Lithium and water

When I got married, nearly 12 years ago, I somehow lucked out and married the perfect man for me.  I’m saying its luck, but it probably has more to do with divine intervention or what some people might say the right alignment of stars.  I am serious. Ever noticed how knowing people makes you better aware of yourself?  Have you ever tried to map out the relationships you’ve had with other people and how they formed you, how the changed you or how they completely burned you out?

This idea came to me in the form of chemistry.   I don’t know how I’m not a chemist.  But, that is what people call it.  Chemistry.  The way we blend in to one another, the way we react to one another.  Sometimes its volatile, sometimes its a subtle poisoning.  Sometimes is a flash burn.  Sometimes its a slow burn.  But if you are lucky, like me–the elements are mutually respectful and tend to enhance and preserve one another.  Every single male I was ever interested in before I met my husband was the same.  Very artistic.  I am artistic, so it makes sense.  But I think the effect of two artistic people coming together is like lithium in water.  Immediate fireworks, followed by a slow burn-down.  Its easy to see why that is exciting and wonderful.  How one could get hooked on the chemical reaction.  But it doesn’t last.  It can’t last.  Just think about it.  Can you think of one artist-artist couple who survived?  I can’t.  In our society, we’re attracted to the flame. Its what we think love is, because that is how its been translated.  Even at 19, I saw the value of arranged marriages.  Of putting elements (man and woman) together in a way harmonious with the stars, instead of letting them attract each other and watch the reaction.  Just look how unsuccessful this is, usually.  Most of the time, really.

When I met my husband, something moved inside my soul.  I didn’t recognize it as love.  Because loving–to me–always meant fireworks.  With my husband it was something cool and penetrating.  I am water.  When he settled into my mind, my thoughts, it moved me.  The way that a stone dropping into water moves water.  Not steam and fire, just concentric circles radiating outward to the shore.  The energy was gentle, I didn’t understand it at first.  Now I do, and I’m so grateful.  I’m grateful for the powers that moved us together.  I’m grateful that I knew–even without knowing.  We lie together warming and cooling with the earth and its as it should be.  Beautiful, sustainable, lovely…eternal.

Lately, I’ve been brought out of the literal world.  Into a litterary world.  I’m seeing things that I would have missed before, just because I am sensative to powers that are invisible.  Ideas, emotions, the stars, attraction.  Languages of blood and electricity.  There is an explanation for everything, I’ve learned.  The answers are not as exciting as the questions, if you know what I mean.

 

First psychotic break

Wandering down the isles of the supermarket, I was multi-tasking.  Waiting for an oil change, and a perscription to be filled while also doing my grocery shopping for the week.  My mind was whirring and chaotic, flashing from products to sale tags and vaguely entertaining questions from my 3 year old.  Children are adept at getting one’s attention when they want it.  Even when they have it.  My son has me to himself today and I enjoy lavishing him with my affection, but when I’m shopping, its business.  Gabe has this way of breaking down barriers.  He has darling, expressive brown eyes and he has a way of lighting up his whole face when he wants you to look at him.  When that doesn’t work, he uses his body movements, quick and jerky to get the job done.  Sometimes he dances a little jig, sometimes he starts running while shifting his shoulders from side to side.  Today he’s trapped in the shopping cart.  Its nearing lunchtime and so all food looks interesting.  Gabe points at everything in the isle, the end-cap and since I am only vaguely aware of his show, he amps it up a bit.  Instead of pointing, he extends his entire arm with his whole hand outstretched at items over his head and out of reach.

“It looks like I have a friend here.”  Says an old voice in a familiar foreign accent.

I registered the comment after I had looked up in the man’s direction.  His rippled old skin is shining and soft looking.  Almost like cookie dough.  There was something mis-shapen about something around his mouth.  Possibly a faded old scar.  I tried not to stare.  His eyes search mine while I glance down at my son, still frozen like a statue with his arm outstretched like a tiny little Nazi giving a Hal Hitler.  I didn’t put it together just then, I tried to remember my manners.

“Gabe, say hello.”  I urge my son to notice the man and be polite.  That is what I do when I’m not sure what to say.  The children are the only reason older people ever talk to me.

The man seems a little arrogant or something, most people just want to smile and talk to my children.  Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it and he pushed on.  I was half-way down the isle when I noticed Gabe doing his arm thing again and I placed the old man’s accent, decidedly German.  Something went  cold and I stopped right in front of the hot chocolate.  What the?  No.  Is it possible I actually just met…no.

It seems like a hallucination or an apparition that spontaneously appeared in public.  Or maybe that actually happened.  I’m reading a book written by a Jewish psychologist on the Nazi doctors.  So maybe that is why my mind put that scenerio together the way it did.  But the thing is, I wasn’t even thinking about that book.  It had been days since I’d picked it up.  I know the mind is complex and in a way our memory can change to fit whatever we want it to.  I’m just wondering if it is possible to have met either an actual Nazi or some old Nazi sympathiser in Wal-mart?  I think any that survived would have way to much shame associated with their past to bring it up casually to a stranger in the grocery isle??  Or was that some kind of psychotic break from reality?  I’ll know if that guy shows up somewhere else to head to the shrink.  Or the neurologist.  Or maybe I’m reading too much into this…

 

words, words, words

I keep imagining my life streaming past me in text-form.  I actually finished a writing project I started and I am calling myself a writer.  So many times I’ve sat down to write something and it just comes out stilted and choppy.  Nothing seemed fluid.  Its like that first fearful moment on the dancefloor when you have the beat and the flow of the music like its in your blood but you are afraid to move your body in time… It was like that with writing.  It just takes confidence I think.  Getting the nerve up, or faking it until it doesn’t matter anymore.  Now everything, every sense, every situation is translated into text in my mind.  I’m afraid to rest and lose the momentum.  What if this current of creativity leads to the shore?  What if it stops somewhere?  It would seem that a blog is the perfect place to exhibit writing.  But for now that isn’t the point.  You’ll excuse me if I’m a little absent for a while.  Not that there are that many of you who will miss me. 

 

Spiderweb

The third time Andres looked up from his coffee he caught her glance. He had been in a brooding mood. He had spent more time at the restaurant in the past 5 days than he had spent at home. He was still wearing his black slacks and polo shirt and smelled oily like the kitchen. For him there was only work. He wore a slight scowl most of the time, but occasionally a bright thought would cross his face and his smile would reveal two strait rows of perfectly shaped white teeth. It was her light, bubbly laugh that had caught his attention. All of the sudden she got up from the table she was sitting at with five or six other laughing people and crossed the room toward him. Andres looked down at his shoes and the cuffs of his pants, they were spotted with miscellaneous food debris. He took a quick sip of his coffee and sat up strait and then bent his neck sideways to glance toward the door. Just in case he was mistaken and she wasn’t approaching him.

“I’m Natalie.” she said with a round beaming face while she extended her hand to him.
“Andres.” he took her hand and gestured for her to sit down.
“I noticed you were sitting here alone. I thought you might like some company.”
Andres noticed the softness of her hands and felt self-conscious of his own rough calloused ones.
“Sure.” he said, rather lamely. His ambiguous reply didn’t deter her or shake her confidence. She babbled on.
“I am just the nosiest person, but I wonder what made you smile a while ago. You were sitting here looking so tired and worn out and then your whole face lit up for a second and you smiled.”
“I… I don’t remember. I think I was just… I thought about my son.”
Natalie’s face flashed a moment of something like alarm. Like Andres’ family might be standing right behind her.
“You have a family?” Andres was slightly amused to see her ruffle just a bit. He had been caught off guard. Talking about his son was a purely honest moment and he hadn’t thought of what it implied about him.
“No. Just my son. He lives with his mother.”
“I love children.” Natalie said, regaining her perkiness. “I work as a nanny to three children. It is the best job, really. I’m a student full-time, but I spend my evenings with the children.  How old is your son?”
Andres thought a moment about how much of his life he was willing to reveal to this bubbly stranger. He looked at her earnestly for the slightest second to see if her face would reveal her intentions.
“He is seven.” Andres’ lilting Spanish accent had become apparent to Natalie.
“Oh how sweet. What a fun age. I love your accent. I went to Guatemala on a mission trip last summer. It really helped me polish my Spanish.”
Andres was trying to decide if this woman was a walking disaster. There was a moment when he had looked into her face that he felt something intriguing. She was the polished, manicured type. Her hair was just past her chin and some bangs kept falling into her eyes. She was constantly brushing them back with her hand. She was wearing dark jeans and a white blouse with a delicate fitted jacket. She was curvy. Large-breasted. Her bulbous breasts strained against her thin blouse like trophies.
“…Do you go to church?” Natalie asked brightly.
Andres realized that he had tuned out a lot of what she had just said. He only realized when she stopped talking and seemed intent on getting his answer.
“Yes, sometimes. I go to the Mormon church.” Andres tried to remember the last time he had been to church. Then he realized he was drinking coffee and tried to think of a way to change the subject.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” Natalie glanced at her friends and smiled.
“I came here with some friends, let me go see if they are going to be around a while.”
Walking was the last thing Andres wanted to do after being on his feet all day. He needed to change the scene. He had always been a little on the shy side. He felt more confident away from crowds. Natalie came back in a moment with her bag on her shoulder.
“They are studying for an exam tomorrow.  I’m pretty sure I’ve got it though.  My friend Jasmin said she’ll be here at least another hour so I’ve got a little time.  Lets go.”
Andres  got up and stretched. He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and threw a few on the table. He held the door for her and tried desperately to think of something to say.
“So, you are in school?”
“Yeah, I’m going for a nursing degree. I want to get a Master’s in counseling and work with psych patients.”
“What makes you interested in that?” Andres thought this was an odd ambition.
“I don’t know. In this economy it seems like good work to have.” Natalie laughed a little through her nose.
“What do you do, Andres?”
“Well, as you can tell by the way I’m dressed, I’m a lawyer.” Andres then shot her his winning smile. Natalie giggled.
“I know you are a waiter. I’ve seen you at Theo’s before. I just mean, what do you plan to do… someday.”
“I don’t make plans. That is why I work as a waiter.” Andres’ English was beautiful. He had strong shoulders and his smooth face didn’t reveal his true age. They walked along the sidewalk and had come to the end. They had to decide to go toward a neighborhood of identical town homes or cross the street and follow the path of the shopping center. Andres waited to let her choose. They crossed the street.
“So you are a Mormon and you hang out in coffee shops, huh?” Natalie’s eyes twinkled. She had picked up on those details. Andres grinned self consciously.
“I’m not a very good Mormon.”
“Would you like to come to my church?”
“Sure. Where do you go to church?”
“Grace United. Its down off of 15-501 by the car dealership.” “Oh. Do you go with your family?”
Andres suddenly got uneasy at the thought of sitting with Natalie’s family at church. She was quite a bit younger than he was. He wondered if it was possible her parents were near his age.
“Actually, its my dad’s church. He started it 10 years ago. We have over 1,000 members now.”
“Oh. Thats good.” Natalie giggled again.
“You don’t have to worry about my dad. He loves when people come to church with me.”
“Well, obviously. He gets more money that way.” Andres smiled and winked. Natalie giggled again. She was easy to entertain. Once they had reached the end of the shopping center they turned back toward the coffee shop.
“So tomorrow then? I’ll wait for you at the front entrance? You can just come in whatever clothes you feel comfortable in. Its not the stuffy kind of church. Probably not what you are used to.”
Andres smiled and looked down. He stood by the door of the coffee shop and said good-by.

That night Andres lay in bed and a silvery hair came into his view. It was lit up by a beam of moonlight that came in from his window. It seemed to just hover there. He wondered how a woman’s hair had gotten there and how it was just floating over him like a ghost. He thought of Natalie and her cheerfulness and suspected for a moment that she had placed the hair there over his bed to enchant him, giggling to herself. She must have said an incantation to give him good dreams. Those were the thoughts that started shifting and morphing in his mind. Before he fell asleep he concluded that it was the beginning of a spider web. By the time he woke up he would be completely ensnared in it.

 

30s

I’m nearing the ripe-old age of 32 and feel that I’m comfortably ensconced in my 30s. (I’m a fast learner.)  I’ve had nearly two years to reflect what this era is about and what I’ll let it be about.  My 30’s came in when I was 22 weeks pregnant, wearing a hospital gown and red socks…alone…waiting for some Doctors to dig around in my neck to decide if that mass really was cancer.  Every hard or unpleasant thing I have to do, I’d rather do alone.  And it wasn’t until I was 30 and 1/2 giving birth to my 4th child that being alone suddenly hurt me.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m never really alone.  I’m married, I have children, I have family…but if something unpleasant is going to unfold I want to face it by myself.  As if I could shelter everyone I love by shutting them out.  I went to almost every Dr. appointment alone before I found myself alone, laboring fruitlessly the morning of September 17, 2007.  I didn’t even realize I was alone until my mother-in-law called and asked if I wouldn’t like some company.  BJay was away getting the children settled or getting something to eat, I can’t remember.  And my mother was working that morning and I didn’t want to call her until I knew something was happening.  Up until the point where my mother-in-law said, “Its not right for you to be there by yourself.” I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to be there at that moment.  I hung up the phone and started sobbing uncontrollably…silently to myself.  My Dr. came in and I couldn’t stop crying.  I was so embarrassed, I just mumbled something about not getting enough sleep.  I hated this particular OB actually.  He had this gross habit of touching me on the arm when he spoke to me, as if it lent some kind of sensitivity to what he was saying.  “Its been a hard pregnancy.” He said while touching my leg.  “Cancer is scary, but you are going to be fine, you’ll see.”  I stopped crying, and felt this inward pang of something like nausea and disgust.  It wasn’t about the cancer, and besides (at that point) I wasn’t convinced it was cancer.  And if it was cancer, the last thing I wanted was that man’s sympathy.

After my surgery, I made BJay come with me to get the results of the pathology report.  It was cancer.  Not just one tumor but three.  Two papillary and one Follicular, which is a bit more serious but all curable.  The next step was more surgery to remove the rest of my thyroid.  I was there in this room with my surgeon and my husband and three of my children.  If there was an appropriate reaction to that news, I didn’t know what it was.  And if it was supposed to be shock or sadness or fear I wasn’t about to show my hand.  Not in front of the people I love most.  The surgeon left and sent in a counselor.  I told her I had researched this cancer carefully and I understood what it was and without saying anything, sent her away.  I wished I had been alone.  I felt the need to hold up this damn of uneasy cheerfulness between myself and my family so that they would never suspect anything was wrong.  “Are you okay?” I asked BJay on the way home, “Why wouldn’t I be?  Its going to be fine.”  he said, dismissively.  I waited until my family was asleep to give in to everything crushing down on me and I cried and vented to a friend via email.  Writing always has made me feel better.

This is how my 30’s came in.  My 30th birthday I was in the hospital getting a fine needle biopsy of my thyroid.  The day of my 10th wedding anniversary (30.5) BJay and I persuaded my little sister to babysit the children while we went for the second round of pathology results.  My heart had gone haywire in surgery, so after getting the news that the second part of my thyroid bed was also full of cancer, I got fitted with a heart monitor.  Sexy.

I get it.  I’m not going to be around forever.  I’ve got plenty of time left.  That is the beauty of getting cancer in your 30s.  You are young and resilient, and they got the cancer early enough that it hadn’t spread.  Lots of years left with the children.  But I’m going to die someday.  And if I’m ever going to do the great things I planned on when I was 17, I’d better get cracking.  And that, more than the cancer diagnosis–terrifies me.  On the one hand, I know the mark I’ve left on the world is wrapped in my four, beautiful, heartbreakingly hilarious, ingenious little children.  But they are their own little people, and I don’t know how much credit I can take for who they are.  On the other hand–Mediocrity.  What if I just blend in with the nothingness, nothing to signify who I was or what I did with my life?  I’m  just going to come out and say it.  I’ve always believed I was a writer.  Somehow that is deep-down how I identify the best part of me.  What if I never write anything that will define me that way?

Being in my 30s is wonderful.  I am getting to be who I am.  Sex is awesome.  I’m starting to drop some of the people and things that don’t help me move forward.  I’m starting to be honest with myself.  I’m not nearly there, yet but I’m progressing.  There is no sign of my cancer, but a lovely purple scar that lies above my collar-bone like a soft roped-jewel.

I know what  I have to do.

 

All over the place

1. I have had a hard time trying to blog the past few weeks. I have been insanely busy, but who isn’t. And that never stopped me before. I love this time of year. I usually sink into a slight depression after Christmas because I hate that its over. This year I am not where I should be. Its more than just feeling rushed. Its more than getting older and having time move at lightening speed. I am preoccupied with what I hope will turn out to be a minor health concern. My salivary gland started swelling on my anniversary. Since then it seems to be swollen all the time. I don’t know if it is a lump or not, but there is a constant mass on my jaw just under my ear. I know it is fairly common to have salivary gland damage from RAI. But the thing that is nagging at me is the possibility of it being more cancer. I basically sailed through thyroid cancer without suffering much. It always felt too easy. Wouldn’t it be ironic if curing my thyroid cancer caused another more serious cancer? What if RAI is the cause and solution to all my problems? Which brings me to the other sad irony, Doctors aren’t my friends. It isn’t something I take personally, but when you need someone to just look at your weird lump there doesn’t seem to be anyone available. My Endo washed his hands of this because (he says) it has nothing to do with thyroid cancer. My primary care Dr., conveniently, is on vacation for 2 weeks. My nuclear medicine Dr. is willing to see me, but the earliest I can get in is Jan 29th. Waiting a month and a half does not put me at ease about the whole thing. Maybe, hopefully the swelling will go down by then… I just don’t know when I’m being melodramatic or just intuitive. Two of the 3 surgeries I’ve had in my life to remove some kind of lump have resulted in cancer. Those aren’t good odds, really. But then maybe that means I’m due for some good luck.

2. I really enjoyed going out to lunch today with the little ones and BJay. For some reason I just couldn’t stop hugging Gabe. Who knew it was so lovable and endearing to see a 3 year old eat a cheeseburger?

3. This is one of my favorite poems:
THE CINNAMON PEELER by Michael Ondaatje
(Author of the English Patient)

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
– your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.

Before I was married, the poem was about ownership and possession. I was naive. Now that I’ve been married forever I see it differently. The beauty is not the mark of scent, it is in becoming marked by the scent. In a true partnership, you gain something positive from loving and being loved. You accept all kind of beautiful gifts that change you, enhance you, make you better and stronger. (And you hope that you are returning the favor.) Jealousy looses its grip. A few years ago I met the woman my husband loved his whole childhood and adolescence. He fully expected to marry her after his mission. I wanted to meet her. I don’t think I had any expectations how I would feel or how I would measure myself against her. I was surprised to find out how evolved I’ve become. Years ago when love was about possessing someone I may not have seen her as a person. But as an adult, I fully understood why he loved her. Why he has that place in his heart for her. And that didn’t diminish his love for me at all. What we are as husband and wife has evolved. I carry the scent of that love with me everywhere. When I approach a problem I think of his counsel. I try to anticipate his feelings. I still love this poem. I’ve grown to appreciate it even more. Is it me or are Indian writers just more poetic?

 

Bikini Atoll

I wrote this in college during my Anthropology of War class. The subject was obviously Bikini Atoll, site of nuclear testing in the Pacific.

I am amazed what this world has done to itself
The flash and terrible roar of might
Scorching everything in its path
We are left weak and ignorant
Our skin flapping about like goat’s ears
pierced and punctured with an ascetic silence
We are emptied, closed, muted to it.
Our hands and bellies are loud with the evidence
Invisibly conquering, compromising our senses
Mutilating our limbs
There is no cure.
On our bodies is written volumes of injustice,
And we die quietly, anonymous and forgotten.

 

Love Poetry

I’ve been searching through old files remembering people I’ve forgotten, reading letters.  Do you remember letters?  Its been a decade since I got a letter.  I’m amazed that hand-written letters ever even existed.  Anyway, I was amused by some of my old poetry.  I’m not sharing the horrible stuff.  Re-reading that was punishment enough.  I thought these were sweet though.  They were written while I was engaged to my husband.  Since we’re coming up on our 11th anniversary, it feels appropriate.

Summer evening
Several brackish pears dangled from your face
As if a fruit could bend and drip so languidly
I feel myself as a part of you
Sometimes–its like
a quandary between sleeping and consciousness.
The night is hot and a breeze
cools my dangling feet.
You throw me an alkaline kiss and it shocks me to
Oblivion.

Love
You leave me
with litanies of sapid kisses
Love lorn and bruised
by affection
In the retroversion of time
Seismic shuddering
would accompany
your absence.
The sanguine quality
of your sigh
would fall flatly
with a thud, heavy
and vacant.
The echoes would call out
for the sound of your breath
and hear only silence
careen leisurely by…

* I just had to add this one

Forever
He is like a pallid leaf
More green and pure and real
than any other
He can see from right to left
left to right–everything
he is curled around my heart
with cursive glances
Poured through my blood with long silence
Captured all my senses in
the the abyss of adoration
With him, I remember how to
feel the world as children do.
Everything is now.
Colors have flavors and smells
And life is distant.
I am immortal, with him.

 

Adrift

I’m searching for those dead old glooms.

I set out for a time adrift.
This body, this mind are not all spent.
Its scarred and lovely, warm and pure.

I’ve set out for a time, adrift.
Forgetting all but litanies of self-reproach.
Forgetting all but empty words.
Forgetting all but mundane tasks.

I’ve set out for a time, adrift.
Watching from the back to see where I’ll float.
Each day bending, dripping like the last.
Each day further from the shore,
further from the place I was.
Aging as I go.

I set out for a time, adrift.
Forgetting where my compass lies.
I set out into the deep wide ocean.
Deep and blue and stretching wide.

I will not let her pull me under,
blue arms grasping, reaching, pulling.

I am Kali fierce and piercing.
Five sets of arms in all directions.
I can not rest or dream or falter.
Surging on and further on.

I set out for a time, adrift.
I laid down softly for a time contented.
I woke up full and strong and wanting.

I cut out all the black and empty.

I cut out all the dead old glooms.

hot pink lines and swollen scars remain,
I’m healing.

I stood up and placed my foot on water.
I walk, I run, I fly on solid ground.

 

Let me explain

I think I should explain the poem “I” that I posted because it turns out it was a really bad coupling with the news of my niece’s death. I didn’t plan it that way and I wasn’t in a dark mood when I wrote it. BJay has been talking about how Satan’s greatest tool against us is to convince us he doesn’t exist. Of all the lies, that is the most damaging. How can you protect yourself if you don’t even believe your enemy is real? If he isn’t real than the lies and temptations he feeds us daily are part of US, and we believe we are the evil ones. That can lead to all kinds of self-doubt and hopelessness. BJay gave a really good talk on the subject I wish I had a copy of, but a lot of it was off the cuff. So, in case you were wondering, that is what that was all about.