room. The one that has outstayed its welcome. Can’t take a hint and leave. It’s the disturbing uneasiness beneath my flesh. The choking, suffocating, stifling vice grip. And at the heart of all this maelstrom, one thought prevails. Will this sinister beast return and snatch E in it’s Godzilla grip forever?
At times, often when I least expect it, I’m angry. Pissed off that a year later E is still in recovery. My impatient unkind inside-voice says, ‘get over this already.’ I want things to move according to my agenda, spoiled child that I am. Not E’s natural healing process. At the risk of sounding like Gilda Radner, ‘there’s always something.’ Rogue aches and pains throughout his body that seem to have nothing to do with cancer. Yet in some way they do. The hip bone is connected to the thigh bone, after all.
I cry. Like a baby some days. These crying jags are erratic. Out of the blue. Unpredictable. Indiscriminate and downright impolite. They take me by surprise. But then so did the diagnosis of cancer a year ago.
E’s personal mantra is that he “comes from good stock.” Hardy. Resilient. Tough as nails. It’s his Grizzly Adams fortitude and true grit that gets me through the hour of the wolf. It’s the call in the wilderness that keeps me going. One baby-step at a time.
Fuck cancer anyway. We don’t give up. That much hasn’t changed.
I’m not the marrying kind. Even though I’ve done it two times. That’s the enigma. It’s a mystery even to me. My personal paradox. The thing is, it’s not even that I don’t believe in marriage per se. I think it’s a fine enough thing to do, and anyone who chooses, should have that right. No matter what. I’m just not sure it’s something that really matters to me. Despite having done it twice. I’m ambivalent at best. It’s a Sunday morning quandary. I for one am positively stumped.
To say the two wedding ceremonies were as different as night and day, the East and the West, Chopin and The Clash, would be a monumental understatement.
The first time, I stood next to my betrothed in the muggy cramped claustrophobic office of a Justice of the Peace in the far reaches of northern BC. There were warning signs right from the get-go that I chose not to heed. Like my absurd fear of small spaces, yet there I was getting married in one. Then there was the JP, who was missing one of his thumbs. And the piece de resistance, he was wearing a burgundy leisure suit. His name may have been Ron. I don’t remember, which is probably a good thing. Best that I don’t remember all the intimate details of that day. Some situations and events are better left in a foggy haze.
By contrast, the second time with E was on top of large rocky hill with sweeping 360 degree views of the city and the ocean below. The clouds, the sun and the large expansive sky, a natural backdrop. Sheltered by ancient Garry Oaks, we were married by our beloved minister, surrounded by our beautiful family and friends. There was much music and laughter in the summer air. It was lovely and romantic. Well worth the twenty year wait.
But as wonderful as that was, it was nothing compared to T and D’s wedding last weekend.
Perhaps I was seeing through the eyes of a mother, who loves her son dearly. Or maybe it had something to do with how much I adore his beautiful sweet “Lady”. But the sight of these two dear ones exchanging vows stopped my heart. Took my breath away. Brought tears of joy.
All this vow taking over the past two years got me thinking about Ma and The Old Man. They were together for over fifty years yet they never married. They had their reasons. We didn’t talk about it much. For a long while, Ma carried a truckload of shame. Then there came a time where the legalities didn’t matter much anymore. When she was finally free to marry The Old Man, she chose not to. Perhaps the truth is, she wasn’t the marrying kind either.
No, they never said I do, in any formal way. Never took it to the alter. Not before God. Nor anyone else. But they did take it to heart, made promises and vowed, in all the ways that count.
I do love you. I do cherish you. I do respect you. I do honor you. I do want to be with you above all others. I do want to spend all the days of my life with you. I do want to be there by your side through sickness, health, good times and bad. I do want to hold you close to my heart and keep you forever in my soul.
They may not have been bound legally. But they were willingly united for life by the things that matter most. Commitment. Loyalty. Honesty. Faithfulness. Dependability. Steadfastness. Devotion. Trustworthiness. Kindness. Gentleness. Compassion. Generosity. Tolerance. Acceptance. Forgiveness.
And above all else. Love.
This morning I woke up. Thank God. As I was making the bed I thought about my plans for the day. Making a cup of cinnamon coffee. Writing my blog. Banking with E. Shoe shopping with M. The first two items on the list made me happy. The third, not so much. The fourth delighted me.
Then I had this thought. My two daughters are my best friends. Then I had this thought. I wonder if they’d find that pathetic. I know I’m not theirs. Nor should I be at their ages. Then I had this thought. My mother was my best friend. Then I had this thought. When she died I not only lost my mother, I lost my best friend. Then I had this thought. That blows.
Then I started to cry. Bawled my fucking brains out as I was making the bed. The whole nine yards. Messy tears and snot all over my face, the pillows, sheets and my new shabby chic comforter. Which by the way, was incapable of providing neither the degree, nor the depth, of comfort required to stop this sorrowful eruption of muck and mournfulness.
Then I had this thought. I’m sad. Probably even depressed.
I come by this melancholy honestly. Not that he talked about it. Not ever. But I think The Old Man was depressed, most of his adult life. Maybe it was because he was Finnish. Their suicide rates are high, especially in the winter, which is long, cold and dark. Much like Northwestern Ontario, where he lived his entire life. I got out when I was twenty-four. It was too dreary for me. On so many levels I can’t even begin to describe.
What caused his depression? Who knows. I can only speculate. One part environment. One part DNA. One party magical mystery tour. 
The Old Man sought refuge and relief from his misery in alcohol, watching sports on TV, buying new shoes, eating anything laced with sugar, swearing at inanimate objects, going to church on Sundays, shoveling snow in the winter and digging in his garden in the summer, umpiring little league games, taking long Sunday drives, scratching our dog’s belly, and sleeping. The older he got the more he slept. He was often antisocial, spending long hours alone in the spare room, behind closed doors watching TV or reading the daily newspaper. There was a Hammond Organ in that room that he tinkered with but never really learned to play. (However, he was an accomplished spoon percussionist.) The memory of that room, and his self-imposed exile and isolation, makes me sad.
People didn’t talk about their feelings back then. Men especially, kept things under wraps. Stiff upper lips and pulled up boot straps. The Old Man stuffed his sadness inside a profusion of plaid flannel shirts, only to unleash it every three months like clockwork, after a long night at the neighborhood saloon. The Crest on Red River Road. Instead of manifesting in tears, his hurt took a far darker, menacing form. He’d come home seething with anger. Uncontrollable rage. He never hit anyone because he was like a small yapping dog. All bark and no bite. But he ranted relentlessly and bullied the shit out of Ma and her kids. He was an unholy terror. It was one hell of a time.
During those dark nights of the soul, I hated him. Wished him dead. Prayed to God to strike him down with a bolt of lightening. A precise and explicit message from heaven. But that didn’t happen. Thankfully. Because the truth is, The Old Man was a good man when he wasn’t drinking. He had a kind, tender and sensitive heart, and he loved his family fiercely.
And he was ill.
An alcoholic. But the alcohol was merely self-medication. The deeper illness was depression. It makes me sad now to think that we didn’t know that. I mean, we knew intimately the subject matter of his rum and coke induced rages. The things that angered and tormented him. But we never understood why. Our family knew very little about the pathology of alcoholism as a disease. And even less about depression. Back then depressed people were crazy. Plain and simple. It was far better to be a self-pitying miserable alcoholic.
Over the years, I’ve often wondered if while I was praying to God to strike him dead, if he was doing the same thing. He went to church every Sunday. What were his prayers? Did he pray for help? Beg for healing? Did he seek forgiveness? Did he find comfort there? Did it any of it help? I hope so.
So here I sit. Years and miles away from Northwestern Ontario. Daylight is breaking. How do I deal with my sadness? This depression? The tears that stain my cheeks and cover my shabby chic comforter? I do this. I write. I run. I do yoga. I take long walks along quiet country roads. I take photographs. I play with my dogs. I love my family fiercely. I eat well. I take vitamins. I talk to my wise girlfriends about deep dark feelings. I pour my heart out to my husband. I listen to my children and look for clues on how to live a joyful life. I laugh my guts out. I pray. I meditate. I write letters to God. I count my blessings. I get up, go to work and give it my very best shot. I play my guitar and my clarinet. I read books. Listen to music. I dream. I hang out. I waste time. I watch TV. 
But I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t do drugs, except for the occasional ibuprofen. I do my best to stay away from sugar, especially white. I don’t give myself pep talks. They don’t work. I also don’t scold. Engage in self-pity, self-loathing or self-flagellation. I watch my inner dialogue. I try not to spend too much time alone in this room. Although that’s challenging because one of the things I love to do most requires that I spend long stretches of time in isolation.
Over the years I have found solace in motivational books and tapes, teachers, preachers, the wise and the enlightened. I’ve learned acceptance. Of what was. And what is.
Will I ever be completely free from depression and sadness? No. The truth is, I don’t want to be fully extricated. It’s part of who I am. Like my hazel eyes and crooked smile. It’s the fuel that fires some of my richest writing. The fountainhead of a few of my best ideas. My literary wellspring. It’s what allows me to feel things deeply. Not just my suffering. But yours. And yours. And yours. I shed tears for all living creatures. Even the dead rats I come across on the country road I walk. I like that about me.
Depression reminds me of my humanness. My weaknesses and strengths. It dictates that, in order to stay healthy, I must stay connected. It opens the eyes of my heart. And unleashes love, kindness, compassion, forgiveness, hope. And above all. Empathy.
I get it Dad. I get your pain.
I love Thanksgiving. It’s like Christmas without the retail hook and hassle. In Canada it’s a fairly low-key, somewhat muted holiday. I find this understatement peculiar, since we celebrate in October, which is smack-dab in middle of Autumn’s glory. In most of our country, it’s a month of colorful spectacle. Fall is strutting her stuff. Showing off in every possible way. Crisp days. Big blue skies. All those bold radiant colors. Red and orange dominate the scene.
But in typical Canadian fashion there isn’t a lot of hoopla around this holiday. Perhaps because it falls during a month when we have a fun and flamboyant fete. Creepy costumes and free candy are far more compelling than counting your blessings and gobbling turkey. Maybe having two holidays in the same month is just too much merriment and mirth. Thanksgiving is like the peas of October. You just want to get it over with so you can get onto the good stuff. Have some dessert. Lick your lips. Let it all hang out.
At the end of the day, there’s just none of the fanfare that our southern neighbors bestow on their holiday of the same name. No Macy’s Parade. No colossal pro football marathons. This isn’t our biggest travel time of the year. We don’t flock from hither and yon to be together. That’s what we do at Christmas. Plus, the next day isn’t Black Friday, the American fever-pitched super-sized shopping day of the year.
That’s just not us.
Technically the Canadian Thanksgiving occurs on the second Monday in October. However, I doubt many of us actually celebrate on that day. I bet if we took a poll, we’d discover many of us “do it” on the Sunday. This allows at least one full day for recovery. It’s damn near impossible to fill your face with a ton of tryptophan-laced turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, canned or homemade cranberry sauce, a buffet of sauce-laden vegetables, copious amounts of wine or beer, ridiculous amounts of sweets, not to mention pumpkin pie, all topped off with strong freshly brewed coffee, with or without a hit of Baileys. You can’t possibly expect to go to work or school or daycare the next day. Seriously, can you? No.
The Americans get Black Friday and Christmas shopping. We get an alarm clock catapulting us from our collective Canadian tryptophan comas. It’s a deplorable first world problem.
So in full-out Canadian style rebellion we celebrate a day earlier. It’s defiant I know. I guess to be fair, and God knows I’m all about fairness, not all Canadians do this. But this is the way it goes down at our house. And has, for as far back as I can remember. I’m a real stickler for family traditions. Just the way I roll. Or rock. Bang my head and fall over.
When I was younger I completely overlooked, and took for granted, the “thanks” in Thanksgiving. I didn’t appreciate the earth’s bountiful harvest, its lavish cornucopia. All that was lost on me. Christmas was the shining star, the big holiday kahuna and nothing could compare. It was all I could think about from the moment the Maple trees, that lined our street, turned from green to gold. Yes, the family meal was delicious. And yes, having a long weekend in the middle of October was nice too. But beyond that, it was a lukewarm holiday at best. No matter how hard Ma tried to make it lovely and festive. It was never more than a pre-curser to Christmas. Well into adulthood I was still wishy-washy when it came to Thanksgiving.
But that all changed about twenty years ago.
Something wonderful and miraculous and completely unexpected happened. It began with a casual impromptu jam on the Saturday night of Thanksgiving weekend. It was unplanned. Unrehearsed. Unscheduled. Nothing fancy. No big fuss. Beer and chips. Maybe a crudites or two tossed together. A few bluegrass musicians. And a whole lot of really fine music. Little did we know that this modest unpretentious shindig would blossom into something legendary. At least in our circle, amongst our tribe. That first Saturday night grew into something so glorious and stupendous. One of the highlights of our year. Talked about for days and weeks afterwards. Imagine that.
Quite simply, on that Saturday night twenty years ago, our Thanksgiving was transformed. A new tradition arose from the ashes of apathy.
The following year we planned the occasion. Somewhat. We invited a few more jammers, family and friends to join us for an evening of appies and music. It was still an intimate and simple affair. A kitchen party through and through. But the day after, basking in the glow of an evening done well, we began planning the next one. By year three, we opened our home to even more musicians, family, friends, colleagues and neighbors. There was a generous overflow of musical talent, food, laughter, kindness, joy, love and memories. Beautiful memories.
Thus began B and E’s Annual Thanksgiving Jam.
For over a decade we gathered for these jams on the Saturday night. The morning after, I would wake up early to put the turkey on for our traditional family dinner. This was a smaller, more intimate festivity attended by our immediate family and a few close friends.
We celebrated and gave thanks this way for well over a decade. The Saturday Night Jam and the Sunday Family Feast. Weeks of planning and preparing food followed by two intense days of celebration became too much for this old broad. E and I made the decision to combine the jam with the feast, pare back the guest list to a manageable number and host a less demanding Thanksgiving Jam on the Sunday evening. This has been pleasant and enjoyable. But just not the same.
Last Thanksgiving we had no idea what was in store for us. E may have had some inkling because the cancer was brewing in his body. But the rest of us were clueless. It was a big year. One that took its toll. Drained us both physically and emotionally. We were often in the mud wrestling with the devil. Other times we danced and soared with the angels. We were all over the place spiritually. E has had his recovery to contend with. But so have I. Sometimes I think he’s farther along that road than me. I’m still untrusting of the process of life. Wary and weary at times.
But we’re here. I’m grateful for that.
And because we’re so very grateful, E and I decided that this year we would resurrect our Annual Saturday Night Thanksgiving Jam. We’re doing this thing. Celebrating the past year and all that it has taught us. We’re celebrating our life. Our family. Friends. Music. Laughter. Joy. Love. There will be turkey and ham and all the traditional trimmings. There will be apple and pumpkin pies. Autumn will be showing off. So will we.
And our hearts. Our sweet Canadian hearts will give thanks for the opulent abundance that is all around us.
Happy Thanksgiving.
In an earlier post I shared some of the things I was angry about since this dance with the Big C began last fall. Mostly bat-shit crazy, Mad Hatter things that have been overwhelming and downright mystifying. The bubbling brew of oozing gooey undisguised and unrestrained emotions. My psychological backpack is already jam-packed, yet I continue to gather more of these sour candies with each passing day. It’s been a real slice and I am grateful to everyone who is on the road with me. I’m especially grateful to those with large hearts and even larger compassionate muscles who haven’t judged. Just walked the mile in my moccasins.
One of the big things I have wrestled with in this messy muddy life I lead is that there is just no way to sanitize these emotions. I wish I could. But the truth is, they are there. Maybe they always were and E’s cancer just brought them roaring to the surface. Demanding that I take note. So I have. And the thing is, I can’t paint a pretty picture. Won’t even try. All my life I have been referred to as “such a nice person.” Well, there isn’t anything nice about this. None of it. So if you will indulge me one last purge, one final rage, one more dump about anger, then I think I’m done here.
Warning: Some of you may want to quit reading at this point. No hard feelings. This isn’t for everyone. I get that. You can move on and read the blogs about flour-free recipes or how to make a tee shirt from toilet paper.
There is one colossal thing that I’ve been livid about for years. It trumps all those other things I’ve been mad about. Makes them seem almost trivial. Not even deep enough to be superficial. It’s the Big Kahuna of piss-offs. I intentionally left it out of my first rant because it’s been such a sensitive thorn in my side. And believe it or not, I was still trying to play nice in that post. But since this is the final puke-up, here goes.
E smoked.
Not casually. Not after dinner. Nor while on vacation. Not like those rare birds who bum smokes at parties but never indulge otherwise. It wasn’t a bad habit he picked up late at night while playing in bands. E was a hard-core smoker from the time his was nine years old. He chain smoked. Tons. It was the first thing he did when he got up in the morning and the last thing at night. If he couldn’t sleep he got up and had a cigarette. It comforted him in ways I never could. It was his best friend. An extension of his yellow nicotine stained fingers.
No one knows with 100 percent certainty that smoking was the cause of his disease. Even the doctors who treated him, and the nurses who cared for him, left the door open for other possible explanations. Cancer does strike randomly. Nonsmokers get lung cancer. Health nuts, who only eat organic foods and run ten miles a day, get stomach cancer. People who wear big floppy hats and cover themselves in gobs of suntan lotion get skin cancer. We know this to be true. Stress and inflammation are often at the heart of many diseases, from head to heel. I get this.
But here’s the two thousand pound elephant in the room. E stuck a carcinogenic substance in his mouth for 45 years, every day, all day. He has mouth cancer. Mathematical equations aside, odds are cigarette smoking most likely caused this thing.
And I’m mad as hell about that.
Before our daughter was born I begged and pleaded with E to quit. Once M was here, I tried every manipulative trick in the book. Of course, intellectually I knew this had to be his decision. He had to hold his own come to Jesus meeting. I had no control over this. I understood addiction. Having grown up with an alcoholic father and personally battled with uncontrollable sugar cravings my entire life, I knew what misery looked like. I’d grovel and drag myself through the mud just for an O’Henry Bar. I know what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night needing to feed. I will always be a sugar addict, whether I eat the stuff or not. I’ve also smoked. I know how hard it is to quit. I bawled like a baby for two weeks solid the last, and final, time I quit. It was pathetic. Not one of my more graceful and exemplary times.
Because I knew intimately how difficult quitting smoking could be, I exercised as much compassion and understanding as was possible with E. But I’m only human after all. And I have my own crap to deal with. There was always this underlying resentment about him not quitting. I often viewed it as defiance. Not something he couldn’t do. But wouldn’t.
There were a couple of occasions over the past 20 years where E attempted to quit. His longest smoke-free period was about four months. Most of his efforts were futile though. When it came to quitting, the best he could commit to was “someday.”
Over time, my protests and admonishments ebbed and flowed in volume and frequency. I also had a comrade, a buddy, a conscientious objector who shared my concerns. I went from wanting to shield my daughter from a swath of cigarette fumes to having her join me on the protest line. M and I were a united front on this issue.
At times we were passive aggressive in our objections and disapproval. Never really coming out and saying, “You’re an asshole for treating this so lightly,” but implying it just the same, in our offhanded comments. These ran the gambit from the descriptive, “The garage looks like a butt factory” to the succinct, “you reek.” His habit was bringing out the worst in us. We were evil twins.
But once E’s mouth cancer was confirmed, no one dared to say, “I told you so.” We knew there was a good possibility something like this could happen. He was playing a risky game with much at stake. Sad thing is, E knew it too. That was the frustrating part. Just like quitting might happen “someday” so could getting cancer.
It’s a peculiar thing how love supersedes everything at times like these. Instead of thinking, “I knew this was going to happen.” All I could think about was losing him. Nothing else mattered. The cause was irrelevant.
Having said all that, I’m still angry. At E for not quitting before it came to this. At his doctor, for not ever suggesting he should quit. At myself, for not being more persuasive, not fighting hard enough. At God, for not answering all those millions of prayers.
Pointless self-flagellation. I know.
One last thing. All over social media sites, but Facebook in particular, there have been these images of kids holding signs that read something like, “My dad says that if I get 1 million ‘likes’ he’ll quit smoking.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry the first time I saw one of these posts. For the most part these are scams called “Like Farming”, which can generate tons of money for the owners of those phony pages. Scams or the real deal aside, I found them disturbing. Because M and I know the truth. It will take more than 1 million “likes” to make someone’s dad quit smoking. No matter how much they love you. It just doesn’t work that way. Nothing’s that simple.
I’m angry about that too.
On Friday, April 26 E had surgery to remove cancer from his mouth just below the tongue. It was radical. It was a miracle. It was the longest 23 days of our life.
We held vigil. We prayed. We held hands. We circled the wagons. We kept the fear at bay. For this is what love does. There were evening cross-town drives. Desolate cement parking garages. Elevator rides. And endless corridor walks. The TV amused and kept him company. There was a lot of hockey. He discovered Duck Dynasty. A clipboard filled with lined paper was his only means of communication the first week. He said a lot with his eyes and hands.
Family, friends, and colleagues visited daily. There were puppy dog visits in the sunny tranquil courtyard. Our daughters danced and entertained. Our grand daughter brought sweet little girl kisses. There was a quiet Sunday morning visit with our son.
Strawberry plants grew on the windowsill. Happy-face daisies sprouted from the end of his bed. Photos blossomed on the cork board. Magazines and books grew in little stacks. Coffee from the outside was brought in. There was a glorious view from his seventh floor room. It was heavenly.
And this is what those 23 days looked like.
Beautiful Bessie, the Bass Man’s Mama.
I’m taking a break from the all consuming Big C conversation for just a moment to share this bit about a sweet lady, E’s Mama Bessie. He misses her dearly, especially now when confronted by the fragility of life.
On the day before 94-year old Bessie died, she announced to her younger son Larry that she was breaking out.
Clear out of the blue. A declaration of independence so foreign to her nature that it was unfathomable. Disarming.
Feeble and frail. Yet in the end, so fierce in her final conviction.
“Where are you going Mom?” he asked
“To New York City!” she proclaimed.
Bessie, who had never been more than one hundred miles from her small county home.
Bessie, who as a young girl spent a week up on the mountain, just a few miles away, was homesick and fearful. She pined for her mother. And missed the familiar valley farmland and apple orchards. To young Bessie, this overgrown hill was much too high and close to the sky. Too far away from her roots and the bosom of the valley bed. It threw off her equilibrium. Left her shaken and traumatized for life.
Bessie, whose wanderlust didn’t extend beyond a Sunday drive down to Waterville for lunch with Harlan.
Bessie, who had lost most of her sight and hearing, but none of her unpredictable wit and natural intelligence. To the end, razor sharp and fully loaded with an arsenal of quick retorts.
Bessie, who lived a simple life surrounded by “her people.” Married Harlan and raised her boys just a stone’s throw from her childhood home.
Bessie, who never strayed far. Always walked the straight and narrow. Found dignity in the familiar and commonplace.
Yes, this same Bessie, on the Eve of the trip of her lifetime, revealed that she was now ready to travel.
Godspeed Bessie.
My Thing About God 