Limbodacious

I Wanted to Write about Chemo Brain, But I Kept Forgetting (And Other Short Stories)

Often, my husband looks at me and asks, "Where are you?"  My usual response is, "Have you seen Gloria Estefan's hair lately?" which is the punchline to a hilarious Ellen Degeneres schtick about daydreaming.

But really, I don't know where I am.   For a long time, I have been in a persistent dreamlike state, usually content to sit and stare.  I rarely talk, except when spoken to, and entire days go by that I couldn't tell you anything about.  And if I could, it would probably be a pretty boring story.  This has probably contributed in large part to my sporadic (putting it lightly) posting on this blog.  I write a few paragraphs on something, and quickly lose interest.

I have always blamed chemo brain for my forgetfulness and short attention span, for things like leaving the water run for hours and spacing out on plans.  But this is a much deeper, more pervasive issue.  Nothing interests me, and nothing really bores me, either.

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That's where I lost focus a month ago and stopped writing a post about not having focus.  I have a purse full of notebook pages half full of similar potential discussions.  I try so hard to just concentrate, to just finish something, but I always end up realizing that not only do I have no idea of where this train of thought is going, but I also don't have a particular desire to find out.

But the fact is, I can't just drift through life when this is a life I suffered so much to prolong.  So I will finish something, even if it sucks.  And you will listen, even if it's boring.  And with this decree, I shall clear out my purse and dust the monkey off my back by typing up all my scribbles from the past few months.

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"The House That Cancer Built"

A single tooth is ruining my life.

I don't say that lightly.  Please recall that I am a person that has experienced nerve pain, bone pain, sharp pain, shooting pain, aching pain, burning pain, cramps, arthritis, shingles, a broken arm, and one incidence of internal hemorrhaging.  But a toothache, my god, is there any crueler fate?

I took solace for a brief moment thinking, at least this doesn't have anything to do with cancer, it is just a normal thing that everybody deals with.  But.  After cancer, does anything really happen independently of cancer ever again?  If I didn't have cancer, I wouldn't have had chemo.  If I hadn't had chemo, 60% of my teeth wouldn't have rotted out.  If my teeth hadn't rotted out, I wouldn't have had to have my back tooth extracted.  If I hadn't had my back tooth extracted, a space wouldn't have opened up for my impacted wisdom tooth to move down.  And if one of my wisdom teeth wasn't coming in, I wouldn't want to shoot myself in the head just to relieve the pressure. 

My dentist wouldn't prescribe anything but alternating Tylenol and Advil every two hours, so I did what anyone in my position would do.  I switched to a young, inexperienced dentist and yelled at him until he prescribed me Vicodin.  Thank you, cancer, for teaching me how to browbeat green medical professionals.

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Wadsworth Is Sending Me Emails - Or Is It Emerson I'm Thinking Of?

I am sensing a shift in the mood of my spam emails.  Instead of the usual penile enhancers and pleas from deposed African leaders, I am now receiving approximately 20-25 emails per day where the subject line is simply two words retrieved from some kind of random generator.  At first I deleted them without notice, but now I see that they are almost poetic in their strangeness.  Here are some recent highlights:

milliner bagpipes
corsage favorable
rankle disregard
Boy Scout border
coveralls satisfaction
sinister townhouse
chide craftsman
And my favorite...
witch hunt chaperone

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The One Where You Actually Get Some Information Regarding My Life - And Kudos on Reading All the Way to This Point!

In any group of friends, there are two important couples: the first ones to get married, and the second ones to get married.  The role of the first ones to get married is to blaze through all life's important milestones at a lightning-fast pace, and then use their First-Ones clout to manipulate or otherwise coerce the Second Ones to follow suit.

My husband and I are the Second Ones.  He actually proposed to me after helping the First Ones, hereafter known as the McBabysons, paint their condo.  Now, I know my husband loves me, but I'm equally sure that the proposal was a mix of genuine love, paint fumes, exhaustion from forced manual labor, and transparent "Think how much fun we'll have as a foursome" comments.

The McBabysons, shockingly, just had a baby.  More accurately, they decided they wanted a baby, announced the pregnancy two weeks later, and then came baby 9.0 uneventful months after that.  And really, their daughter is a doll, and I couldn't be happier for them.  But I hung back for a while, partly because I knew they were busy and tired and covered in throw up, so they wouldn't be up for company, and partly because I was a little sour at how easily they conceived (There, I admitted it to you, Internet.  Even though at my most optimistic, I could only be described as "on the fence" about babies, it was jealousy on principle alone.  So sue me.)

Anyway, the time finally came to quit being a baby and go see the McBabysons.  I baked their favorite cake, and we headed up to what we both knew would be a full-on propaganda campaign titled, Why You Guys Should Totally Have a Baby.  Because, as the first ones, that's their job.

And let me tell you, we were not disappointed.  I held the baby for approximately 95% of the visit (I was allowed a potty break... mine, not hers) while I was indoctrinated on How Rewarding Motherhood Is and How Complete a Baby Makes You Feel.  Mr. McBabyson also played the man-to-man angle with Husband, describing the joys of huge boobs, rediscovering naps and toys, and throwing young children in the air. 

And goddammit if it didn't work.  We were brainwashed.  I know it worked on my husband because he opened up a savings account and looked vaguely disappointed while leering at my chest.  I know it worked on me because I called off work and spent the day in bed crying. 

A few days later Mrs. McBabyson called me to apologize "if we put the pressure on too hard."  She explained, "I just figured that with everything your body has been through, you might not have much time."  Now, before you whip out the fangs and start calling her an evil bitchwhore, bear in mind she was just saying "I want you to have everything in life that you want," in the soul-crushingly brutal way only a good girlfriend or your mother can.  Plus, she's right.  My gyn-onc has previously told me that due to "poor hormone regulation, trauma, and scar tissue, I would not wait too terribly long if IVF is something you want to pursue," in the infuriatingly vague way only a physician can. 

That was a year and a half ago.  I don't know what the medical definition of too terribly long is, but I'm guessing it's about half past Move Your Ass. 

So.

I made a consultation with a reproductive endocrinologist to see what we might be up against.

A consultation.

I repeat, only a consultation.

The problem is, they didn't have any openings for Move Your Ass, they could only squeeze me in on the 15th of I Could Have Adopted a Kid by Then.  So now I wait with the pressure building on all sides and my insides, hoping it is not just the propaganda that is making me hope this works*.

* At some indeterminate point as far into the future as my partially shriveled uterus will allow.  Please review comments on this only being a consultation.

October is National Stay Indoors Month

If you've been within 1,000 miles of any city in the last 28 days, you probably know that October is Breast Cancer month.  And if you're anything like me, that probably pisses you off.

But the thing is, I don't know why it pisses me off.  I really don't have anything against breast cancer survivors, or promoting awareness, these are good things.  I mean, there's the most obvious reason that last month was ovarian cancer month and it breezed by with hardly a mention by anybody, except I think Grey's Anatomy, which honestly, is kind of worse than no mention at all (By the way, Grey's Anatomy, effective the beginning of this season you are officially off my tivo list.  How's that feel, huh?  Does it sting?)

However, I don't think the purely selfish reason of no recognition for my own cancer really answers the question.  Chances are, if September was All Things Teal and Payless had Buy One Get One Half Off for ovarian cancer, that would probably bug me too.   So why does the sea of pink bother me so much?

I think partly it's the commercialization, the hypocrisy of it.  I mean, those ladies who lunch are not going to Macy's because part of the proceeds of Shop for the Cure are going to breast cancer.  They are going to Macy's because Macy's is the place to get that $300 dynamite little blazer that no one can live without this fall.  And, you know, it will probably look great on them because they have their breasts to fill it out and probably always will, because luck works a lot like money, the more you have the more you get. 

(Now, let me clarify a little because it's only the stuff like Shopping for the Cure that gets me.  Those commercials by the drug companies that encourage women to explore and research all the possible treatments when they are diagnosed, believe me, I will watch that shit all year long, because that is some actual useful information that might help save somebody's life.)

But the thing that bothers me the most is that it bothers me (we cancer types are a complicated bunch, yes?).  It bothers me that no one has invited me to go shopping this month out of fear of my breaking down in a heap in the middle of the mall.  It bothers me that Boyfriend went so far as going to Bed Bath & Beyond, claiming it was on his way, to pick up three CHINA SETTINGS  for me because he knew the Cook for the Cure display with their pink heart-shaped cake pans would drive me over the edge.  The only other time I have gotten that man in a Bed Bath & Beyond is when I told him it was right next to the sporting goods store which was a total lie, and even then I had to buy him a shower radio and park him in one of those semi-erotic massaging chairs to stop the whining (That was when "we" registered for our wedding.  Sweet, huh?).

This breast cancer stuff everywhere is like a huge pink neon sign that says, "HEY!  DON'T BOTHER RAE RIGHT NOW!  SHE IS VERY SENSITIVE ABOUT HAVING HAD CANCER!"  It is a physical reminder to everyone around me that I am still fragile and need to be shielded, which REALLY pisses me off, because it is TRUE.  The only way I can get through the days is by taking a healthy dose of denial every morning, and these constant reminders of cancer seeping into my life from every direction really fuck that up for me.

Anyway, the short version is that emotionally, I'm not having such a great month.  It seems like the more time that passes, the worse my coping skills become.  I have actually gone so far as to buy two self-help books to see if someone else has some thoughts that I haven't thought yet.  (Side story:  I went to get the book "Picking up the Pieces" that Spike recommended, and did you realize that Picking up the Pieces is a kind of common title in the self-help genre?  The little bookstore girl thought I was anorexic and took me to the eating disorder aisle.  What a great day that was.)  So perhaps soon I will have some more encouraging words to share, or at the very least, a book review.

Also, please, get a mammogram.

Things That Are New

One of my biggest frustrations is running into someone I haven't seen for years, and instantly being asked, "So, what's new?"

"Well, since I saw you last, I got cancer, almost died, almost died again, almost died one last time, and now I'm really into Boston Legal.  So, how's school going?"

But, today when I checked my email I got the clear message that I was due for checking in with the internets and giving a what's-new kind of update.   It said, "YOUR TYPEPAD ACCOUNT HAS BEEN SUSPENDED."   I changed my bank account and it had been so long since I bothered with Typepad that I forgot I would need to update my account with the new information.   So what this email should have said "YOU HAVE ABANDONED YOUR INTERNET FRIENDS YOU FILTHY FILTHY WHORE."

And so I post to you now.   And in the spirit of full disclosure, I feel I need to tell you I have no good reason for my absence.   I wasn't busy, I have nothing big happening in my life, hell, I can't even say I was planning my wedding because we have opted for more of a scheduled elopement.  The truth is I just didn't want to think about cancer.   I wanted to go off and be Ms. Normal and forget that all this shit ever happened.

By the way, you can't do that.   The more I tried to distance myself from those thoughts the more they became all I could think about.   Perhaps this is why they say to keep your enemies close. Without an outlet I spiraled further and further down into the Abyss of Bitterness.   Even now as I type this I feel a load lifted off of my shoulders and transferred onto an insignificant page of the internet that hardly anyone will ever read.

So to make a long story somewhat less long, here is What's New.

1. The main thing going on right now is I am having some trouble with fainting.   As in, I faint a lot.   This has been a problem that has plagued me off and on for some time, but it is getting worse quickly.   My doctor ran 800 tests and found a heart defect, got all worked up and told me I needed a pacemaker, and sent me off for 800 more tests under the supervision of the Most Unpleasant Cardiologist in the World.   But after all of that, it turned out the defect was not causing my fainting, was pretty minor, and the whole thing turned out to be an useless albeit interesting detour.   I am currently under the care of a neurologist who is tirelessly searching for any other incidental findings that aren't causing the fainting either.  I have much more to say on the subject of fainting but I think I will leave it for another entry on another day.

2. So did you guys know that having a job absolutely blows?   In case you didn't, let me be the one to tell you.   Having a job blows.   After about 9 months at my job I realized I jumped back into the working world way too soon and had to cut back my hours.   I am constantly frustrated by my boss, my coworkers, my hours, but goddamn if this place doesn't have the best insurance plan I have ever seen, so I'm sticking it out for a while.   Boyfriend is having troubles of his own and is considering making a transfer... a pretty big one.   So be on the lookout for news of a Noelle-esque move.

3. I have recently discovered the zen of gardening and plan to torture you with minute-by-minute updates (with photos!) of my garden.

4. I'm trying to answer all the emails I am behind on, seriously.   Give me another week, I swear.  I also have a smashing Ode to My Shoes in the works which I'm very excited about.

So there you have it internets.   Maybe you didn't miss me but I sure missed you.   Anyone have any What's New of their own to share?   Because, um, I haven't been reading your blogs either.

My Most Recent Excuses

Death in the family
Infection in the eye
Concussion in the brain
Wedding in the works

Flare-up in the bowels
Crazy in the head

My recent life is a series of minor unfortunate events that, when viewed as a whole, add up to two months of pure crap.  Sure, it could be worse, but it's pretty damn bad as it is.

A long time ago, my parents and I wanted to see a movie, and I graciously let them pick which one we saw.  They chose "As Good As It Gets."  You've seen it.  I hated it.  I fell asleep and whined about it for a week.  But one moment of that movie stuck with me.  The main character, whatever the hell his name is, is, er, somewhere, and out of nowhere, he stops stunned and thinks aloud, "What if this is as good as it gets?"  There is something about that moment that affects me powerfully today.

Don't get me wrong, I still think the movie sucked.

But these days, I wonder.  Is this as good as it will get for me?  I mean, objectively, things are okay.  I'm getting married, and I'm in remission, and I have a steady job and a great house.  But the repercussions of cancer and its treatment affect me on a daily basis, I am plagued by a million and one niggling little irritants.  Although I was once a calm, easy-going person, my default stress level is now always one notch below boiling point, so that every minor stressor sends me into a hysterical fit.  (Someday I will tell the tale of the failed spaghetti-and-meatballs attempt that nearly killed me.)

What if this is the best I can hope for?

The scariest part is that every time something happens, it brings up the same thought... This is never going to end.  This is my life, from now until forever.  A lifetime of crap.  It's easy to console yourself when you're going through a rough time when you have the hope of improvement later... "When I finish chemo, things will be much better" or "After my surgery, I won't feel as bad."  But when this is your regular life, this is the norm, it's frightening to think that this is as good as it will ever get.

Okay, my whining is done.  I apologize for this bullshit post.  In more important news, let's congratulate Louise on a job well done on the wikiCancer site she moderates.  I am so proud to be her friend.

Some People Might Say I Am Obsessed with Extended Metaphors

(Subtitled:  No, I Am Not Dead, and I Thank You for Asking)

I live right off of Interstate 75.  I feel that divulging that information doesn't really threaten my anonymity, as I-75 stretches from Key West to the Upper Peninsula and disappears under another name into Canada.

My life has always been located on this highway.  When I was a child we lived off a rural exit that only existed because we had the only gas station for twenty miles.  When I went to college, I took 75 home every Friday, and I cried the entire 400-mile trip back every Sunday night.  I nearly passed out at the wheel over two years ago when I first went to the emergency department.  And in recent months, I have taken it every day to Precision Radiotherapy Inc., another name-dropping that doesn't reveal my identity, because as far as I can tell, this is what every radiation facility in the country is called.

Though the last few years have taken me to some unexpected places, I always know how I am going to get there, and get home.  I know the most of the exit numbers in this state by heart.  It adds a certain comfort level to my travels.

As I drove on 75 this particular time, heading to Precision Radiotherapy Inc.  # 1,683, I let the anxiety about my scan results wash to the background as I counted the mile markers.  I waited in the room designated for that purpose for the man who is nothing you would ever want in a friend but everything you want in a radiation oncologist... awkward, sneaky, and robotic.

As he told me the good news that there was currently no evidence of disease, he seemed relieved that I didn't hop up and down or try to hug him.  My happiness is quieter now, now that it is clear that every "remission" is just a pit stop before I merge back onto Cancer Alley.  I'm glad, of course, but I also know the odds.

I know that "currently" is just a way of saying "for a while."  I know that the rest of my journey will just take me north and south along the road I have already traveled.  But for now, I'm just happy to be on the road.

Trick or (Re)Treat?

You may have heard that today is Halloween.  At work they had a costume contest, and almost everyone went all out trying to win.  I say "almost" everyone because there was one person who did not participate at all.

I'll give you three guesses.

All day long I dodged a constant barrage of questions such as, "Did you not know about the contest?" and "I'm sorry, did someone you know die on Halloween?"  But what they couldn't see is that for this holiday I dressed in the same disguise I do every other day.  Rae, the happy, normal young person.

And oh yes, I go all out.  Note the attention to detail.  See the super-high skinny heels to ward off any suspicion that I am concealing debilitating arthritis?  See the doctor's appointments scheduled at the ass crack o' dawn so I don't attract attention by taking time off for some mysterious ailment?  See the nearly saint-like ability to give an empathetic nod and not say "Oh, so you think that's bad..." when continually assaulted by the sob stories of patients and coworkers?

But the most important piece of the costume is the mask of bland complacency that I get up and put on day after day.  The plastered look that says, "Hey, there's nothing remotely extraordinary about me," and "Hey, it's not ironic at all that you said you wish you had my life."   That is the look that makes the costume almost frightening in its realism.  It is so believable that when I see it in the mirror, even I get a little spooked.

So yes, I heard about the contest, and no, I didn't have a traumatic childhood Halloween experience.  I am just too busy pretending not to be myself to pretend to be someone else.

Alpha and Omega

It may seem inconceivable now, but I used to be the Life of the Party.  The part of my brain that now works overtime coming up with metaphors to explain what life with cancer is like used to stay busy telling clever jokes and deeply discussing music and literature.  The body that is now boyish and frail was once voluptuous and strong, and men turned their heads when I walked into a room.  There was a time when the Big Thing in my life was telling my then-boyfriend I didn't want to marry him.

But that has all changed, and now it seems that cancer has gone back into the past and retroactively infected my life from birth until now.  But it hasn't, exactly.  To a very few individuals on this earth, I am still the life of the party.  One of these such people is my grandmother.  I was diagnosed just as Alzheimer's was taking hold of her mind.

My aunt, her caretaker, called me to tell me my grandmother had remembered something, a fairly momentous occasion.  "When I was the lunch lady at Rae's school, she loved the pizza," she said.  I laughed in the way one laughs when something is more bizarre than funny.  I didn't remember.  I couldn't look through the window to the past without my current image superimposed.

The girl in the lunch line has been erased and the girl with cancer substituted where she used to be.  She was me, but I am not her anymore.  The girl in the lunch line's life was uncomplicated, and her grandmother served sloppy joes.  I can't remember anything before I existed.

That girl who just liked pizza has cancer now.  She always has and she always will.  The young girl is dead to me.  But somewhere in the lost tomes of a forgetful mind, her memory lives on.

Let It Be Known: I Am Pissed

(Subtitled:  Wherein I Make Fabulous Use of Italics)

It appears that the television is Satan's preferred medium.  Just days after I watched my dreams float away without me, I saw the most hideous, the most terrible, the most infuriatingly vile thing I could ever imagine.

To be fair, I wasn't in the most receptive mood.  I had just spent the evening with a pompous man of the cloth informing me that I was missing God's lesson for me in my suffering.  I nodded and pretended to listen like a good little law-abiding citizen.  I made it through the entire night without living out my daydream of slashing his throat with my freakishly long she-claws while screaming, "Get back to me on that when something even remotely unpleasant happens to you, you ignorant, myopic, brainwashed shell of a man!"  In fact, I did not so much as roll my eyes.

But within me I could feel the rage slowly rolling into a boil.  It is just not true.  My feet started sweating, then it moved up into my legs, making them tremble.   I knew I had to curb it before it took over.

So I plopped down on the couch to allow the waves to penetrate my brain and replace all the hate and hurt with white noise.  I watched the most wholesome, harmless thing I could find.  Nice people write in, and get their ramshackle house turned into a palace.  Everybody wins, everybody feels good (and everybody of the female persuasion gets some nice eye candy as well).  By the end of the hour, I thought I might have even felt the sprouts of a smile on my face when they cut to the previews for the next week's show.  And that's when I saw him.

The devil.

The enemy.

The soulless life-sucking mercenary of the dark side.

The nice guy from next week.  And he was saying, "I really think cancer is the best thing that ever happened to me."

But he didn't just say that.  Just for an instant, he turned away from the rapt nationwide audience while they dried their tears, and he spoke only to me.  "Everybody is happy, you know.  Everybody feels this way.  You're the only one who doesn't.  Tell me, what exactly is wrong with you?"

And that's when the rage exploded.  All the at-least-you're-alives, and the why-can't-you-just-move-ons, and the everything-will-be-okays, and the blessing-in-disguises all converged onto him, him.  Him the man who came out smelling like a rose.  Him the man who thought he was so much better than me just because he was happy.  Him the empty poster child getting a new house while I was losing everything.  And I lost my shit.

I threw my glass at the television and let out a yell that stirred the dogs from their naps and sent them scattering.  I stood shaking but paralyzed, and the shattered glass and my racing heart just added to my anger as I cried out in complete despair.

WHY THE FUCK DOES EVERYONE KEEP FUCKING SAYING THAT?

Hearing it said out loud, breaking the silence of suffering with a smile, calmed me down within seconds.  Somebody said it.  Somebody stood up and finally said no, if I had to do it all over, I would not choose to have cancer again.  No, I will not make the TV viewing audience feel better about their lives by playing the willing martyr.  No, you stupid asshole, there is no lesson.  I said that, even if it was only to my empty house, and it was true.

As my heart resumed its normal speed and my flush skin paled and cooled, I was brought back to the reality that my floor was wet and sprinkled with shards of glass.  As I fetched a towel to clean up the mess, just to let the world know I wasn't quite through yet, I said, "I will absolutely kill the next person who says that."

And that is the truth.

Of Waves of Panic and Waves of Change

I had it all planned out: Go to bed at a reasonable hour, get up early, and drive the long distance to attend a wedding.  It was a good plan, and like most good plans, it didn't happen.  Boyfriend and I were just starting our huge fight at the reasonable hour, I slept in, I was late getting ready, and we started the day yelling.   It was only morning, and it was already a ruined day.

The long drive was made longer by the palpable awkwardness of our relationship and the heaviness of our issues crammed into the car with us.  We drove and drove and it seemed like we would be driving forever.  Finally we hit a body of water, and we had to stop driving because that was the destination.

We checked in, we went to our room.  We had an hour to prepare for the wedding, I knew this because it was in the plan.  I felt rushed, the hotel lighting was unflattering, my leg had gone tingly and painful.   It was a recipe for a meltdown. I caked on makeup trying desperately to conceal the rash of acne that had taken hold of my face due to my new medication.  I thought of all the people, the strangers, I would be shaking hands with.  I thought about forcing a permanent smile so rigid that my face hurt, I thought about pretending to be overjoyed at the good fortune of two people I would never see again.  I thought about the unavoidable prayer they would say before dinner, thanking God for his many blessings.

And that's when I lost it.

I was overcome with rage at the person in the mirror I didn't recognize and her ugly face, the 22-year-old newlyweds who would certainly be sending out pregnancy announcements within a year, the people who praised God for his mighty benevolence without knowing that one of the poor, sad people they pray for had somehow made her way into the room.  The fight with Boyfriend, the long drive that made my back ache and my leg go numb, the overwhelming anxiety at the thought of a crowd of people, the feeling of not belonging anywhere, not even in my own body.

It was Just. Too. Much.

I fell into a heap and told Boyfriend to go without me.  It was hysterical, and probably crazy, but there was no way I could go.  I tried to tell him that I just couldn't deal with this stress, that I knew I was being so difficult but things seem to be harder for me than for everyone else.  But all that came out was and unintelligible rash of blubbering and, I just can't go.

It is times like this when people turn to Nature.  It occurred to me that I happened to be about 100 steps from one of the lakes they call great, and when I looked out the window over it, it seemed to call to me.  I went outside and stared.  It was beautiful, and still, and quiet as if it knew that the noise of the world had overcome me.  It was cold, and I was dressed for a wedding.  I could not see the other side.

And that's when I knew.  I can't see the other side of Cancer.  It is too huge and too vast and too deep, it is Just. Too. Much.  Somehow everyone else knew how to take to the lake, to move on, to go about the business of life.  But I just stared, no boat in sight, dressed in an evening gown in the middle of the afternoon on the end of a pier, poorly equipped at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I shuddered, and became aware of how cold it was.  I felt like a picture of myself. All dressed up and no place to go. A ticket out of Cancerland and no idea of which ferry to get on.  Standing on the bank of these mighty waters, I was a metaphor that only I could understand.  For the first time, I did not feel like crying.  I was sad, but there was some beauty in the sadness, a symbol, a place, a moment where the sadness at least made sense.

By the time Boyfriend got home, I had washed and soothed away the outward signs of despair, but my afternoon at the lake was still in the forefront of my mind.  He was too mad to ask for an explanation, which was fine because I doubt I could have supplied one.  I wanted to tell him what the lake had told me, how someday I hoped to look back upon my pain and consider it beautiful despite its darkness and danger, that somewhere very far past the horizon we see there is, in fact, the other side.  I knew it wouldn't have made sense, and partly I wanted to keep it a secret between me and the water.

The next morning, before we prepared to leave, I sat out on the pier one more time.  The lake reflected the early morning sun, making it doubly bright.   I had to shield my eyes.   I wanted to say, thank you for making me feel just a tiny bit less alone.   It was only morning, but it was already a beautiful day.

Not Today

I came into class a half-hour late.  The teacher shot me a disapproving look, rolling her eyes in my direction, but she didn't say anything.  Sometimes she would tell me, "Rae, you won't always be able to get through life by the skin of your teeth."

Her prediction hasn't come true yet.

I ignored her lecture.  I half-assedly worked on my homework due the next period.  I daydreamed about the time when I would leave this one-horse town.  I didn't hear my classmate barge into the room and tell the teacher that there was a fire at the Pentagon.  No one knew what that meant.

I looked up from my distractions when she turned the television on.  There was an airplane, and a building, and then nothing but smoke and rubble and despair.  I saw it, but it didn't seem real because it couldn't be real. I heard the words that formed sentences that said horrible things, but they couldn't be true.  Years later I would experience this emotion of disbelief again when a strange doctor woke me from my fitful sleep to tell me he had found cancer inside of me.  No.

I had been an adult for all of 9 hours.  I had an appointment at three o'clock to enlist in the Air Force.   I was passing a note to my friend to invite her to my birthday party.  I didn't feel like an adult.  Those people weren't really dead.

We watched with jaws agape for hours, I don't know how long we stared.  Some students got up and left in frantic silence.  No one asked where they were going.  The bell kept ringing.  No one moved.

When I got home, my family sat in a silent circle while I carefully excised the wrapping paper off gifts and stacked them neatly without looking at them.  Every few minutes we could hear the sonic boom of a jet mobilizing.  I wonder if the pilots knew their destination, or if they just felt the same urge as everyone else.  We have to do something.

I was eighteen, and all those people died.  I never had a birthday party again.  I was late to school the next day.