It took me quite a while to start writing today namely because my eyes kept wandering over to other sites (flickr/install new mac updates/Mac App stores) and thoughts (I really need to finish watching the Justice League of America Season 2/I need to get a physical/why isn’t my Apple TV synching to the Macbook). It was as I was starved for intellectual stimulation or perhaps because I knew I was already behind on my post a day self-promise. Yet somehow, it does not sting as much as I thought because I an constantly thinking of writing. However, there is the 900 pound gorilla in the room: what to write about. As much as blogging is satisfying in that I get to vent, I know I haven’t gotten to the real task: to writing original content. That’s a new problem because in high school, I stumbled onto short story writing, at UCLA personal columns, and now blogging. It appears I cannot write unless there is a significant part of me invested into the words, and that’s a bit scary and troubling at the same time because I truly believe if you are a writer, you should be able to write in just about any genre and so with that in mind I am going to attempt to write my first short story in years.
I haven’t decided if I am going to post as I write or when it’ complete, but I know the progress will be noted in my writer’s group (the first such group I ever have joined), and perhaps as a testament to the seriousness of my writing when I start my Writer’s Studio seminar at UCLA. Either way, I know I need to do more than just whine on here or talk about her friends or my feelings. I need to produce so I can finally make the transition from would be writer to actually being one.
Today was one of her good days, and the old beautiful smile of hers returned as well as the desire to put something of substance in her stomach instead of my constant pleas to eat. I also learned that the fear of the many horrors they told us about had not manifested yet, and I thanked God for the break in schedule. Instead of a full week full of anxiety dreading the side effects, we got a small dosage of what was to come, and for that I am thankful.
I have much to learn that much I realize now and accept. While a chance comment from one of her dear friends that I was a “robo husband” hurt my feelings for a second, the reality was that it hurt because it was true. I am constantly struggling between being a caregiver rather than a caretaker. I know for her what’s more important is not someone who can attend to all her physical needs but someone who can replenish her with love and care (a gentle reminder from another good friend of hers).
I am not going to lie, that’s exactly what I am scared of. Between constantly wanting her to be comfortable and trying to provide her all the comforts of the world, I am worried I am not up to the task, that what I am doing is hollow and meaningless. This is no longer someone who is sick, but my wife and we are going to spend the rest of our lives together. What scares me is not knowing what will happen, and when the side effects will take form and then it hits me that I am again failing to be in the NOW. I cannot control what she will go through nor can I stop the process. And then it hits me that I have to be full myself before I can empty myself into her. I need to do what makes me, ME or I will just remain a caretaker.
I know she knows that I love her deeply but the reality is I need to show it more than just feeding her medications at the right time or filling the fridge with her favorites. I have to stop being robotic or worse just a caretaker. I also see now that is how I am dealing with her pain, by compartmentalizing her into a schedule which does not allow for her to express her emotional pain and frustration. I have to let her have the slice of pizza without the admonition to not put red peppers on it or take her medication as I scheduled. I just have to let her be, let her get it out, whatever she is feeling because the cancer is not just physical, it’s also taken over her mind. I cannot be a Robocop, not allowing her to go through all the motions she needs to in order to get a grasp of what has happened to her.
As I struggled with my guilt, I received a wonderful email from a stranger who encouraged me to go on, to keep on writing to figure out what we are going through and suddenly that one page email reminded me that I have all the tools to make her get through this and that is through friends, family but most importantly me (as self-important as that sounds).
And so a week ends, and we begin anew again tomorrow. I think I know what I must do, and for now that is enough.
To the nameless friends and strangers who gave me the idea for this post: Thank You.
As I drove past the car carcasses of many people on the freeway, it struck me that each of those lives have been changed. We often look from the outside in and barely register other people’s lives. We constantly live in a life of “ME ME ME” while what happens to others is of no consequence or it seems. Take for instance what happened to me on Saturday night.
After finally delaying for many days, I decided Blockbuster really does need its rentals of The Other Guys (not bad) and A-Team (great time pass) back. So I hustled off telling Preeti it was imperative I return the movies (really because I wanted more to watch) and I would be back in an hour (no rental trip is complete with at least another chore tagged alone or then you really feel like a loser). So I got into the car, fumbled around with the wipers (after all I am a full-blooded Southern Californian, rain is pretty much a foreign concept), and got them up to appropriate speed so I could see through. So far so good.
I first thought of doing the chore (but Trader Joe’s can wait), first let’s get the movies back ( I hope they got in Salt, I haven’t seen that). As I got out my driveway, I put on the new songs I had synced to my iPod integration in-car (definitely proud of that gadget) and the first song turned out to the Shabad Kabeer from a CD my dad had compiled for guests and family members as we prayed together for a swift recovery for loved ones.
As the Shabad played, I turned my focus towards getting to the Promised Land of Rentals. I got onto the ancillary street that took me to the main one, thought about stopping by Gurjit’s by decided against it (realized he was staying with my other cousin and if I took those two with me Blockbuster, that’s the only errand I would get done.) I got to the main light, and stopped, waiting for Traffic Control to give me permission to make a left. Since this was Cerritos, Ca, they are not big fans of free will and instead of letting drivers follow the rules they had learned in Driver’s Ed, I was required to wait until a green arrow pointed the way. So I waited, glancing at the Taco Bell, realizing I haven’t eaten there in weeks. Realized how much my brain was prattling along, took a deep breath and tried to still myself (something I had learned from The Power of Now by Elkhart Tolle). The light turned green, and as I began to turn, a car hit me head on, which made me giggle (at the thought what more could wrong in my life and that for once Cerritos was right).
At first, I glanced up quickly to check the light (perhaps a bit guiltily, maybe I misread red to be green), but it was turning orange, as if to say “last chance to get through buddy!” The other guy (who happened to be a Domino’s delivery guy, Preeti’s favorite but not mine) had run the red light. I knew that instinctively, he was speeding since his air bag had deployed. I rushed out the car to check on him, while calling 911 (probably the only time multi-tasking is OK). Moments later, a Sheriff’s car pulled up (lights blazing, yay Cavalry is here!), and asked what happened (no, are you ok? Is he ok?) while tersely telling us both to get out the intersection (God Forbid, we cause a scene or worse more traffic). My car struggled to get me into the gas station, and as I kept giggling (really can anything more go wrong in 2010?), an old woman and her son (presumably) approached me, and said “we saw what happened. Normally, it’s the guy who’s making the left that’s at issue but you had the green arrow (instinctively thinking of the DC comic book hero), and he ran a red light. Those poor guys waited patiently for over an hour and a half to give their statement. Total strangers who could have driven by my carcass of a life, but instead chose to rain me with compassion and ethics.
To some, it may seem a car accident as just more bad luck for me, but as a dear friend said, it’s better to be lucky sometimes than good.
The words just sit there. The guilt sits behind them. Yet nothing moves. I plead with the clock to slow down, to let me gather whatever’s lying around so I do not feel like a fraud. Yet nothing comes. It is as if I am spent from fighting the cancer in my beloved, and while the movie reel in my head sputters along, the projection screen is blank.
I can’t stop thinking of writing, and seeing every conversation as potential dialogue. It’s as if my body is become one huge receptacle for ideas and possible stories. Yet I want it to stop. I feel like Scott Summers from the Xmen, unless I put some glasses on, I can’t stop the lasers from destroying the world near m me.
Just stop, I beg regretting ever having starting this muse yet it grows just like the enemy in my love. Her body betrayed her and now I feel like my mind is doing the same. The words keep growing and I pray they don’t spread to my hands because I need the energy and the strength to by her side.
I want nothing except for her. She is my life. Without her, I am just another person, but together we become one unit that can take on the world. But we have been let down by our bodies, hers turning against her and making her wonder what she did to deserve this and mine seeing everything as a reason to write.
But both of us are wrong. All we is the present and blame worry sadness don’t belong because the reality is we will both survive, one as a writer and one as former cancer patient. That is our new reality. It doesn’t take anything away from us, it just has made us a thousand times stronger.
While we will kill one cancer, we will allow another one to spread so it can kill the doubts worries and sadness in others. In hindsight, maybe being an X Man, isn’t such a bad thing.
I have a need to be read so I know I exist. These are my words, and I need to share them. Too long, they have gone silent, and worst of all ignored by me. I had convinced myself that writing was enough, just like breathing. But after a while, you need more than air to live. Life isn’t just a series of breathing exercises yet for a while that’s how I treated my life. Something I just had to do. No vision. No motivation. Just passing of the day and really just being lucky enough to be around people who loved me for existing and providing me with everything.
So why am I whining because I know I am a fraud. I know that the words coming here now are just so simple and don’t even come close to the poetry in my head. It used to be so easy and now I am lazy and dull. I stopped listening and hearing what the words were trying to tell. So now I just sit here, listening to amazing religious songs with a cold cup of coffee trying to convince myself at 38 that this is what I want to be. Yet every moment feels forced, made up just so I can say I wrote.
I am a writer. It’s what I tell myself when I wake up every morning, and the first strokes of the words comes easy. Yet after a minutes, I find myself tweeting/emailing/posting/reading/searching/paying bills all throughout the precious time I have managed to find to write. It’s as if my body is telling me to get real and go back to my superficial life. And I oblige. That’s the sad part. I know I am failing myself and yet somehow I still continue on the path.
I am a fraud, but at least I know it. And knowing is half the battle, Gi Joe reminds me. But wait, I feel like a fraud but does that really make me one? It’s the question that nags at me. Who am I, really? Am I the thoughts in my head or am I to be defined by actions? What is it about slamming these letters down that makes me feel like a light weight heavy lifter? Is it the guilt that the joy I felt when I first learned to transform my thoughts into reality seems buried, muffled underneath the chorus of doubt and guilt? Or is it just not meant to be?
Should I remain a fraud or for once be the man I said I wanted to be?
