Writing | Unabridged Me

An undisciplined artist faces writer’s block

September 16, 2020

Most writers will tell you there is a special purgatory saved just for the writer who cannot write. Each experiences writer’s block differently, interpreted through our own sense of art.

For me, the void begins slowly as words lose their importance. Thoughts still run through my head like a babbling brook of meaning, a constant story telling me about what I sense and feel in the world. Despite the existence of these thoughts, I cannot find any words that strike the right balance in communication, of sharing how a world of observation and imagination are playing out within my head. The slope steepens as my feelings and thoughts separate, my writing taking on a distanced and unemotional tone as letters are typed onto a blank screen but my feelings and interpretations have fled to a quiet corner inside myself. The last stop in my downward slide is when my intellect flees for more fertile ground, objective observations abandoning me to sit in a dark abyss without words.

Most writers will tell you that writing is the essence of who we are. People will ask why did you want to be a writer? There is no answer for this question. I have always written, sometimes as a means to release intense emotion and, within the last few years, as an art to share with the world. A block in writing means a part of a writer is gone, like an existential arm that has been amputated. We feel its presence though it does no good for us.

Artists and scientists the world around, both contemporary and historical, will say that solitude is a necessity for art. I contemplate this question as I engage in a staring match with my writer’s block. Am I too busy in the world? Has the chaos of remote schooling and pandemic and all the things that have occurred in the last year pulled me outside of myself, building a blockade within my own mind? The idea has merit. After all, some of my best stories were written while my daughter was in school and I sat in a silent house as my mom slept through her illness.

No, I reject this answer.

Though deafening silence was my companion as I wandered through the daily routine of medical procedures, I was not alone. I was immersed in a constant tension of life versus death, stubborn will versus disease, and the quiet regret and resentment of my mother versus the bubbling life and action of my daughter. My art is not that of philosophy or great thoughts of innovation and imagination, requiring isolation from impeding distractions. My art is the underlying emotion and motivations that drive humans as they interact with each other and the world.

Could it be my own perfectionism and expectations are getting in the way of communicating with my muse? That I push away my writing as inconsequential as I compare myself to a world full of people who interpret and create breathtaking beauty? Also an idea with merit. I am my own worst critic, suffering from imposter syndrome with almost every endeavor.

Again, this has not stopped me before. My own harsh judgement of my writing does not stop me from writing. Instead, it propels me forward to find more unique ideas, combine more perfect words, and paint a more thorough world for a reader.

As I stare deep into the eyes of my adversary, I must be honest with myself. My writer’s block is a creation of being an undisciplined artist. Solitude is my friend, yet I am lazy when I have time to myself. The challenge to create the most perfect feeling drives my creativity, yet I do not accept the challenge. I allow my ideas to flow in and out of my consciousness without proper attention. I have neglected my muse so long that she no longer wishes to visit me.

Yes, I am an undisciplined artist. Also, I accept I have cut off my own arm with an unwillingness to sit down and confront feelings locked inside my chest. I have set my tools on fire in an attempt to move forward in life. I have abandoned the one thing that gives me release in this life.

Despite these choices, the urge to write still pulls at me daily, creating additional pain as I struggle to find words and ideas. Today this urge spilled out as I am no longer able to hold in my need to write and my frustration at sitting in the void. A friend said to me just sit and write. Even if it is crap, words on a page is better than nothing.

So today I just write.

The Two of Us: The Port of Essaouira

April 10, 2020

“I mean, I’m not comfortable doing the surgery. I don’t have the skills to do it. And the only doctor here that I would trust to do it and has the skills to do it says it’s not a good idea, he doesn’t like the idea of it. But if there is a doctor who could do it, they would be in the university system. We could transfer you and they could try the surgery, but it wouldn’t be in network and, I don’t know, but if anyone could put this stent in, it would be them…”

The surgeon is rambling, repeating himself as he talks about the option of putting a stent in next to the tumor, allowing the liver and gallbladder to drain. My eyes go back and forth between Mom’s oncology surgeon, silently standing at the end of the bed while the GI surgeon talks, and Mom’s face. I see her eyes, and I recognize the irrational hope of a miracle that is building in her heart. I’ve seen that look many times over the past few months.

Suddenly I cannot stay quiet anymore. The frenetic energy created in my chest by the GI surgeon’s rambling explodes, and I stand up.

“Please leave.”

The surgeon stops talking, and three sets of eyes stare at me in the silence.

“You said the stent won’t fit in the space, and there isn’t enough tissue for the stent to hold anyway, right?” The surgeon nods. “You said Dr. Raju, a surgeon who has operated on Mom before, already said he doesn’t like the idea of the surgery, right?” I continue in a rush, “but now you say that if we are willing to experiment with Mom’s life there is a chance someone might be able to do it somewhere else, as long as we transfer her to another hospital full of doctors we don’t know, and what is the chance of success?”

“Very low,” the surgeon admits.

I turn to the oncology surgeon, a man who has been honest and supportive since we met him at the beginning of May, “and the chances of risks and complications?”

“With your mom’s surgery history and her body’s current health, there is a very high chance of complications,” he replies.

I turn to the new surgeon. “My mom is not an experiment. She is not a test subject for a surgeon to try his skills just to see if he can do it…”

“That’s not…”

“Stop. I sat here and listened to everything you said. You both just confirmed what I thought I heard. And yet you keep talking,” I cannot stop the words, months of frustration boiling over in my heart and pouring into the room.

“I have one question,” my mom interrupts quietly, looking directly at her oncology surgeon, “will this surgery help me live longer?”

Her doctor sighs while the other surgeon looks at the floor, “no, Lynn. Like the palliative and IR doctor said yesterday, any measure right now is for comfort only. There is nothing that will extend your life.”

All energy drains from my body and I sit down in the chair next to my mom, my shoulders hunched and my hand grasping at Mom’s swollen and yellow hand as I ask, “but it means weeks of recovery and possibly complications from surgery that could end her life?”

“Yes.”

“Does she have weeks?”

“No.”

I know the answers to my questions, but the decision is not mine to make. I watch Mom fight for control: control of her body, control of time, and control of life, but I am helpless as she turns away from making this decision.

The first morning in Essaouira, Morocco, I felt the pressure of time pushing me forward into my day as I sat down to breakfast late, barely out of bed and unprepared. Though I was quick to adapt to Mediterranean time, my American upbringing of structured schedules conflicted with the natural flow I was trying to step into.

In fact, traveling for me is a balancing act between going with the flow and my inherent need for structure. While I do not enjoy planned tours and itineraries, preferring to find spaces and moments on my own, I like to research so I have one or two items to cross off my list when traveling. The loose structure gives me a sense of control while leaving enough freedom in my day for the winds of chance to direct my feet.

As we walked out the door of our riad, I knew what I wanted to accomplish in the day. Though my mom lived in Colorado for over 40 years of her life, she spent her formative years in Southern California. In contrast to my 100% mountain blood, my mom had a beach mentality that held strong to her personality. Since Essaouira is known for its crescent beach, offering soft sands and ideal winds for numerous water sports including surfing, I decided that’s where I needed to be.

Facing towards Essaouira from the port

Of course, traveling can take on a life of its own. Instead of walking from the medina to the beach, the winds of Essaouira pushed my feet to the northern edge of the kasbah to walk along the ramparts towards the port. The sun was warm on my face, and breezes from the Atlantic caressed my face as crashing waves and seagull cries created a soundtrack for my walk.

My body and senses were absorbed in my surroundings, but my mind was still trying to control the direction of my feet, focused on where my mom would have wanted to go. I noticed the birds fighting and swarming, the sun cresting the barrier that historically protected the small village from threats, but I was focused on my goal of taking Mom to the beach.

Until I reached the fish market at the end of the port, and my mind began to release its coveted beach idea.

The men had been awake since before dawn working for their income, and their daily

The daily catch

catches were on display for the residents and restaurants of Essaouira. Some were more prosperous than others, larger catches and more fish displayed on tables and in wooden stalls, while others had a small umbrella covering fish and ice laid out on tarps or a few fish on a tray. Though there was a variety of fish and shellfish, most looked similar until we reached a table with a baby shark on exhibit.

Once again, my American nature came into conflict with my immersive experience. Although the world at large eats shark, Americans are often against the act because of the endangered species off our shores and the inhumane act of finning. Yet standing in front of me was a man who every day worked in an environment he couldn’t command to earn an unreliable income. Despite all the things that were beyond his control, he managed to land this difficult creature with the hope to earn enough to feed his family.

An hour later the winds released me, and I came to rest at a shack consisting of ten tables and a grill. Although my American nature cringed a little, I agreed to try the shark. I was reared by my mom to try every food put in front of me at least once. Though it was her small attempt at fighting against a cultural norm of picky eaters, it was a lesson that became a keystone to my foodie tendencies.

Finally, my mind released its goals and agendas as I realized I was blown into daily life in Essauoira. Eating shark and shrimp and squid with my hands, I watched the animals and people around me dance on the air currents of their regular lives. I was a leaf deposited by a breeze, only a temporary visitor, but for a moment in time I filled my stomach and cleansed my soul with a simple and pure experience.

Eventually I made it to the beach, the winds of Essaouira taking me where I thought I wanted to be. And the beach was exactly as I expected, lined with hotels and filled with people sunbathing and enjoying the Atlantic Ocean. I pushed through a gale force exiting their tour bus before being deposited at a beach front restaurant, enjoying coffee and wine while watching foreigners and Moroccans alike walk along the sidewalk bordering the sandy beach.

The view was beautiful, and where I sat was peaceful with little air movement compared to the rocky edges along the kasbah. A beautiful resting place while the afternoon deepened and settled.

The beach view

As I listened to the mixed dialects of English around me, I realized that if I had insisted on controlling my destiny and going directly to the beach, I would have missed out on the immersive element I crave while traveling.

Control is one aspect of human experience that I think we all battle with from the time we learn to walk away from our parents until our ultimate defeat in death. Whether we exert control over our lives in an aggressive manner, insisting things go our way no matter what storm buffets us, or whether control is asserted by building consistent routines designed as barriers against breezes and tempests alike, managing our lives against an inherent chaos is part of being human.

Traveling often exposes who we are as we attempt to battle against being out of culture, out of routine, and often out of language. The travel industry has built a successful model of shuffling people through foreign places in order to consume unique cultures while offering a sense of safety and control over an otherwise chaotic experience.

My mom liked to know what to expect, despite embracing all that life offered her in every opportunity. I think that’s one of the reasons she enjoyed traveling with tour groups. The itinerary was provided, the meals were consistent, and a bubble of familiarity forms when traveling with the same people for several weeks, giving Mom control while removing the necessity of decision making.

Yet it is when we give up control and focus on the decisions right in front of us, like eating a fish, that we can begin appreciating the time we are given. Even if the choice is between bad or worse, we can decide how we want to live in the face of an uncontrollable universe.

The Two of Us: Prologue

April 2, 2020

“And then probably Morocco in the Spring,” my mom says.

Until this moment I was busy watching the people on the zoo carousel as we wait in line, hearing my mom’s words but letting them float around my head without notice.

“You are going to Morocco?” I ask, turning all attention to her.

“Yeah, probably in the Spring sometime. After I return from Chile in January,” she looks at me, “OAT has some good packages I was looking into.”

“I will go to Morocco with you,” I say in a rush, “it can be our trip you were talking about, the one celebrating our birthdays.”

My mom looks at me, and I can see thoughts are running through her head. I wait for her.

“You know, you should travel when you are younger. Money comes and goes, but age is a one-way street,” she replies.

Surprise stops my response as I process what she is saying. My mom knows I have always wanted to travel, that I am often envious of her trips, but I realize she is also sharing a fear that I will delay taking this trip because of work or saving money or other life circumstances. Things that have interfered with her and me traveling more together. Things that delayed her spending more time with her own parents, delayed until it was too late. Suddenly, my mom looks old and tired.

“Yes. We will go to Morocco together,” I answer her fear, vowing that I will do everything possible to make this trip happen.

On April 3^nd, 2019, my daughter and I were on a plane, accompanying my mom to Morocco. Two days before, we weren’t sure the fate of our trip. My mom was sent into a quandary whether to continue as planned or cancel after her emergency room visit. One day before leaving, Mom decided to continue as planned.

We began our trip in Casablanca, where we stayed for one night before climbing into a van to start our two-week journey around the Moroccan countryside. The countryside flew past our windows in a blur as we headed towards Chefchaouen, an old medina nestled in the mountains of Northeast Morocco.

I had my first feelings of culture shock in Chefchaouen, along with stress about traveling with a small child and a travel companion who I didn’t know well. Also, it was in Chefchaouen when I had my first anxiety attack about Mom’s health.

Arriving in Dulles International Airport

Since leaving Denver International Airport, I watched my mom try to navigate airports and traveling as she was accustomed. Unfortunately, by the time we started this trip, Mom had already lost weight and was struggling to sleep and eat. The first night in the blue city was a sleepless night for everyone as we all struggled.
Our road trip from the blue city to Fez was awkward and fraught with the sense of breaking cultural norms with every step, and Fez was filled with miscommunication and health difficulties by all but the youngest member of our group (a.k.a. travel sickness). I could see the wear on Mom as she did not show her usual interest in taking notes, following along rather than listening to our guide as he navigated us through the Medina.

Despite the obvious strain on her, Mom rallied any time my daughter showed interest.

I struggled with the first half of our trip for many reasons. I noticed how we moved in circles of Europeans and Australians, isolated in tourism bubbles despite maneuvering Mom away from her usual tour bus style of traveling. I did not want a Disneyland version of Morocco; I wanted to immerse and understand a culture that was as opposite from my own lifestyle as possible.

The stronger current pulling at me was the storm building in my subconscious regarding my mom’s health. Although she never opened to me about her thoughts, even later when we lived together during her medical battle with cancer, I could sense my mom’s denial about her situation. I watched her fight for independence and shove down any symptom that she was ill.

I watched my mom’s exhaustion grow exponentially as she struggled to consume enough calories to keep her body going at our fast pace.

Been through the desert on a camel with no name

The Sahara desert was a turning point for me. Despite my ass hurting 15 minutes into a 90 minute dromedary ride through the desert, I felt a deep peace in the desert. So deep, I felt the calm at the sub-atomic level. For the first time in my life, my inner monologue was silent as I sat 6 feet in the air behind my daughter.

After supper, another meal where Mom ate a few bites of soup and tried to drink a rice based protein shake prescribed by her naturopathic doctor, we settled into our respective tents. That night the wind howled against the tent, an embodiment of the sandstorm that had filled my chest since the first night in Chefchaouen. My dreams filled with jinn and monsters playing supernatural games, and the pre-dawn alarm of my cell phone found me awake and eager to end the night.

My daughter and I rose in the dark, and in the hazy moment between night and day, we walked up a sand dune to watch the sun rise. Balanced on a small metal chair that sunk into the sand with every imperceptible shift, I watched the sun crest the desert and felt the yellow warmth kiss my uplifted face.

We froze in time. My fidgety daughter calmed, sitting still and relaxed on my lap, as I found equilibrium between my core muscles and the haphazard metal chair.

Dawn after a long night

Wind began to move my hair against my cheek, and like single grains of sand falling in an hourglass, time resumed. I watched the desert breathe, mesmerized by the breeze picking up tiny particles of sand, creating endless waves that crested over a dune’s top to fall on the other side. The desert shifted and settled, moving dunes one grain at a time and erasing foot and hand prints within minutes.

Human existence was a speck in the vastness of the desert, and the desert’s breath blew away traces before they could establish residence.

As we left the desert, I was in shock at the magnitude of what I felt, an experience that would sustain me in the difficult months to come. The night gave me a new understanding how Mom struggled every night, awake and battling the betrayal of her body. But a deeper calm was established, reinforced by the knowledge of how insignificant our lives are compared to a vast entity like the Sahara Desert.

While my ascent occurred in the desert, my mom experienced her own return from Hades in Marrakech. Finally succumbing to our nagging, she took an OTC painkiller before trying to sleep. And she slept the full night, free from the demons that plagued her since the ER visit.

The next morning my mom was able to eat a full meal, and all day she was engaged with our tour and the historical monuments we saw. I began to see the mom I’ve known in my adult life, full of humor and a thirst to experience everything.

A rainy day in Rabat, before the wear of our journey began to show

Our trek through Morocco ended too soon, our flight leaving Casablanca to return us to the States to embark on our next journey navigating the healthcare system. Despite our best intentions of planning how we would battle Mom’s cancer and maintain our lives, there was no organizing that would prepare us for what was to come.

Less than a month would find me and my daughter moving in with my mom as crisis after crisis created a sandstorm that left us without visibility beyond the next moment. Doing the best we could, we hunkered down and tried to survive as the cancer and complications pummeled Mom.

There is a plethora of opinions regarding both my mom’s and my choices during that time. Opinions about treatment, opinions about lifestyle, and opinions about whether it was wise for Mom to take two weeks in Morocco instead of fighting her cancer. While some decisions were reactive and based on necessity, other decisions were weighed carefully. Six months after Mom’s death, I can say I do not regret any decision that we made.

Now is time for me to put into action the lessons I learned during the fight for Mom’s life. Of course, the first lesson anyone learns from death is life is short. Like my mom said in the Fall of 2018, youth is something that cannot be recovered once it is gone. Because of this lesson, I intend to stop procrastinating my own travel plans. The desire for world wandering was a trait that I shared with my mom, and I will embrace my desire to travel now instead of waiting until the “time is right.”

The bigger lesson for me is about leaning into life and not reacting based on fear. There are many things I have not done based on a fear: a fear of failure, a fear of rejection, a fear of having to do it alone, or a fear of abandonment. Six months ago, I experienced all four feelings in the space of one weekend. Having faced my deepest demons, I can move forward with the peace I found in the desert.

Just as I tried to meet all my mom’s needs in the last few months of her life, I will continue to try and meet her final wishes. While this does require me to embrace the fear of the unknown, sometimes traveling by myself and jumping into situations where I cannot control the minutiae, it is instinctive to combine my new approach of leaning into life with spreading my mom’s ashes and documenting a legacy for my daughter.

And so the Two of Us was born, a travel documentary about embracing life, wandering the world, and fulfilling my mom’s final wishes.

Lynn Langway 10/04/1949 – 09/22/2019

20190408_143830-2

Interference

November 8, 2019

*** Below is an entry for NYC Midnight’s Flash Fiction Challenge. The assignment was sci-fi, a woodshop, and a generator. I had 48 hours to complete the story. This is an example of a story that did not feel nearly as strong as my other entry, yet this one scored in 4th place. Just goes to show, you never know what a reader will respond to, so write what is in you to write***

Synopsis: A woman gains a strange partner in her experiments to find a bridge to other universes.

***

“I can’t find your money,” Makenzie said, fidgeting against her anxiety.

“I don’t care if you can’t find it, or if it disappeared, or if you never had it to give me,” Trevor spoke in measured tones, keeping his patience, “the facts are I acquired something you needed.”

“Yes,” she sighed.

“And when I acquired it for you, it wasn’t in demand, so I gave you more than ample time to pay me back,” Trevor paused, looking in her eyes. She held his steel grey eyes for a moment before looking towards the house, wishing she was inside with the screen door between them. “Kenz, we go way back, so I’m going to – ”

Makenzie brought her eyes back to Trevor when his words halted, noticing his attention focused over her shoulder. He looked between the shed’s window and Makenzie, confusion furrowing his brow. Before she could turn around to see what caught his attention, he shook his head and focused on her again.

“You have until tonight, Kenz. Then I’m taking it back.”

Makenzie kneaded the dough against the cracked counter, venting frustration that had soared in the hours since Trevor left.

Pausing to puff hair from her eyes, Makenzie peered out the kitchen window toward her laboratory. Lab might be a generous word. Woodshop was more accurate, complete with planers, saws, and chisels hanging from the low rafters. Despite lacking the research resources she had pre-war, Makenzie did not complain. She was lucky to find a property with two buildings.

Most houses stood empty after the State sponsored interstellar emigration, which meant the few who remained on earth had a large selection to live in. The war, however, had destroyed most properties with multiple buildings. Anything that could store weapons was targeted and destroyed by drones so numerous they had covered the sun in black clouds.

Six months ago she found this property while following old post office service maps. The house was in decent condition, and the shed structure was solid and independent from the main house’s power so her large amount of electricity use would go unnoticed by the State’s monitoring system. Makenzie’s next step was to find a power source.

A portable generator was perfect. The small machine didn’t produce much power on its own but connecting the generator to the rusting metal in the shed allowed her to conduct enough electricity. Things were as perfect as they could be.

Makenzie stopped to pull up pants that threatened to slide down her shrinking hips. Skimming money from her food allotment to pay for black market fuel and pay Trevor for the generator was getting painful. Her brain was shrinking along with her body.

Her cognitive loss was proven by her misplacing the money. That kind of slip was unforgiveable and may end her experiments just when she was about to have a breakthrough.

Putting the dough aside and wiping her hands, Makenzie walked to her back door, pushing her forehead against the glass to seek the dual moons. The appearance of the second moon a month ago was evidence that her calculations were correct. She wasn’t cocky enough to think her shed-turned-portal was strong enough to pull through a moon, but the message was clear. The best time to build a bridge to another universe was now. She needed that generator to do it. Makenzie had to delay Trevor.

As if her thoughts had produced the man, Mackenzie watched Trevor slink from the road and across the yard. He glanced back at the house before pushing on the shed’s door, then kneeled and worked the lock with a lockpick. She watched and waited, holding her breath as he worked. Soon he was through the door and stepping into the pitch-black shed. The closing door released Makenzie from her spot. She picked up her flashlight and rifle before stepping through the door, leaping down the back steps two at a time.

Makenzie stopped at the door, listening for any movement inside before slipping into the shed. Silence greeted her. Turning on her flashlight, she moved the light around at chest level. Red glints of decomposing metal winked back, but she did not see Trevor.

Moving further into the shed, her foot hit something. The light moved down the wall and across the floor, first encountering a pool of reflecting liquid before hitting Trevor’s still body. Makenzie kneeled and felt Trevor’s neck, her hands becoming slick with his blood as she confirmed no pulse. She stood and turned away, pressing her forehead against the door. Makenzie took deep breaths to calm herself. Dead bodies were common after the war, but this was different.

With three more deep breaths, Makenzie reminded herself she was a scientist. Turning back around, she searched the body with the spot of light, seeking a theory to how he died. Red metal glinted on the floor, and Trevor’s neck showed deep cuts. Makenzie looked up at the rafters, several hooks swinging empty of their metal burden.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Makenzie saw a pair of shoes stepping from the deepest corner of the shed. She followed the shoes up a pair of shins, tracking up the torso, and shined the light into a face that made her gasp.

The other woman smiled and winked, held up a tin box, and then placed the box on the work bench. The box looked familiar, like a box from her childhood, but the details were wrong. She stepped around Trevor’s body as Makenzie stood up. Makenzie looked closely at the woman’s face, features that she knew well from a lifetime of seeing them reflected in mirrors. The woman wiggled her fingers, covered with Trevor’s blood, then turned and walked out the shed door. Halfway between the shed and the house, she disappeared.

Makenzie turned to the workbench and opened the tin box, finding more than enough money to continue her experiments.

Coming to terms

October 17, 2019

“Did you hear that?” Laurinda asks as silence pulls me from my dozing state.

My mom’s friend and I sit up at the same time, searching the dark recliner ten feet away. Gears activate in my mind, and I count measured seconds. I reach and pass 50 before Mom’s lungs pull and push one breath of air, followed by noiseless darkness pushing my eardrums.

For one heartbeat Laurinda and I look at each other across the dim room. In a synchronized dance choreographed by three days together in a death watch vacuum, we stand up and move over to my mother’s prone figure.

“I think it’s time,” she whispers.

I nod as I move behind my mom, leaning down to kiss her forehead before whispering “I love you.”

Another raspy breath. Two short gasps. Silence.

The hum of electricity invades my ears, threatening a headache with its roar. Darkness wraps my shoulders, an embrace that grows heavier with each passing moment. Air seeps into my nose, my lungs afraid to scratch the night with an inhale as time stretches and presses on me. While my chest suffocates in black ink, my fingers separate from my mind and search for Mom’s pulse.

Nothing.

I shake my head at Laurinda, my fingers caressing Mom’s jaw before I step back. Like a newly wound clock, I move down the hallway with silent but solid footsteps. A strong wind of deep snores occupies the guest room. Minutes tick in each second as I shake Susan’s shoulders, urging her from a sleep drawn from 36 hours of hurried traveling.

“Mom’s gone,” I whisper after my aunt jerks awake.

The silence has followed me into her room, squeezing my neck and shoulders as I step away from the bed. I move in staccato measures, returning to my mom.

My hand finds a phone and hospice’s card. My ears hear echos of my voice talking to the on-call nurse. One hour, she says.

“One hour,” I say to Susan and Laurinda as metal gears direct me towards the recliner that has been my bed for the last two nights.

“Michelle,” Laurinda says, “she’s no longer here, maybe you should, I don’t know, cover her?”

I look at Laurinda, her words taking a minute to ease through the black quilt stitched around my mind. Tick tock, I walk to my mom and pull up her blanket, covering an expressionless face. The task complete, the clock resets to focus on the recliner.

I sit down. I pop up the leg rests. I pull up the blanket, a brown dual sided throw my friend lent me during the first hospital stay. I pull my legs up to my stomach. I put the pillow on the arm rest. I set my head on the pillow. I close my eyes. Except to open the door to the nurse and the mortician, I do not move. I do not sleep.

The silence wins, sinking me into darkness as time stops.

On March 31st, my mom and I sat in an ER room, staring in silence at the doctor as she delivered results against the beeps of a heart monitor. A CT scan showed a mass emerging from Mom’s pancreas and partially blocking her intestine, plus what appeared to be numerous cysts or tumors in her abdominal cavity.

On April 24th a biopsy confirmed the tumor was malignant. At the time, there was only 7mm space for food to pass through the duodenum and past the tumor.

On May 1st, we sat with the surgical oncologist and discussed whether it was more important to begin chemo or perform a GI pypass surgery. At the time Mom was still eating small amounts of food and protein shakes.

On May 8th, at the first meeting with the medical oncologist, Mom was hospitalized for emergency surgery.

“Mom, you need to get out of bed and walk.”

“I hurt and I’m tired. Just let me rest.”

“Every doctor who comes in here says you need to get moving. That’s the only way for the stomach to start working and for you to eat again.”

“Enough. Let me be.”

Due to Mom’s lack of recovery after nearly two weeks, another CT scan was performed. Though the surgery appeared successful, the tumor was threatening the artery to the liver and Mom had a blood clot in her lung. Mom’s GI track was still not working.

During the GI bypass surgery, Mom had a GJ tube installed. It is common practice for cancers involving the GI system, as the gastrostomy tube (G) can bring relief to nausea by draining the stomach contents while the jejunostomy tube (J) can deliver nutrition, hydration, and medication during times when the patient feels no hunger.

The doctors began tube feeding through a GJ tube to increase Mom’s nutrition and strength heading towards chemotherapy. Around receiving tube feeds, Mom drained her stomach to a foley bag. Both the draining and feeding were temporary measures.

Mom was released from the hospital, beginning her chemotherapy sessions that week.

My routine: Wash hands. Put on gloves. Pour formula into a plastic bag. Attach tubing to plastic bag. Prime tubing to remove air. Attach bag and tubing to pump. Put pump and bag in backpack. Flush GJ tube with 100 ml of water. Attach feeding tube. Begin pump. Administer abdominal shot of blood thinner. Wash hands. Try to write for clients.

Two weeks later Mom began vomiting, a common occurrence with chemo so we did not question the symptom. By the end of the weekend the fluid we were pulling from the stomach portion of her GJ tube changed in color and consistency. Over the weekend we took Mom into the ER twice, and both times she was hydrated with saline and sent home. By Monday she started leaking fluid around the tube site in her abdomen, despite draining her stomach regularly. Tuesday we went to her oncologist appointment and ended up in the ER. Mom was diagnosed with acute kidney failure and severe blood shortage.

The first week of June, Mom was hospitalized again. We spent two nights in the ICU as Mom was pumped full of fluids and blood in attempts to recover kidney functioning.

Despite all appearances, the connection between Mom’s stomach and her small intestine healed like a valve. The feeding tube that was directed into her intestine flipped, causing her stomach to close. Mom’s stomach was a closed balloon, filling with liquid every 12 hours.

That was the first time I watched my mom escape death.

After a week in the hospital, we were sent home with Mom carrying the foley bag attached to her G tube. Her stomach was still not pushing anything down into the intestine, causing bile and stomach acid to build up. While in the hospital Mom had a port installed into her chest.

A lot of chemo patients end up getting ports, as it allows IV treatments without having to access veins every week. More importantly, the port gave me access to feed her via TPN (a bag of lipids, fluid, and essential nutrients) for twelve hours every night.

My routine: Wash hands. Put on gloves. Lay out all the necessary tubes, needles, and medication. Via syringe, add multivitamin to the lipid fluid bag. Mix. Set aside. Put battery into pump. Attached tubing to lipid bag, priming tube to ensure no air bubbles. Attach tubing to pump. Put bag and pump into backpack. Put on new sterile gloves. Uncap the access to my mom’s heart. Wipe with alcohol. Flush with saline. Attach lipid tubing. Start pump. Administer shot into abdomen. Pull off gloves. Get a glass of wine.

I emptied the foley bag attached to Mom’s stomach twice a day, mentally noting the volume. Mom was taking in 2400 ml of fluid per TPN, and she was venting 2400 ml by stomach every 24 hours. Intake of water by mouth: nominal.

We went to the ER twice for dehydration, once after Mom passed out when a friend was with her and resulting in a scalp injury that never quite healed. Another time they sent her to the main hospital for overnight watch, just to make sure she was okay due to heart irregularities.

Add to the routine: prescribed saline bags when hydration appears to decrease, approximately 1000 ml every other day.

Mid-July Mom went back to the original GI doctor who performed the biopsy. This time they put in a stent to prop open the connection between her stomach and intestine. He removed the tube for feeding, leaving only a G tube for infrequent venting purposes, and gave Mom permission to start experimenting with solid food. As the doctor said, the plumbing works fine now. We felt a mix of relief, hope, and a little confusion. Mom no longer needed to drain fluid from her stomach, and for the first time in two months she was free from a foley bag.

Add to routine: medicine to move the stomach and intestines. Medicine to block stomach acid to prevent stomach bleeding. Both administered via artery port.

“Do you want yogurt or apple sauce?”

“I don’t really want either.”

“Mom, now that your stomach is working you need to eat. If you don’t eat, your stomach won’t work anymore. The doctors have cleared you, no reason to not eat.”

“Fine. Yogurt. Then a protein shake.”

“Thank you. Are we going to take a walk outside today?”

“No. I’m tired.”

Mid-August we had completed three cycles of chemo. It was time for another scheduled scan on August 15th to gauge success of the treatment. We never made it to the scheduled scan. Instead, Mom went into the ER with sepsis. A CT scan was performed by the ER doctor, and the infectious disease doctors searched for a source. The scan showed the tumor had blocked Mom’s liver and gall bladder. No source confirmed, but suspicions were blockage of the bile system caused toxins to back up into the blood stream. CT scan also confirmed chemo was not working.

The medical oncologist talked to Mom about options, which were very few in his mind. For him, she needed to recover from sepsis and regain strength before he would discuss any additional treatments. Chemo was off the table. The type of chemo that was ineffective for Mom was proven to be the most effective with the least amount of side effects. Any other version would have more side effects with less likelihood of success.

As the doctor said, he felt it would be practicing bad medicine to submit Mom to the side effects with decreased chances of success.

We had a meeting with the hospital’s palliative team. The doctor explained why radiation was not an option for Mom, as well as reinforcing and supporting why her oncologist was not going to pursue other chemo options.

After five days, Mom went home with IV antibiotics. At her next appointment, she was tested for immunotherapy and gene therapy. The oncologist did not have much hope for either, but there was a chance.

Add to routine: once every 24 hours administer 30 minutes of antibiotic via port.

The prescription was for 7 additional days after the hospital. Only 6 days after her last dose, Mom returned to the ER for her second case of sepsis. I watched my mom’s skin turn jaundiced in the first 24 hours as they tried to pump her full of fluids per protocol.

While in the hospital, we learned Mom was not a candidate for immunotherapy or gene therapy. We spoke with Intervention Radiologists about installing a tube into the liver to drain it to an external foley bag, and we talked with the GI doctors about installing an internal stent for the liver to drain.

The GI procedure was not an option due to the tumor. The IR doctor was honest about the risks of tapping the liver and what it meant, including having a bag she would have to carry around. Mom asked if it would help her live longer. The response was it would make her more comfortable. Risks associated with the procedure, combined with Mom’s current health, had a high chance of killing her. We decided against the procedure.

About three nights into our stay, I mourned my mother. I laid in the recliner next to her hospital bed, covered in my friend’s brown blanket in my nightly hospital repose since the first surgery, sobbing silent tears.

Hospital plan: comfort.

Once again we were sent home with IV antibiotics. Knowing how sepsis works and with no recourse for the source, I watched the days bleed by until we didn’t have antibiotics any longer. My mom gained 60 pounds in a few days, water her body shucked into her cells and abdomen. After pulling herself off hospice, my mom went into see her oncologist. He understood if she did not want to utilize hospice, but there was nothing else he could do to help her. He would continue to put in medical orders, but his message was clear: her liver was going to kill her in only a few weeks.

Our summer had been a quiet summer of routine and sleeping, punctuated by medical appointments and hospitalizations. That ended, and the time vacuum began on my birthday, September 10th of 2019.

A few minutes after midnight on September 22nd, my mom passed away from pancreatic cancer complications.

Hollywood and inspirational videos paint cancer as a slow wasting away until the person falls asleep and never wakes up. And maybe that’s the case with other cancers. Not pancreatic cancer. I watched as my mom’s major bodily systems shut down one by one, creating toxicity and decay. Until her last breath, my mom sat in her recliner hoping a miracle would save her life. Her fear of death was strong, but the disease was stronger.

I never questioned moving in with her. I never doubted changing my family’s entire life to be with her. Every choice I made was based on each moment, supporting my mom in the way she requested. I became an encyclopedia of events and medical jargon, medications and procedures.

For five months I didn’t look further than the day I was living. I tried to meet the needs of a five year-old with the increasing needs of a previously independent mother. What had become my life’s purpose ended in one weekend. Since my mom’s death, I have drifted aimlessly. It is not the loss of my mom, though there are traumas I need to process. Death is a part of life, and life continues.

Rather, I’ve tried to reinsert myself into my previous life. I don’t fit anymore.

As I start the process of cleaning out her house and cleaning out my mind, four words continue to haunt my consciousness. The four words started six months ago, but now is the time for me to act on them. I only hope I hold onto what I’ve learned through this experience to avoid inactivity. Instead, I will consciously choose life.

After all, life is too short.

Morning Routine

August 13, 2019

She takes a sip and cringes.

Coffee is cold. She debates pouring a fresh cup, knowing she wastes at least 3/4 of the coffee she brews every morning. With a sigh, she stands to pour herself more, if only for routine comfort.

Hearing sounds of movement upstairs, she glances at the clock. The nighttime symphony of crickets was replaced hours ago with a chorus of waking birds. Now even the birds are hushed as the day heats up outside. Moving towards the fridge, she looks towards the family room windows, just to make sure she remembered to close up the house. An almost empty fridge offers up and takes back the milk from her hand, and she drags her willpower as she moves around the kitchen.

He coughs. She pauses.

The coughing subsides, replaced by her hand clinking the spoon against her mug’s edge. The fridge clunks as ice is pushed into the door bin, and she takes a sip. Lukewarm. She grimaces and disposes of the mug, the ceramic against porcelain echo going unnoticed as a plane flies overhead.

Her eyes pull towards the microwave clock again. She sighs. The vacuum of time sucks at her as the house settles back into the quiet hum of appliances. He is shuffling upstairs, starting his wheezing decent onto the main floor.

She looks at the breakfast waiting for him on the tv tray. Also cold. His days are starting later, and time is moving slower. She tries to coax minutes into moving by wiping the counter for a third time while his slippered feet scrape the hallway towards her. She turns as he steps into the kitchen, her expressionless face open to his weary one.

“Good morning,” she says, careful to not let him hear concern, though her eyes search his face and body for clues.

“Arhmf.” His response is part cough and part grumble as his cloudy eyes search the spotless counters.

“Next to your recliner.”

“Thanks,” he huffs, turning into the family room, “and my tea?”

“Same. Do you want me to heat them for you?”

“No.”

He sits down, the leather creaking under his shifting weight. Another coughing fit causes her muscles to tense, preparing her to move in a heartbeat. The hacking halts, followed by shuddering breaths and throat clearing. She leans against the counter, waiting. His breathing returns to normal, and she relaxes.

He falls asleep, and the silence deepens. Her eyes drift towards the window over the sink, watching trees move with muted wind. She pulls oxygen deep into her lungs, turning to look at the digital clock before letting the air murmur past her lips. The stillness of a tomb pushes at her eardrums.

She picks up the kitchen rag, wiping at the counter.

Testing the Water

July 20, 2019

*** Once again I am participating in NYC Midnight’s flash fiction challenge. The assigned flash fiction is romance/reservoir/bagel, and I had 48 hours to write the story. Feedback is always welcome and wanted. Please enjoy!***

Synopsis: A woman learns to trust her intuition and the potential of love from an unexpected source.

The ceiling fan clicks above me, doing little to cool my heated skin.

I hear his panting slow as my own breathing returns to normal. For a few minutes I lay still, unwilling to disturb the rare quiet in my mind. As my internal monologue restarts, I am stuck with awkward indecision. Do I stretch my limbs and succumb to sleep that is pushing at my consciousness, or do I slide out of his bed and fake confidence as I pull on my clothes? Choosing the safest option, I sit up and lean towards the edge of the mattress.

“Please, don’t go,” he whispers, placing his hand on the small of my back.

I shove down the giggle that bubbles up from my stomach, lying down and curling up on my side facing away from him. He scoots closer but leaves space, the only contact between us is his hand resting on my waist. My back relaxes, and soon I am asleep.

***

“It’s time you get on with your life, get out and date,” Gillian says, “You wasted five years with Jack, don’t waste any more.”

I meet my best friend’s eyes across the picnic table before breaking contact to look around the party. In general, I don’t like spending time at reservoirs. The water smells, and people mingle in chaos with the ability to disappear without warning.

“I’m over Jack. That’s not the problem,” I reply, “The problem is I don’t trust my intuition, and I don’t trust people. Trust is kind of important.”

Gillian sighs before saying, “yes, you are right. But how do you starting swimming again if you refuse to get within 100 feet of the water?”

***

“Hey, how are you?” he asks, leaning over me.

I want to answer that I don’t know what to do with my body, that I am a bundle of anxiety, that my heart is going to run from my chest and hop a train far away from him.

Instead, I answer, “I’m good.”

“You hungry?” he asks, searching my face and staying on his side of the bed as I try to hide my face from his eyes.

Those eyes. Those amber orbs that make the world disappear. Those golden irises that shine from his olive-skinned face like sunshine glinting off quartz in beach sand. I glance up at him and smile, nodding my consent. He flashes his dimples, then his eyebrows come together in a slight frown.

“You’ll be here when I get back?”

I nod again.

***

“What about him?” Gillian asks, pointing as she warms up to her new game.

“Nah, lunkhead,” I reply, barely looking.

“Okay, what about him?”

I roll my eyes at Gillian, tiring of her insistent desire that I have a one-night stand to dip my toe into the water. I stop listening to her as she rambles about the positive attributes of each male, my eyes scanning the ever-increasing crowd with a sense of dread. I notice a group that just beached their catamaran, and I watch them pull their sails and wrestle the sailboat further up the beach. One man looks in my direction, and I am arrested by a pair of eyes looking into my soul.

“Him,” I whisper.

Gillian stops mid-sentence to look towards the boat. She looks at me, and then back at him, before shaking her head.

“No, absolutely not.”

“Why not?” I ask, struggling to turn my attention back to her.

“He’s not a dip your toe kind of guy,” she replies, shaking her head, “he’s a jump in the middle of the ocean with no lifeboat or life jacket kind of guy.”

I don’t hear her warning.

***

After 15 minutes of tossing and turning, a knot forming in my stomach, I get out of bed and put on my clothes. I walk around his apartment; self-consciously aware I am a stranger. I pick up a photograph of a younger him, his arms around a young woman with them looking at each other and laughing. My heart hopes she is a sister or a childhood friend, but the tiny voice gains ground and whispers it’s a girlfriend.

I move past the photographs, trying to avoid the feeling like I’m intruding on his life. I read the spines of books. I look out the window. I stare at the microwave clock, willing time to pass. I try to not listen to the voice saying he is regretting me, he is regretting his choice, he is taking a long time hoping I will give up and leave before he gets back. The anxiety becomes too much, and I grab my purse.

I hear the key in the door, and I freeze.

He walks into the apartment, unaware of me for the first few moments, and I watch him as he deadbolts the door and moves into the kitchenette. He feels my gaze and looks towards me. In one moment, his glance takes in my body posture and purse.

“Leaving?” he asks, his brows furrowing.

“Um, I wasn’t sure,” I stutter.

“Here, I have bagels and coffee,” he offers, lifting the drink carrier in his hand towards the bag he put on the counter.

“What kind?” I ask, moving through molasses as the air in the room thickens.

“You seem like an Everything kind of girl,” he replies, watching me.

Something pops in my chest, and my lungs pull in air for the first time since I woke up. I grin, avoiding his eyes.

“How did you guess?”

He shrugs. I move closer to the bagels, the smell of freshly baked bread and caffeine warming my stomach. He hands me one of the coffees, his fingers brushing mine. As I take my first sip, I close my eyes and sigh with contentment. When I open them, he is in front of me. He leans forward and gives me a gentle kiss on my lips.

“Thanks for staying.”

I relax into his eyes and smile.

Weekly Visit

July 12, 2019

We avoid looking at each other.

He stares at the floor, his eyes not seeing the worn wood grain or the edges of dust creeping into sight from under the furniture. My eyes run laps around the room, no longer noticing the unmoved books and tiny mementos of a life now receding into the crumbling memories of his mind.

Click click click

The overhead fan keeps time, reminding us of each passing second. The chain hits a single light shade with a steady violence, distracting me as I ponder how the fan does not break from its thin metal anchor and spin through the living room window. The dam in my chest breaks as if the propelled fan had driven into my heart, and I stand with buzzing anxiety.

He doesn’t move. Not a look. Not a twitch.

The bookcase draws me, her figurines tempting my restless fingers. I pick up an angel, her shoulders brown with neglect.

“Do. Not. Touch,” his words ring out like gun shots, startling me. My fingers dance, trying to keep the delicate porcelain from cracking against the shelf before easing the angel back onto its clean spot amidst the grey blanket of disregard.

“You know, I can clean…,” I squeak past the lump that forms in my throat every time I walk past the house’s threshold.

“No! Leave me alone!”

His red eyes stare at me from below his unkempt hair, his hand bringing down the now empty tumbler hard on his TV tray.

I visualize shouting at him, full of adult anger and frustration, to pull himself out of his whiskey cloud and accept that she is gone. I imagine balling up my fists, stomping my feet, and screaming at the top of my lungs like a petulant five-year old that he is a selfish bastard and not the only one in pain. I envision throwing my arms around his legs like a little girl, sobbing out my heartbreak as I beg for him to see that I miss her too, with every cell in my body.

Instead, I clear my throat. I look at the clock on the wall. I put my hands in my pockets. I pace around the room, trying to run away from memories that stare at me from every object and catch me in every corner. His eyes return to the floor, his fingers twitching on his glass.

“Um, well,” I whisper against the clink of the chain and his rejection.

“Isn’t it time for you to go,” he states, releasing me from my indecision.

“Yeah,” I pull myself together, “I put enough food for the week in the fridge, and your snacks are in the pantry. I leave for a business trip on Wednesday, but I will be back Friday and will come by Saturday.”

I pick up my keys and walk towards the door. My back receives his reply, “don’t bother.”

Taking a deep breath I call out, “I love you, Dad,” before closing the solid front door against sounds of a television coming to life.

Deep Breaths

Michelle

1 comment

June 1, 2019

I listen as her breathing deepens, sleep taking its hold despite her 5 year-old arguments against being tired. Propping myself up on my elbow, my eyes trace her black eyelashes against her round expressionless cheeks. I push a strand of hair off her eyebrow as I look down at my daughter, using the barest of …

Just Wrap It Up

April 30, 2019

“These are not silver,” he says, looking at me.

“We know. They were gifts. We want silver necklaces so we can wear them,” I respond, smiling at his earnest expression.

The young vendor polishes my mom’s charm with a soft cloth until it shines, stringing it on a chain we selected, and hands it to her to try on.

“How much per necklace?” I ask as my mom looks in the mirror.

“120,” he says as he pulls two more from his inventory. An older woman walks into the tiny corner shop and sits behind us, waiting for her turn.

“Dirhams?” I ask while Vivian tries to crawl up my body and into my arms.

As he nods, I convert to dollars in my head while I look closely at the chains. We would pay more than his asking price at a box store in the States for this style and quality of chain. From my newly formed habit, I counter.

“250 for three.”

He glances at his inventory in contemplation. I imagine he is adding the amount per chain and the profit left to him depending on the price he makes from us. He lifts his chocolate eyes, and for a few seconds that stretch to the edge of discomfort we hold eye contact.

“Okay,” he replies.

My right eyebrow twitches upward as I smile in disbelief, “really?”

He laughs and replies, “yes, for you,” before turning back to his task.

I watch the light catch a silver skull on his left ring finger as his lean fingers begin stringing the other two charms and packaging them in jeweler’s bags. What just happened?

I’ve been back from Morocco for just over a week, and I’m struggling to write the final articles about my trip.

Looking at goldfish

I could write about the last two days in Marrakech, full of sights and sounds that made me fall in love with the desert city, despite being pro-mountain-anti-desert my whole life. I could go into detail about Jardin Majorelle, a lush garden that includes a memorial for Yves St. Laurent, or maybe talk about the black and blue purse I almost bought at a price you could not find in the U.S.

Although I do not use purses, my creative side wanders into fashion from time to time. Purses, shoes, and dresses will find their way into my world as my eyes focus on aesthetics for a short time. Only for my eyes to wander away again, leaving my closet full of items that I have no purpose for.

I felt no need for a purse, despite it’s beauty in pattern and construction, so the purse remains in the St. Laurent store next to the Berber museum in the middle of Majorelle.

I could talk about how I grabbed bartering with both hands, gaining confidence in my skills using price estimation that I learned from watching Price is Right.

Our travel companion had a couple spots in her house where she wanted to hang an art item, but she hates bartering. We came up with a plan where she would decide what she wanted, tell me the most she wanted to spend, and I would barter for her. The system worked well, and I gained confidence in my ability to navigate shopping in the souks.

In fact, I started enjoying the game of bartering. Despite reading on other blogs about the aggressive nature of bartering in Marrakech, I never faced any aggression. Of course, my nature is not aggressive, and if I didn’t know how much I was willing to pay for something, I left it in the shop. My objective of the game was not to get basement prices but to reach a comfortable compromise.

Say “St. Laurent”

Our travel companion now has an antique leather writer’s bag to hang on her wall, a door knocker that she will re-purpose as a nail for the purse, and a few other odds and ends at less than she was willing to spend. I have a new skill and confidence in my adaptability.

My mom’s purchases while she travels are usually limited to magnets and tree ornaments. Though most were at low prices anyway, I still bartered for her. Bartering gave shopping a purpose for me. Normally, I find very little purpose in window shopping or buying knick knacks. In fact, I am not a shopper, unless I know what I want. In which case, I go in (to the store or online), find exactly what I envision, and get out.

I could talk about how my mom, Vivian, and I got a map from the hotel and walked through the streets of Casablanca to the souk in search of necklaces for some khamsa charms we were given in Marrakech. My mom felt they were perfect for us to wear as we face her health issues; instead of waiting to look when we were State side, we decided to see what the vendors of Casablanca had to offer.

I could even talk about how the last few days of our vacation finally satisfied my wandering spirit as we moved freely through Marrakech and Casablanca.

Welcome home

Instead, I’m left wordless at all that I experienced as coming home became a journey back into the cave. Two hours in the customs line at Dulles, surrounded by concrete and glass, made me doubt I was supposed to come home, and this past week my psyche has struggled against the flood of routine stress that awaited me.

Of course, vacations done well are as we intend them to be: an escape from our every day lives. Though, I wish I could say Morocco was a complete escape. The largest source of anxiety right now, my mom’s health, came with us to Morocco. As did my overthinking tendencies.

Despite being on vacation, Morocco changed me. Not in any fundamental way. I did not “find” religion in Morocco. No country or life experience will change my belief system. Nor did Morocco make me not American, less inclined towards overthinking, or ease my generalized anxiety.

What I found in Morocco was a country where people have a general respect for different cultures and backgrounds. The people I came in contact with were genuinely caring, even the “usual suspects” that other blogs warn to stay away from. Also, I found something I’ve searched for my entire life: a rich tableau of the human experience. Eons of history and humanity laid down together in a multi-dimensional sculpture of flavors, colors, sounds, and textures. I found a place where I grew comfortable in my skin, despite being different in almost every way possible.

I’m having a hard time returning home.

Last view of Morocco