Wishing on a Blue Star (45 page)

To Whom It May Concern,

You know me, just as surely as I know you. Or perhaps I should say, “You
still
know me.”

Yes, I got sick, through no fault of my own. Yes, it’s cancer which, believe me when I tell you, is a hell of a lot more frightening for me than it is for you. Yes, it’s incurable, which means I will die a lot sooner than you or I might have hoped for. But beyond that one difference, I am still
me
.

So why do you treat me so differently now?

You used to smile when I walked through your door. Now you won’t even look me in the eye. You told me time and again you wanted to see me, and now you barely speak to me. Why do you run away from me, even when we are sitting side by side?

Why are you punishing me?

When you look at me, what do you see that’s so different from the last time we were together? Have I grown fangs? Horns? A third eye? Or do you simply see bone where flesh once softened sharp angles? Is it the creases and wrinkles scattered across my face like a road map to sorrow that forces your eyes to the floor?

Beneath my outward appearance, I am still the same as I ever was.

Perhaps I’ve become a mirror of sorts. A reflection of your own mortality. Does looking at me remind you that you too will die someday? Or is it merely the loss you will feel when I am gone?

Maybe what you see is proof of the facts I tried so hard to get you to understand for so long, that you tried so hard to ignore or disbelieve.

I don’t know. Not for sure at least, but something changed because you used to look at me and smile. You used to seek out my company not so long ago. Now you step aside, never look up, and barely acknowledge my existence when we cross paths.

Oh, I know. It’s not
really
all your fault. You can’t help how you feel, and I know you never had to deal with the idea, except you did. I am not the only one you’ve lost in your lifetime.

And that’s why I’m writing you this letter. Call it one last chance to keep loss and guilt at bay because you see, you are treating me like I am already gone. Like I am a shadow of what once was.

But I’m not gone,
yet
. I am still here, and you are wasting time.

While you avoid me you lose these last chances we have to be together. Maybe you’d rather I were already gone. Get it over with and not drag out the inevitable. I wouldn’t have thought that were possible, but then again, I wouldn’t have thought you would avoid me like you are.

Do you understand that there is no reset button, no “do-over” to start fresh and make different choices?

You have to make those choices
now
, and make them count. Don’t you get that?

This is the only letter I will write. I’m not going to beg you to talk to me, not going to push myself on you. Instead, I will continue to hope you finally learn to deal with me, all of me, before it is too late-- and that you will once again smile when our eyes meet. Try not to blame me for getting sick. I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.

As I said, I know you. I know guilt and remorse over these missed chances and bad choices will eat at you. Eventually you’ll be forced to push your memories of me far away and I’ll become no more than faded pictures in a forgotten album.

I don’t want to be forgotten.

Think about that, and if you do finally decide to take a chance and come back, I’ll be right here, waiting.

Only... I can’t wait forever. That much is
obvious.

Patric

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Complacency is invisible.

Well, my sister has come and gone, without saying more than a handful of words to me during her entire visit. I don’t know if that was a result of her being unable to handle the sight of her once hale and hulking moose of a brother turned into a scarecrow, or if it was nothing more than her being frightened of the near perpetual scowl on my face.

Trust me, you’d scowl too if you felt like this. lol!

Whichever it was, the end result stung like holy hell. Far more than I ever thought possible which means I am getting sappy in my old age. :)

But strangely enough, that didn’t matter near as much (Let’s face it, I *expected* it to happen, didn’t want her to come out and see me because of it. Who knows, I may have even fulfilled my own prophecy) as when Papa came home from taking her to the airport.

I woke around 6:30 pm and saw his car in the driveway, then promptly fell asleep again. A bit after midnight, I woke for real with a question on my mind: Does Papa know I’m still alive?

A silly question, granted. Of course he knows. Right? Right?! Let’s chalk it up to strange dreams, or the still quivering barb of my sister’s rejection (and it was a rejection, no matter how you justify it to yourself should you ever read this, Sister mine.) sending bolts of pain through my emotions, but I had to know. The urgency was killing me.

I hobbled down the stairs feeling even worse than usual and met him in the foyer as I headed toward the kitchen.

“So,” says I. “What time did you come up to see if I was still alive?”

A startled expression crosses his face. O rather, I perceive it as startled.

“I didn’t,” he says, following me into the kitchen to watch me shamble to the refrigerator.

“Oh.” Then a beat later, “You’re gonna get a nasty surprise one of these days.”

He says nothing, of course. What could he say? For all of his gentle ways and erstwhile consideration, he simply isn’t made to think of such things.

I stir the chocolate into my milk (It’s the only thing that stays put with any certainty) with my shoulders hunched so he doesn’t see my face as I struggle not to be stung twice in a day. By the time I make it to the top of the stairs, (no mean feat clutching a glass in one hand and the rail in the other) I realize I have become invisible.

When all this mess started, it was a shock to everyone, and everyone set aside their lives and routines to check up on me, look after me, ask me how I was doing, or if I needed anything, or simply wailed at the unfairness of it all.

As much as I hated the attention (and trust me on that) I also had to value it because sometimes one or another visitor might see I was stuck and lend a hand, sparing me the ignominy of having to ask for help. More often than not it was Papa, of course. He is closest to me physically, after all. And we
all
know how much I hate asking for help. :)

But as time went by and I fought to regain something of
my
life and routines, and more importantly once I got off the chemo and the killer experimental drugs, my sickness became less visible, if you discounted the hobbling, the gasping, the slow speech, and what not. When all that remained became the norm rather than the novelty, I found myself once again relegated to the role of a hermit, hiding out in the cave which is my room.

A good friend of mine recently said that people generally want their sick to lie quietly in white linens and not impinge on healthy people’s reality. It’s so much easier to ignore the reality of death that way.

As far as I can tell, they were correct. Healthy people want us to be invisible.

Now remember, these are vastly broad statements that don’t necessarily reflect home and family, but in a way they do. Papa doesn’t check on me *because* I am always in my room and I always come down, eventually. I’ve been that way for years.

He’s become complacent by habit.

People don’t call every weekend as they once did because the news is always the same. “Oh, I have good days and bad days. Today is not so bad.”

They’ve become complacent by repetition.

No, this is not me whining like a spoiled brat and demanding that someone pay attention to me. I actually prefer the anonymity, and it’s a damned nuisance having to constantly say I feel like shit. On the other hand, checking on me say, twice a day, to see if I am still breathing isn’t necessarily a BAD thing, either. Papa really will get a nasty surprise one of these days and I already feel sorry for him because of it.

The point is that even though there will always be new people, ones who will rail or rage or be taken aghast or ignore me and wish I was invisible as their personalities demand, the majority will simply “forget.” Not in a malicious way, but for them, there will be more important things to do than call, or it will slip their mind. “I meant to call you the other day but I got sidetracked.” is my personal favorite.

For the most part, I am fine with that. That same friend also said I went “way, WAY out of my way to be self sufficient.” and again they were correct. It’s no secret that I much prefer independence rather than reliance. And yes, I am generally considered an exception rather than the rule on that score, but it still doesnt keep me from feeling somehow
abandoned
, especially when the one thing that has not changed, has not become invisible, is my need.

The same need that has me sitting up at two in the morning writing a blog post when I would ordinarily be impatiently snoring the night away so I could wake up and attack a summer day with all the gusto and enthusiasm I once had.

It’s also the same need that will eventually take me away far more thoroughly than just rendering me invisible.

I mentioned wasting time in the previous post. As far as I can tell, that complacency is probably the most insidious time waster of all because while we might forget, might settle back in the comfort of our routines and relax, I guarantee you the cancer is no where near as complacent. It is relentless in it’s effort to eat me from the inside out, and that alone is reason enough to check and see if I am still alive, once in a while.

Patric

Holding Purpose

D.W. Marchwell

A difficult time can be more readily endured if we retain the conviction that our existence holds a purpose - a cause to pursue, a person to love, a goal to achieve.  (John Maxwell)

He opened up the brand new notebook, the spiral metal coil reminding him of all those years in school, as he sat at his roll top desk with the pen poised over the crisp white page.  The blank page.  There was nothing on it but the light blue ink that formed the lines which he was now supposed to fill with his thoughts and feelings.  He stared at the page and felt a little foolish.  He had a perfectly good laptop that he could use to get over this breakup, but for some reason the idea of actually writing everything longhand held a promise of something different, something that he hadn’t experienced since he’d started writing all those years ago, before his life had become so unwelcoming.

Campbell Connelly was his alter-ego, an identity that he’d created almost fifteen years ago when he’d begun to write stories that he’d been so sure would only be read by him.  But then he’d begun posting them on line, in various readers’ forums, and had discovered that he was not alone after all.  Of course, no one knew who he was, nor did they know the turmoil that had caused him to begin to create all of these characters who always ended up living the life that Matthew had searched in vain to find.

It wasn’t that Campbell Connelly was any happier than Matthew Leslie, but rather it was a relief when Matthew could become Campbell.  It was a relief to leave behind all of the debris of Matthew’s life and occupy Campbell’s, so simple and uncomplicated.  No one had ever hurt Campbell, not as they had Matthew.  And Campbell had never had to watch, helplessly, as one man after another offered nothing more than a promise of what Matthew craved.  In fact, it was Campbell that received dozens of emails a day from loyal readers who told him how much all of his stories meant to them.  Matthew, on the other hand, was the one who sat on a stool for almost eight hours a day, watching all the people wait in line so he could answer their questions about their bank deposits or process their withdrawal forms.  Matthew Leslie was the one who sat on a stool and saw life pass by.

He gave up trying to write anything and headed to the bathroom to shower and shave.  He’d been up for almost two hours now staring at the blank page of that notebook.  Now it was time to head to the bank for the late shift.  Well, it was called the late shift, but Matthew would be home before seven this evening, which would give him another couple of hours to try and figure out what he so desperately needed to write in that notebook.  What he wanted to write down about this most recent break up that would prepare him for the next one.

DAY ONE

He wasn’t really sure what he was doing here, precisely, other than to attend some sort of exercise program that promised variety, excitement and, of course, results.  He’d come home from the bank the other day to find a flyer stuffed inside of his mailbox.  The one-sided flyer showed the grainy picture of a man who could have been from one of Matthew’s novels, but that wasn’t what he was doing here.  At least that’s what he’d told his neighbor and friend, Michael.  Of course, Michael hadn’t believed him, but had graciously kept his mouth shut and not reminded Matthew that men that looked like this were usually trouble.

“Come on in and stake your claim to a spot on the floor.”