Update on My Father

I was pretty much ill all of last week. Sick in anticipation of the news regarding my father's newest hopes for cancer treatment. The report is that he will now be trying some type of infusion treatment, large quantities of some specific medicine--my mom is frustratingly unforthcoming about details--aimed directly at his cancer(s). We can only hope that this treatment will buy him more time. So now, my father goes to dialysis three days a week for four hours, and infusion for a few hours every two weeks. I bought him the memoir Blue Blood, by Edward Conlon, on cd to keep him company. Hmm, I wouldn't mind if Edward Conlon kept me company for a few hours...but I digress.

My father recently said to me that he feels as though his entire life is spent at some doctor's office. He feels so weak and dependent. he refuses to go anywhere if he has to take his oxygen tank. For a man who two years ago beat the crap out of a neighbor kid who sucker punched him for no reason, this must be a terribly frustrating feeling. He is slowly but surely losing his will to live.

What he seems to not realize, however, is that despite the need for him to spend so much time in these places, he and his essence are still alive. He is himself, after all. And until he takes his last breath, no one can take that away. Until he is in too much pain and truly miserable, any moment we can share is worth it. To the rest of us, anyway.

Masochistic Googling

I wonder if anyone else indulges in the same sick behavior that I do on occasion, especially late at night, during my bouts of insomnia?

I take to "Googling" people from my past. I tend to Google men I've dated, to see what they look like, where they live, if they are married, etc. I guess I like to torture myself about why they never chose me, the mistakes I've made, or the life of exciting adventures I could have experienced if only I'd stayed with them--rather than living in my crappy one-bedroom with a serial killer bathroom in a not-so-desirable neighborhood in Brooklyn, living paycheck to paycheck.

To describe just a few, there was the high school crush who is now a graduate of Yale Drama School. He stopped seeing me because I was "too innocent," and apparently, to a high school boy who just wants to get laid, that is a bad thing (I suppose it's nice that he had a conscience, though).

Another, more recent beau, an Omani millionare and expert in nanotechnology, told me he loved me but couldn't see himself getting married any time soon, then about six months later told me he was getting engaged.

There's also the guy who, when I was dating him, lived at home with his folks, still sleeping in his little boy bed, was chubby, a bad dresser and drove a Subaru. He's now an oft-quoted web architect who directs a multi-million dollar design firm, runs five miles a day, lives in a $3000 a month apartment and is branching out into real estate development, in New York City.

Ah, and last but not least (well hardly last, really, as there have been so many) and the one no one ever believes, and if I dare mention his name, they look me over dismissively, as if to say, "No way, you just aren't hot enough," (especially my parents, who, maybe if they'd encouraged me a just little bit more would have some beautiful, multi-ethnic rugrats running around in pinstriped baby clothes sometime soon.) This one, who attended my university only briefly, and used to stare at me in my dormroom as I rambled excitedly about my first months as an idealistic college student, is now the captain of one of our nation's most popular baseball teams. Really, I don't even have to Google this guy, all I have to do is look up on billboards off the BQE or read the Daily News...


What may be worse is that I do this with women too sometimes. Apparently I like to make myself feel as crappy and unaccomplished as possible in all arenas. Hmm, maybe it is really my mom's fault. As soon as she could log onto to Google and learned to put specific things in quotes to search more accurately, she began to send me links to all of the other women with my same first and last name, who were, of course, far more accomplished than I. There is the comic memoirist, the playwright, the media buyer, the musician, the doctor. Yeh--maybe it's her fault that I spend hours Googling women I've crossed paths with--from elementary school to a chance meeting on the train, to compare my misadventures with theirs. There's my Claudia Schiffer lookalike, professional ice skater college roommate who is now some bigwig PR person for a major movie company, and is dating the son of a neighboring nation's former prime minister who also hosted their version of American Idol. Or how about my other gorgeous friend who used to work 60 hours a week, but recently married a very successful professional football player, who, I might add, asked me out first. And then stood me up. And then years later has no recollection of the event. But anyway, she now spends her days running a non-profit in his name, and her evenings meeting with Jacob the Jeweler. They honeymooned in Bali. The most exotic place I've recently visited is Fairview, New Jersey.


I really am sick, aren't I? I really need to find more productive things to do when I am up at 3:00am. You'd think maybe I would like, blog or something...

Drunk Dialing/Texting

Cellphones should come equipped with a mini breathalizer test. If you blow over a certain amount, you cannot dial certain pre-selected numbers.

8/18/06

Tomorrow my father goes to the oncologist to find out what else--if anything--they can try to do to prevent the continuing spread of his cancer. It doesn't look good, though. He's been sick and unhappy all week. And my poor mother--I never knew what a strong person she could be until now. I've nearly gone back to my unconditional childhood admiration for her. Back to the days when I wanted to be just like her. It's kind of funny how much I've been reminded of my similarities to my folks lately, after years of being angry at them for about so many things.

While visiting my father in the hospital a few weeks ago, my mother and I found that both of us, while caring for my father, also had very strong urges to walk around and help all of the other patients on the ward, in the hospital. Especially the ones who were all alone, with no family and no hope. I could not help but ask each of my father's roommates--the nearly unconscious Black man with no visitors whom my asshole of a brother made some racist comment in front of, the sweet young Michigan man who offered help to my father when we weren't able to be there, whose humor and patience belied his desperate wait for a heart transplant, and the senile 70-something year old, hard of hearing man with a Kentucky accent so thick we could barely communicate, his only visitors some humble distant relatives who came from some far away farm--if they needed anything. Or if they were in pain or lonely, we would be happy to summon the nurse, talk to them for a few moments, or offer to fetch them books or magazines or food.

No wonder I ended up a social worker.

J...

Sometimes, and mostly at night
I miss your bed
your angular, sparsely-haired body, and the verbena scent of your skin
the moment when you remove your glasses, rub your dark rabbinical student eyes
exhausted from the overconsumption of news
then bury yourself in mismatched, threadbare sheets and pillows in hunter green and periwinkle
your ties slung seductively over a closet door
posters tracing American political history I'll never know
and overstuffed dresser drawers, full of soft, ancient t-shirts of youth.
I miss the delicate crunch of cat litter as I creep about your amber-lighted living room.
Intimidated by philosophy books, I studied photos of your family on the mantle--perfectly dressed in expensive sweaters in exotic locales, precocious nephews--only two and four, yet entitled.
Nearly as much as you, I miss the cats—-gorgeous, needy creatures
who return to you nightly, in a tireless effort to win your closeness and love.

Sweet Poetry

I saw this poem on the subway some months ago, after my father's diagnosis. It made me cry right there on the train. I sent it to my mother and father. They were touched as well.


Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

Not Titillating

So, Cherie and I, our original plan for this blog was to post our tales of being Broken Girls--we were going to talk about sex and love and relationships, and unfortunately, our disappointment in most of those areas. But try as I might to sit down and write of these things, they are overshadowed by my present circumstances.

My father is dying.

In the beginning of this year, he was diagnosed with liver cancer and given less than a year to live. Later, it was discovered that instead, he has renal cancer and was a candidate for the trial of a new medication called Sutent that had some success in at least stalling the progress of this type of cancer. For the past six months, my father seemed to be stabilized. He still had cancer, but it was not getting worse.

Last week, in passing conversation, my mother mentioned that my father was having difficulty breathing. For someone like me, with a history of asthma and in a city experiencing 100+ degree weather, shortness of breath--while uncomfortable--is not necessarily alarming.

For someone with cormorbid renal cancer and some bizarre random kidney disease, and oh, did I mention, only one kidney due to a previous bout of supposedly unrelated cancer, however, this did not bode well.

My father's kidney is failing. The cancer medication is no longer working. My father is now receiving dialysis. He now has a permanent hole in his neck. For four hours, three days a week in order to maintain some comfort as the cancer progresses, he will sit in a chair and ponder his own mortality.

My father is 65 years old. He retired from a city job he hated for 30 years about ten years ago. He just began living, and now he is dying. And he knows this.

For most of my life, my father and I were distant, either physically, emotionally, or both. He worked loads of overtime at his crappy job to provide for my family, and we are vastly different philosophically. But it seems that there are more similarities than I realized, one of which is the most troublesome now.

Neither my father nor I have any religious faith. I don't know much about my father and because I know so little, I do not know why he is a non-believer. I can only guess, and the story I come up with is pretty sad.

As for myself, I actually remember the exact moment when I lost God.

An isolated, bookish child, I spent a lot of time reading. The written word has long been my social life, my escape, and my salvation at times. Around the age of 11, when I first started my Bat Mitzvah lessons, I began to contemplate God, religion, and the meaning of life. In my tiny, ghetto neighborhood library, I researched every religion I could, and though Hinduism rated high on the list, all of them seemed to fall short.

One day during a summer acting class in the old Masonic Temple in downtown Detroit, I stared up at the sky blue ceiling and asked God for some type of sign that there was more meaning and order to this world than just me lying there on the floor. I tried desperately to feel Him, or Her, or something--and I felt nothing.

I spoke to my father on the phone today and he is very depressed. He told me that he was tired and sad and then asked me, in a very matter-of-fact and yet boyish manner: "I am not going to make it, am I?"

I do not know what to do. I don't know what to say. I have no idea how to handle this situation without faith. I am a social worker by training and I know that I am supposed to listen and be empathic, but I feel so incredibly powerless.

So I decided that, besides love him, there is only one thing I can do. I will fight the insecure, self-censoring teenager that still lives deep within me and create my own meaning. I will record his life before he passes away. Every life deserves to be remembered by at least one person. His deserves to be known by many. I will write about him, about my family, about me, so that he may live on. That will be my faith, my God--documentation.