It has been almost a year since I posted here, and that is because that year has been relatively quiet and calm, and it was almost easy to forget for a time that my brother was still fighting for his life. He had returned to work, been cleared to ride his motorcycle again, and though looking at him, you could see the effects of the chemo, he was alive and working and doing things he loved. I don't think the year has been easy for him, but it was a year without a major medical event, and for that I know we have all been pretty grateful.
I saw him in December, at my parents' house in Tennessee. He and his wife and two sons along with my sister and her husband and their granddaughter all gathered at Mom and Dad's for one day, a few days after Christmas. We all sat around and ate pizza and talked and tried to keep the smallest children from killing each other. I had a copy of the QSMASB calendar all wrapped up in a box for Jon with the first installment of the money raised inside, and when he opened it, he said, "Oh, I was hoping that was what it was," and he didn't mean the check. It was the first time he and many of my family members had seen the calendar, and there were many declarations from the male members of the family that they would be doffing their shirts and posing for next year.
At one point, Jon took me and my sister aside and told us that he wanted us to come up with ideas for places where we could go for a siblings-only trip in the next year. We had talked about this when he first got sick, and it was time to follow through. We agreed to each have a couple ideas ready by April first (and this led to a long and hilarious digression about what we would potentially do to punk each other with fake suggestions on April Fools Day).
I looked at him a lot that day. In my mind's eye, he will always be that 28-year-old just returned home from the Navy, his black hair and moustache not yet touched with grey, his big hands pounding out a beat on the steering wheel of the white pickup truck he drove. The truck had a tape deck and he used to take me to school sometimes, and we'd listen to the B-52s and ZZ Top and X. I can still hear him hollering along with Fred Schneider, "Quiche! Quiche Lorraine!"
He wears a do-rag most of the time now, and his moustache and beard are now pure white. That day in Tennessee, I noticed he still hadn't taken off his coat even after being there 20 or 30 minutes, and like an idiot I said something flippant like, "You gonna take of your coat and stay awhile?" And as soon as I said it I realized, he's cold. The chemo makes him cold and he probably wears a coat or has a blanket around him all the time. It was one of those moments when you realize, no matter how normal things seem, this is still a man with cancer, undergoing treatment that, while prolonging his life, may also be killing him.
Because that's the thing you have to keep reminding yourself when someone is keeping an incurable tumor at bay: the drugs that keep the tumor from growing are toxic, not just to the cancer but also to the person.
Three weeks ago, Jon had a stroke, something he has been at risk for because of the chemo he takes for his brain tumor. While not a major stroke, it limited use of one side of his body enough that he was hospitalized for two weeks to have intensive speech, occupational, and physical therapies. I spoke to him in the hospital on the third or fourth day he was there and he was as upbeat and positive as I have ever heard him. We talked about our trip and he mentioned a small Virginia town that was almost exactly halfway between Annapolis and Nashville, and I said that, you know, Gatlinburg isn't that much farther away, and he responded, "Well, hell, Vegas is halfway between here and somewhere - let's go there!" And we cackled and giggled about the Smith siblings in Vegas and other inanities.
He was released last weekend. Yesterday evening I got a call from my sister. Jon is back in the hospital, apparently from another stroke, this one worse. He was unable to move or get himself out of bed and his wife called an ambulance and took him to the ER. At that point, no tests had been done yet, so we are all still waiting to hear. But I am scared. My sister and I were talking when he had the first stroke about how, after such a long run with no tumor growth and no major complications from the chemo, that we had a sinking feeling that now the dam has burst. That with that first stroke, some threshold had been crossed and now the struggle would be to contain and manage the damage that 2 years of chemo have done.
So today I will wait by my phone, as will everyone in my family. I'll try to work, but my heart won't be in it. But I will put on some B-52s when I get in the car and beat my hands on the steering wheel while I shout.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Dugan
Last week a man and a woman of his acquaintance were out late in New Orleans, where they lived, and decided to go out on an old pier on the Mississippi that was unlocked. They had been drinking, apparently quite a lot. At some point, as they sat, stood, talked - who knows? - the pier collapsed under them, sending them plunging into the river. She got out. He didn't. It took days for the New Orleans police to take the matter seriously, and it was only yesterday that his body was found, trapped in rubble and debris under the broken pier.
His name was James Dugan and I knew him. Not well, and not lately, not since college. We had, as so many people have and do, reconnected on Facebook, and though our interactions there were few and far between, I looked forward to his posts and pictures. He was still lanky, still had that style that swung from punk to prep, though now he had a shock of grey at the front of his dark hair. Same grin, though. Cocky bastard.
Dugan - and I only ever called him Dugan - was the set designer/builder for the play I directed during my junior year in college. He also played the bellboy, a small part. The play was Neil Simon's Plaza Suite, and Dugan built me a hotel room. It had a door, stage right, leading to an unseen bathroom. We needed a window that would open, and stay open, for a scene where one character crawls out to the ledge in order to get in the bathroom where his daughter has locked herself. He made a window with a counterweight that worked beautifully.
He was also a major pain in the ass. It seemed to me that he was trying very, very hard to be some kind of scary-ass thug type who would cut you as soon as look at you. And all I could think was, "Dude, you're at St. John's College. Nobody who has a jones to learn ancient Greek is a scary-ass thug. Get over it." He and my stage manager hated each other and more than once Dugan threatened to deck him. I used to joke that after, "Castro, that was good, but you need to slow down," the thing I used to say most during rehearsals and prep was, "Goddammit, Dugan." He might be late, or not show at all, and always, always with the attitude, the grin, and a cigarette.
But whatever he did to drive me nuts, he always came through in the end. By the time the play was finally performed for real, he was an integral part of the little temporary family that is always created when a play is put together. On opening night, there was a good foot of snow on the ground, one of the biggest snowstorms I had seen in that area. I was not allowed to hover backstage during the performance, and instead sat in the audience clutching Aaron Finkelstein's arm and praying that no one would fall or forget their lines. It went beautifully, and, best of all, the audience laughed.
At the end, the cast came out to take their bows, and I was pushed up onstage to take mine. Someone handed me flowers. The curtain closed and then, as I was catching my breath and taking it all in, Dugan walked over to me, put an arm around me and led me toward the the set's bathroom door, looking very proud of himself. Behind it, just beyond sight of the audience, was an old toilet, stolen from the trash of some construction work that was being done on the building. The toilet was full of snow, and chilling in the snow was a bottle of champagne.
I don't know for sure if Dugan was the one who did that, but that is how I have always remembered that moment. That the wanna-be scary-ass thug with the cocky grin and the cigarette was the one who knew the best way to celebrate when it was all over. You know how some people kind of sweep through your life briefly, but leave a stamp - like a little symbol or talisman - that you'll remember years and years later, even when other memories and details fade? The champagne chilling in the snow in an old toilet is one of those talismans for me. And it is what I think of now.
So, Dugan, I don't think there's any more snows coming this winter. But I'll be chilling some champagne this weekend and thinking of you. Rest in peace.
His name was James Dugan and I knew him. Not well, and not lately, not since college. We had, as so many people have and do, reconnected on Facebook, and though our interactions there were few and far between, I looked forward to his posts and pictures. He was still lanky, still had that style that swung from punk to prep, though now he had a shock of grey at the front of his dark hair. Same grin, though. Cocky bastard.
Dugan - and I only ever called him Dugan - was the set designer/builder for the play I directed during my junior year in college. He also played the bellboy, a small part. The play was Neil Simon's Plaza Suite, and Dugan built me a hotel room. It had a door, stage right, leading to an unseen bathroom. We needed a window that would open, and stay open, for a scene where one character crawls out to the ledge in order to get in the bathroom where his daughter has locked herself. He made a window with a counterweight that worked beautifully.
He was also a major pain in the ass. It seemed to me that he was trying very, very hard to be some kind of scary-ass thug type who would cut you as soon as look at you. And all I could think was, "Dude, you're at St. John's College. Nobody who has a jones to learn ancient Greek is a scary-ass thug. Get over it." He and my stage manager hated each other and more than once Dugan threatened to deck him. I used to joke that after, "Castro, that was good, but you need to slow down," the thing I used to say most during rehearsals and prep was, "Goddammit, Dugan." He might be late, or not show at all, and always, always with the attitude, the grin, and a cigarette.
But whatever he did to drive me nuts, he always came through in the end. By the time the play was finally performed for real, he was an integral part of the little temporary family that is always created when a play is put together. On opening night, there was a good foot of snow on the ground, one of the biggest snowstorms I had seen in that area. I was not allowed to hover backstage during the performance, and instead sat in the audience clutching Aaron Finkelstein's arm and praying that no one would fall or forget their lines. It went beautifully, and, best of all, the audience laughed.
At the end, the cast came out to take their bows, and I was pushed up onstage to take mine. Someone handed me flowers. The curtain closed and then, as I was catching my breath and taking it all in, Dugan walked over to me, put an arm around me and led me toward the the set's bathroom door, looking very proud of himself. Behind it, just beyond sight of the audience, was an old toilet, stolen from the trash of some construction work that was being done on the building. The toilet was full of snow, and chilling in the snow was a bottle of champagne.
I don't know for sure if Dugan was the one who did that, but that is how I have always remembered that moment. That the wanna-be scary-ass thug with the cocky grin and the cigarette was the one who knew the best way to celebrate when it was all over. You know how some people kind of sweep through your life briefly, but leave a stamp - like a little symbol or talisman - that you'll remember years and years later, even when other memories and details fade? The champagne chilling in the snow in an old toilet is one of those talismans for me. And it is what I think of now.
So, Dugan, I don't think there's any more snows coming this winter. But I'll be chilling some champagne this weekend and thinking of you. Rest in peace.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Anniversary
A few weeks ago, in a brief email to the family, Jon mentioned that it had been a year since his diagnosis and surgery. I knew this because I had gone back and looked up the things I had written on my other blog at that time, and I took a brief moment to remember how terrifying it was to wait for news, and then how devastating the news was when it came.
The estimate, back then, was that Jon might have about a year and a half to live. It has been over a year, and he is going strong, with no new tumor growth since that which occurred shortly after the surgery. He was told back then that he would probably never be able to ride a motorcycle again, and he sold his Harley. A few weeks ago, he bought a new bike and has been riding on the weekends when he can. I asked him if, the next time I am in Tennessee, he would take me for a ride. I've never been on a bike, and I thought I might lose him without ever getting to share that with him. Now I will, and I can't wait.
My dad just wrote about a conversation he had with Jon recently, where they discussed Dad's aging and how it has affected him, and Dad assured Jon he would experience it all for himself when he reaches his eighties.
It's moments like that where I feel like a terrible sister, a bad person, because my first reaction is to say, "He won't make it that far, Dad, and you're kidding yourself if you think so." I am not the sort of person who can reach for miracles, who can let myself believe that things completely beyond statistical probability are possible. That doesn't mean I want him to die. I want him to live into and past his eighties. I want him to see his boys grow up and to bounce grandbabies on his knee. But I don't want to be sucker punched when that doesn't happen. And I don't want to ever be lulled into complacency again. If I truly believe he will live forever, I might not take the opportunities I can to be with him, thinking that there will be plenty of time.
It has been just over a year since I sat with him on a bench on a little street in Tennessee, telling him everything I needed to say, spilling my tears and love into his hands and seeing us both buoyed up by the telling of it. He is still my idol, still the man I look up to as the embodiment of kindness and strength. When I get on the back of that bike with him, I will know that I am in good hands, and I will throw my head back and scream for joy.
The estimate, back then, was that Jon might have about a year and a half to live. It has been over a year, and he is going strong, with no new tumor growth since that which occurred shortly after the surgery. He was told back then that he would probably never be able to ride a motorcycle again, and he sold his Harley. A few weeks ago, he bought a new bike and has been riding on the weekends when he can. I asked him if, the next time I am in Tennessee, he would take me for a ride. I've never been on a bike, and I thought I might lose him without ever getting to share that with him. Now I will, and I can't wait.
My dad just wrote about a conversation he had with Jon recently, where they discussed Dad's aging and how it has affected him, and Dad assured Jon he would experience it all for himself when he reaches his eighties.
It's moments like that where I feel like a terrible sister, a bad person, because my first reaction is to say, "He won't make it that far, Dad, and you're kidding yourself if you think so." I am not the sort of person who can reach for miracles, who can let myself believe that things completely beyond statistical probability are possible. That doesn't mean I want him to die. I want him to live into and past his eighties. I want him to see his boys grow up and to bounce grandbabies on his knee. But I don't want to be sucker punched when that doesn't happen. And I don't want to ever be lulled into complacency again. If I truly believe he will live forever, I might not take the opportunities I can to be with him, thinking that there will be plenty of time.
It has been just over a year since I sat with him on a bench on a little street in Tennessee, telling him everything I needed to say, spilling my tears and love into his hands and seeing us both buoyed up by the telling of it. He is still my idol, still the man I look up to as the embodiment of kindness and strength. When I get on the back of that bike with him, I will know that I am in good hands, and I will throw my head back and scream for joy.
Monday, November 8, 2010
strawberry
Yes, it has been five months since I updated this blog. And that's not to say that nothing has happened in that time, only that I did not have an overwhelming need to work out my emotions about it in writing. Since I last wrote, Jon has, despite my pessimism, gone back to work full time. He has had at least two MRIs, both of which show no additional tumor growth, so the current course of chemo he is on, and which I assume he will remain on indefinitely, is working to keep the nasty little beast in his head in check. He has even been cleared to drive, since he has gone the required amount of time without a seizure, but his doctor told him he would probably never be allowed to drive his motorcycle ever again. He ended up selling his Harley, though he still meets with his motorcycle club. Lack of an actual motorcycle would never be enough to keep Jon away from his club brothers.
So, for Jon, life is as normal as it can possibly be, and I know that means a great deal to him. Despite a once-a-week chemo drip, and the discovery that he really does have to take his anti-nausea medication, his cancer is not the primary focus of his day-to-day life right now. Which means it is also not the focus of mine. Believe me, I never forget that he has cancer; I never forget that this period of calm can change at any moment. And so I do take the opportunities I have to connect with him.
In September, we took a trip to Kentucky to see my husband's family, and I excused myself for two days to drive down to Nashville and spend some time with my brother and sister. I got the feeling that David's family was a bit pissed at me over this, particularly when they found out that Jon was not yet at death's door, but I don't think they understand how much time with him I have lost over the years, and that I cannot afford to squander an opportunity to see him now, no matter how well he may be faring at the moment.
I stopped first at my sister's house, and then we had lunch and drove down to see Jon. We spent the afternoon just hanging out at his house, while his wife went out with some friends to give us some space, and his sons did their usual mysterious teenage boy things. Shortly after we arrived, he asked me to come upstairs with him, and we went into his bedroom for some privacy, where he handed me three DVDs: the collection of music that he had made for me, and which I wrote about in my last post. He had a note for me inside one of the jewel cases, and I read it and we talked, and though we probably just repeated a lot of things we said the last time we saw each other, it was good to re-affirm them. With every conversation, I get a little more knowledge of who my brother is, and who he has become since the days when he was fresh out of the Navy, and I was a gawky teenager who worshipped him.
Then the three of us went out for dinner, to some generic steak and potatoes place that Jon likes, and we drank and ate, and talked about so much. I realized that evening that there is not only a great deal about my brother and sister that I do not know, but also much that they don't know about me, though I suppose that seems obvious. My being born so much later than them was a huge handicap for our relationship, not just because of the age difference, but because of the different way I was raised and treated by our father. I cannot write much about that, because my dad does read this, but that evening, I was able to really open up about a lot of things, to explain how those differences affected me and my view of our family. I learned more about how they saw me, and how they saw those differences, and how that has affected their view of our family.
But the amazing thing was that despite the fact that there were so many disparities in our childhoods, ones which have had consequences for us as adults, none of that matters any more. I thought for years that it was an insurmountable obstacle and that no matter the purity of anyone's intentions, we would never be able to come together as friends, never be able to just enjoy each other's company and enjoy the bond we do share as siblings. But we can and we do and the almost unbearable effortlessness of it makes me so sad for how many years we wasted, but so grateful for what we have now.
After dinner, we drove back to Jon's house and on the way he turned to me and said, "How would you like to stop and get some pie?" He drove into the parking lot of a Shoney's and we laughed like idiots as we realized that Shoney's doesn't make cherry pie - it was strawberry. For a minute, I was mortified that I had misremembered something that ended up being so important, but Jon had a better perspective. "Doesn't matter to me," he said. "Pie is pie." And I knew he meant it. There was some debate about who should hold the pie on the way home, and we decided it should be me, since the same accident couldn't possibly happen twice.
So, on a warm September evening in Tennessee, 28 years later, I finally got to share that pie with my big brother. And I got to have my sister there, too.
It was the best fucking pie I have ever had.
So, for Jon, life is as normal as it can possibly be, and I know that means a great deal to him. Despite a once-a-week chemo drip, and the discovery that he really does have to take his anti-nausea medication, his cancer is not the primary focus of his day-to-day life right now. Which means it is also not the focus of mine. Believe me, I never forget that he has cancer; I never forget that this period of calm can change at any moment. And so I do take the opportunities I have to connect with him.
In September, we took a trip to Kentucky to see my husband's family, and I excused myself for two days to drive down to Nashville and spend some time with my brother and sister. I got the feeling that David's family was a bit pissed at me over this, particularly when they found out that Jon was not yet at death's door, but I don't think they understand how much time with him I have lost over the years, and that I cannot afford to squander an opportunity to see him now, no matter how well he may be faring at the moment.
I stopped first at my sister's house, and then we had lunch and drove down to see Jon. We spent the afternoon just hanging out at his house, while his wife went out with some friends to give us some space, and his sons did their usual mysterious teenage boy things. Shortly after we arrived, he asked me to come upstairs with him, and we went into his bedroom for some privacy, where he handed me three DVDs: the collection of music that he had made for me, and which I wrote about in my last post. He had a note for me inside one of the jewel cases, and I read it and we talked, and though we probably just repeated a lot of things we said the last time we saw each other, it was good to re-affirm them. With every conversation, I get a little more knowledge of who my brother is, and who he has become since the days when he was fresh out of the Navy, and I was a gawky teenager who worshipped him.
Then the three of us went out for dinner, to some generic steak and potatoes place that Jon likes, and we drank and ate, and talked about so much. I realized that evening that there is not only a great deal about my brother and sister that I do not know, but also much that they don't know about me, though I suppose that seems obvious. My being born so much later than them was a huge handicap for our relationship, not just because of the age difference, but because of the different way I was raised and treated by our father. I cannot write much about that, because my dad does read this, but that evening, I was able to really open up about a lot of things, to explain how those differences affected me and my view of our family. I learned more about how they saw me, and how they saw those differences, and how that has affected their view of our family.
But the amazing thing was that despite the fact that there were so many disparities in our childhoods, ones which have had consequences for us as adults, none of that matters any more. I thought for years that it was an insurmountable obstacle and that no matter the purity of anyone's intentions, we would never be able to come together as friends, never be able to just enjoy each other's company and enjoy the bond we do share as siblings. But we can and we do and the almost unbearable effortlessness of it makes me so sad for how many years we wasted, but so grateful for what we have now.
After dinner, we drove back to Jon's house and on the way he turned to me and said, "How would you like to stop and get some pie?" He drove into the parking lot of a Shoney's and we laughed like idiots as we realized that Shoney's doesn't make cherry pie - it was strawberry. For a minute, I was mortified that I had misremembered something that ended up being so important, but Jon had a better perspective. "Doesn't matter to me," he said. "Pie is pie." And I knew he meant it. There was some debate about who should hold the pie on the way home, and we decided it should be me, since the same accident couldn't possibly happen twice.
So, on a warm September evening in Tennessee, 28 years later, I finally got to share that pie with my big brother. And I got to have my sister there, too.
It was the best fucking pie I have ever had.
Monday, May 31, 2010
soundtrack
I talked to my brother this afternoon. He called amidst the usual household chaos, and I took the phone outside and sat in the hot sun while we chatted. We started talking about his job, since he has just received the okay to start back again part-time. He is incredibly lucky that his employer held his position open for so long, and that they are willing to work with him to come up with a part-time schedule. Jon is a technician who repairs medical imaging equipment such as CT scans and MRIs. We were laughing about a co-worker of his who is not terribly bright and who has obviously gotten to where he is by faking it, since he doesn't understand the basics of electricity and physics, such as Ohm's law (current between two points is proportional to the voltage and inversely proportional to the resistance between them - esoteric if you have no need to know it, vital if you work with wires and sparky things). It was really funny and it felt good to sit in the sunshine and laugh.
He had called me to let me know that he has finished putting together a selection of music for me. When I visited back in March, we were talking about the days when he came home from the Navy, and how the music he used to play back then had become a kind of soundtrack for my memories of that time. The subject came up because for some reason he mentioned an album that he used to play a lot back then: Somewhere In Africa by Manfred Mann's Earth Band, and I realized I had not thought of that album in probably fifteen years or more. So many memories came washing over me, and he got so excited to hear that this album had some meaning for me. He said that he would make a copy of it for me and send it to me. Later, after I had returned home, he asked me to name anything else I could remember from that time, so that he could add it to the mix, and he would add some of his own favorites.
Turns out he made me three DVDs full of music, which means he has quite possibly put together thousands of songs for me. I have heard Jon say, more than once, that his two great loves are music and motorcycles, and since he is barred from getting on his bike for at least another year - because of the seizures - he has spent a lot of time immersed in his music collection. I think this was a good project for him to have while he's had to spend so much time at home.
It occurred to me that while some of the songs he is giving me are, as I said, part of the soundtrack of my memories of him, the rest may well become my soundtrack for these memories. The songs I listened to while he fought for his life. The songs I listened to while I wrote my quilting articles and bitched about my blood pressure meds, while he endured radiation and chemo drips. I'm curious now to know what that soundtrack will be, and whether I'll still be able to listen to it when my heart is broken.
He had called me to let me know that he has finished putting together a selection of music for me. When I visited back in March, we were talking about the days when he came home from the Navy, and how the music he used to play back then had become a kind of soundtrack for my memories of that time. The subject came up because for some reason he mentioned an album that he used to play a lot back then: Somewhere In Africa by Manfred Mann's Earth Band, and I realized I had not thought of that album in probably fifteen years or more. So many memories came washing over me, and he got so excited to hear that this album had some meaning for me. He said that he would make a copy of it for me and send it to me. Later, after I had returned home, he asked me to name anything else I could remember from that time, so that he could add it to the mix, and he would add some of his own favorites.
Turns out he made me three DVDs full of music, which means he has quite possibly put together thousands of songs for me. I have heard Jon say, more than once, that his two great loves are music and motorcycles, and since he is barred from getting on his bike for at least another year - because of the seizures - he has spent a lot of time immersed in his music collection. I think this was a good project for him to have while he's had to spend so much time at home.
It occurred to me that while some of the songs he is giving me are, as I said, part of the soundtrack of my memories of him, the rest may well become my soundtrack for these memories. The songs I listened to while he fought for his life. The songs I listened to while I wrote my quilting articles and bitched about my blood pressure meds, while he endured radiation and chemo drips. I'm curious now to know what that soundtrack will be, and whether I'll still be able to listen to it when my heart is broken.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
profit/loss
Today I called home and talked to my dad for a while. He had sent me a Mother's Day e-card and a nice email of the "I never thought you were going to be a good mother, but, gee, I guess I was wrong" variety. He means well.
He told me that my brother's wife, Jamie, had called him yesterday, concerned about some emails that she had seen. Jon had, apparently, emailed Dad one day to arrange a phone call to discuss something that the two have been doing together. After the appointed time came, and went, Jon sent another and said I'll call you at 11, or whatever time it was, and then another and then finally, "I'll call you tomorrow." Which he never did.
Jamie was concerned that my dad might have felt that Jon was being rude or that perhaps she was keeping him too busy or otherwise preventing him from calling, and wanted to let him know that the real reason was that Jon is just very tired, and he sleeps often, and is just more worn down by the chemo than he likes to admit.
As the conversation went on, she apparently told my dad of some of her concerns about their finances. Jon is currently drawing 70% of his salary, but that will go down to 50% in August. Jon is holding on to the hope that he will be back to work by then, but that may not be a reasonable expectation. Let me rephrase that. That is not a reasonable expectation.
But again, that's Jon. He holds on to the hope that, despite all evidence to the contrary from all sources, that he will be the one to be cured of this disease. Holding on to that hope is what keeps him going. I am the sort of person who needs to visualize and prepare for the absolute worst scenario, in order to feel prepared to handle whatever onslaught comes. Of course I hope for the best, but it's not the same. That hope isn't what drives me. My pessimism does.
None of us have wanted to approach the topic of money, and how much of it they have, because it feels like it's none of our business unless they make it so. Of course then we run the risk of not knowing when things get dire. I know my dad was grateful to have gotten some insight into this aspect of Jon's disease, because it's probably the one area where he feels he can be of help. Jamie wants to return to work, though she can't bring in nearly what Jon was making. She fears losing their home.
This week, David and I have really begun feeling the pinch of my unemployment. We are to the point of gathering all the change in the house to take to the grocery store to supplement the few dollars we have left until payday on Friday. Both cars need gas, and that will have to go on a credit card, which is almost maxed out. We took an inventory of all the food in the house to determine what meals we could make without having to shop for ingredients. This week would not have been quite so bad, had it not been for David's root canal last week, for which we had to pay a couple hundred dollars up front.
So it goes without saying that I am in no position to help. I can't provide any kind of financial relief for them, because I have nothing to give. But it has occurred to me since this whole thing started, that someday - hopefully not soon - I will inherit something from my parents. I have no idea how much, and there may be nothing, but if there is, I think I'd rather that my brother had it, and if he is not with us then, his family. But I can't decide if this is a ridiculous notion, if I am foolish to ignore my own family's needs, which are not as great but are there, for my brother's. At this point, it feels like all I have to give, and even then it is a tenuous and uncertain gift.
But then, everything about this is tenuous and uncertain.
He told me that my brother's wife, Jamie, had called him yesterday, concerned about some emails that she had seen. Jon had, apparently, emailed Dad one day to arrange a phone call to discuss something that the two have been doing together. After the appointed time came, and went, Jon sent another and said I'll call you at 11, or whatever time it was, and then another and then finally, "I'll call you tomorrow." Which he never did.
Jamie was concerned that my dad might have felt that Jon was being rude or that perhaps she was keeping him too busy or otherwise preventing him from calling, and wanted to let him know that the real reason was that Jon is just very tired, and he sleeps often, and is just more worn down by the chemo than he likes to admit.
As the conversation went on, she apparently told my dad of some of her concerns about their finances. Jon is currently drawing 70% of his salary, but that will go down to 50% in August. Jon is holding on to the hope that he will be back to work by then, but that may not be a reasonable expectation. Let me rephrase that. That is not a reasonable expectation.
But again, that's Jon. He holds on to the hope that, despite all evidence to the contrary from all sources, that he will be the one to be cured of this disease. Holding on to that hope is what keeps him going. I am the sort of person who needs to visualize and prepare for the absolute worst scenario, in order to feel prepared to handle whatever onslaught comes. Of course I hope for the best, but it's not the same. That hope isn't what drives me. My pessimism does.
None of us have wanted to approach the topic of money, and how much of it they have, because it feels like it's none of our business unless they make it so. Of course then we run the risk of not knowing when things get dire. I know my dad was grateful to have gotten some insight into this aspect of Jon's disease, because it's probably the one area where he feels he can be of help. Jamie wants to return to work, though she can't bring in nearly what Jon was making. She fears losing their home.
This week, David and I have really begun feeling the pinch of my unemployment. We are to the point of gathering all the change in the house to take to the grocery store to supplement the few dollars we have left until payday on Friday. Both cars need gas, and that will have to go on a credit card, which is almost maxed out. We took an inventory of all the food in the house to determine what meals we could make without having to shop for ingredients. This week would not have been quite so bad, had it not been for David's root canal last week, for which we had to pay a couple hundred dollars up front.
So it goes without saying that I am in no position to help. I can't provide any kind of financial relief for them, because I have nothing to give. But it has occurred to me since this whole thing started, that someday - hopefully not soon - I will inherit something from my parents. I have no idea how much, and there may be nothing, but if there is, I think I'd rather that my brother had it, and if he is not with us then, his family. But I can't decide if this is a ridiculous notion, if I am foolish to ignore my own family's needs, which are not as great but are there, for my brother's. At this point, it feels like all I have to give, and even then it is a tenuous and uncertain gift.
But then, everything about this is tenuous and uncertain.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
procrastination
I haven't posted much here, and I suppose that is as much because of my own laziness and remarkable ability to procrastinate as much as it is because we all appear to be in a kind of stasis. Jon ended his radiation treatments not long ago, so for now he does not have the daily trip to and from Nashville to contend with. This is a particularly good thing to happen right now, as half of the Nashville area is underwater, the Cumberland river and all it's tributaries overflowing with the torrential rains that came over the weekend. Everyone I know is well and has suffered no major catastrophes because of the floods or storms, though my sister's husband, who is a police officer for an area just north of Nashville, has been working heavy overtime dealing with the floods.
Jon said recently that he will be using the time off of radiation to try and get some of his strength back. He lost over thirty pounds and found himself getting weaker, whether from inactivity or from the treatments, I'm not sure. One weekend, he got a bunch of his brothers from the motorcycle club to come and help out with the yard work, and there was something about that I found particularly moving. I have always shunned groups. I'm not a joiner and don't do well among more than a few people, so I have avoided joining any local quilt groups or guilds, or any other kind of organization that might bring a sense of fellowship and belonging.
I hope that someday I'll know what that's like, having my own group to belong to. In the meantime, I'm grateful my brother has that. The club has organized a benefit for him and another member who was injured in an accident. I wish I could be there to see all those tattooed guys on Harleys telling my big brother how much they love him.
Jon said recently that he will be using the time off of radiation to try and get some of his strength back. He lost over thirty pounds and found himself getting weaker, whether from inactivity or from the treatments, I'm not sure. One weekend, he got a bunch of his brothers from the motorcycle club to come and help out with the yard work, and there was something about that I found particularly moving. I have always shunned groups. I'm not a joiner and don't do well among more than a few people, so I have avoided joining any local quilt groups or guilds, or any other kind of organization that might bring a sense of fellowship and belonging.
I hope that someday I'll know what that's like, having my own group to belong to. In the meantime, I'm grateful my brother has that. The club has organized a benefit for him and another member who was injured in an accident. I wish I could be there to see all those tattooed guys on Harleys telling my big brother how much they love him.
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