Nothing But A Rant

I don't know what it is about airports that turn me into the crazy bitch woman from hell. Maybe it's because I've spent one too many nights trying to find a comfortable position on a ridiculously uncomfortable airport chair whilst simultaneously trying to hord my luggage around me. Or perhaps it's because I've had one too many missed/delayed/cancelled flights which have left me stranded in the middle of who-knows-where. Quite probably it's because I am always pulled aside for a "random" check and I just have to stand there, spread eagle, smiling because it would be completely inappropriate to say "I can't help it if I'm racially ambiguous and tend to have shifty eyes when I travel. And how is this random if I get selected every time?"*

The real reason probably stems from the fact that for most of traveling experience, I have traveled alone. When there's no one else to watch out for me, I have to watch out for myself. I know what the statistics are and I know that overly friendly women are the ones that get attacked. So, I'm not friendly. I don't look anyone in the eye. I always wear business professional outfits and have business professional luggage. I like to look like I'm someone and have important somethings to do and I know exactly what they are. I've perfected the art of looking like I know exactly where I am and where I'm going even in a new airport that is completely foreign to me.

For all these reasons (and the fact that I am a fiercly independent woman), I find myself getting more annoyed than I probably need to when men attempt to be gentlemen, specifically when they try to help me with my luggage or think that I need special treatment just because I'm in stilettos.** This was made clear the last time I made the all-too-familiar trip from Pittsburgh to Boston and back again. I was on my return flight back to the 'Burgh on a somewhat crowded flight. It was late, our flight had been delayed for an hour, everyone was tired. We're finally at the gate and de-boarding the plane. I open the overhead compartment (carefully because contents may have shifted during the flight) and reach for my bag. It's a rolling suitcase, small enough to be counted as a carry on and probably not weighing in at more than 25 pounds. I had it about halfway out of the compartment when the man behind me saw it as his duty to, without even saying a word, wrench (and I seriously mean wrench) my bag away from me and finish extracting it. His action caused me to stumble into the man in front of me and twist my wrist most uncomfortably. When he finally placed my suitcase in the aisle, beaming and proud of his chivalry, I glared at him and said, sarcasm dripping from my voice, "Wow, thank you so much, I really wouldn't have been able to manage without you." I'm pleased to say he looked rightfully deflated. Unfortunately, we still had to wait in the aisle for another 10 minutes while we waited for everyone in the front of the plane to collect their things and get the hell off.

I guess I should feel bad, I mean, he was just trying to help. But, I get really frustrated at people who do just that and end making the situation worse. Would you mind just getting the hell out of my way and letting me ask for help if I need it? Being the strong, independent woman that I am, I am also equally aware of my weaknesses and the (few) things of which I'm incapable. I have no problems asking for assistance when said assistance is needed/wanted.

Why is it that men feel the need to stroke their testosterone and rush to the aid of a damsel anything but distressed? Am I supposed to swoon and swear my undying devotion because you did something that I could have done myself?

Ok, but here is where I'm a walking contradiction. I love it when men open doors, pull out my chair, walk on the outside of the sidewalk, let me order first, and are protective. I think it's because there's not question that I could complete these simple tasks for myself, but there's a chivalry present that I am the softer sex and should be cared for. My problem mainly arises when men assume I can't do something just because I am a woman.

Where's the happy medium? Maybe this is why I'm still single...

*Ok, so maybe it's not every time. In fact, I can't remember the last time I was selected for random searching. But, it used to happen, so I can still complain about it.
**This is the same reason why my dad doesn't hand me a couple of $20 spots whenever I leave home now. I was so adament that I am independent and he doesn't need to know the state of my finances and I know how to budget, blah blah blah that I'm sure he thinks that if I'm so independent, I can do it on my own (which I can) and I'll ask for help if I really need it (which maybe I will). Still, those extra $20's were nice...

A Case of the Crazies

I am tearing my fingers apart. And not just the usual thumb skin-picking. No, no, ALL my fingers are victims of my vicious picking, biting, and pulling away at the skin surrounding my nails. Yeah, I know...it's disgusting. But, I've been doing this ever since I can remember. As a child, my mother used to pour Tabasco sauce on my finger tips so I wouldn't chew on my nails. Problem solved. I no longer bit my nails, but I moved on to just picking at them and the skin around them until I developed callouses and picked even more. The consequence of this was my mother concernedly (is that a word? I don't care, I just made it up. BAM) holding my hands with a crease between her brows and saying, "Oh honey, your fingers are becoming deformed!" I hated it when she said that. My fingers are not deformed and I would always, every single time, snatch my hand away and say just that, "My fingers are not deformed!"

I tried quitting so hard in high school. I tried wearing Band Aids on the tips of all my fingers. They only last so long. I wore latex gloves while doing school work (I was home schooled and subsequently avoided the ridicule that would normally go along with wearing latex gloves while writing a term paper). The latex only succeeded in making my hands sweaty. I gave myself manicures to try to deter me from un-prettifying my nails. I just picked all the nail polish off and then proceeded to demolish my fingers.

About a year or so ago, I became so frustrated with my apparent lack of will-power to stop picking at my fingers that I googled "how to stop picking cuticles." Who would've thought other people actually suffer from this? Apparently I fall into a select few who go by the name of "Skin Pickers." I'm not proud of this. But, I am relieved that I am not as severe as some of the people in some of the forums I read through. Some people pick at their skin everywhere on their body and are therefore scarred head to toe. Some people pull their hair out. Some people are so obsessed with plucking that they have no eyebrows (I can definitely understand how plucking can be addictive, but I, at least, have will power in this area).

Anyway, so this skin picking phenomenon happens when the serotonin levels in the brain are slightly (or not so slightly) imbalanced. This would probably explain my so extreme that I used to have to physically leave my clothes in the middle of the floor and say, "The world will not end if this is not hung on a color-coordinated hanger" repeatedly while rocking myself in the fetal position minor OCD. I've thought about talking to my doctor about this and maybe getting on some sort of medication just long enough for me to break the habit of destroying any semblance of a dream to become a hand model, but considering the fact that, since I moved, he lives over 600 miles away (not to mention it would only confirm that this is more of a problem than just an annoying habit), I figure I'll just continue to ignore it (even after I recently had someone comment that, "It's such a shame because you actually have very beautiful hands." Good bye hand-model-dream).

Besides, usually I'm pretty good unless I'm really upset or stressed out about something. Which brings me to my original point: I am tearing my fingers apart right now. And I don't know why. I'm in the process of procrastinating on packing (how's that for alliteration?) for my weekend journey home and, somewhere in the process, realized how painful it was each time one of my hang nails caught on the fibers of the clothes I was folding away into my suitcase. Then this caused me to wonder what is stressing me out so much to pick at my cuticles as if I had a Nazi standing over me screaming that if I didn't post haste reduce my finger tips to bloody stubs, the lives of my entire family and the hot guy I've been eyeing up in my personal trainer class will expire at first light (considering it's one in the morning and the sun has been rising earlier now that we are in Daylight Saving Time, that doesn't give me much time).

Back to the point. Me. Stressed. Picking my cuticles/skin around my nails. And why am I procrastinating so badly on packing for home? Is there some psychological reason for all of this? Am I terrified to go home and confront...?? What? What am I scared/stressed/irrationally nervous about in this situation?

This is about the time when I think a psycho-analyst would be really helpful. Except, knowing me, I'd probably get all uppity that someone is trying to figure out the inner workings of my brain and then become petrified that he/she/it would break through my emotional constipation and make me confront what I'm feeling. I mean, who needs feelings anyway?

I just paused for 10 seconds to think of how to end this post and started picking at my left index finger which is already raw and sore from previous pickings. Need I say more?*

*Maybe I've said too much and someone really can psycho-analyze me sufficiently from what I've already written and knows exactly the inner workings of my brain and then I'd have to kill he/she/it for knowing too much.....

A Flow of Conciousness

"I have taken a wrong turn
When will I learn? When will I learn?
Should I show them all my scars?
Cherry red bleeding burn." -Ingrid Michaelson

I am in a weightless mood. Feeling detached. Feeling aimless. Feeling feelings. Feelings are funny things. They evaporate in the morning sun of the next day and I am left wondering why I even felt yesterday's feelings in the first place. And will today's feelings be the same as tomorrow's? When will tomorrow's feelings be any different?

I feel like I want to lose myself in the city lights...lose myself in the vastness of the shoreline...lose myself anywhere but here. But, when I try to peg down the whys and wherefores, I discover that they are just mist and were never anything solid in the first place. As if logic decided not to be my friend anymore. Could this be like elementary school when we're friends again tomorrow?

In elementary school I used to play Barbies. I used to play with My Little Ponies. I used to tramp through the woods on adventures and come back for my mom to pick ticks out of my long, black hair. When I was in elementary school I learned how to play by myself and be happy. I learned how to imagine myself somewhere else. I am imagining myself somewhere else. Somewhere on the West Coast. Somewhere in New York City. Somewhere in Australia. Somewhere anywhere but here.

And I can't seem to wrap my imagination around staying in this place. And I can't seem to wrap my legs around a man long enough to make him love me. Or long enough for me to pretend to love him. And I can't seem to wrap myself tight enough in my blankets at night to keep out the chill. Can I wrap myself in you?

When I think of wrapping myself in God I grow stubborn. My mother always told me I was stubborn. My mother told me she used to pray that I would learn to not be so shy and timid. She never knew God would answer her prayer so completely. My mother told me that I should stop picking my nails; she told me my fingers would become deformed. I think my soul has become deformed.

Where does the eternal soul live before you die? Is it wrapped up inside the body or does it live in the sky, floating on ocean currents and gazing down from mountain heights? If my soul is in the tides of the sea, can I be with it there?

Can I be anywhere but here?

Some Words on Some Paper

Things I Want To Do Before I'm 30 (in no particular order)

1. Go Skydiving
2. Learn how to ride a motocycle
3. Buy a VW Bus and road trip on Route 6 from P-town to Cali
4. Learn Arabic
5. Learn how to play the guitar
6. Become certified as a Registered Dietician
7. Go downhill skiing/learn how to snow board
8. Train for and run a marathon
9. Go to Australia for an extended visit with my cousin
10. Be the Maid of Honor in my sister's wedding (get crackin', Ange)

Things I Want To Do Before I Die (in no particular order)

1. Live on every continent for at least 6 months (excluding Antarctica)
2. Buy/live on a boat and sail around the world
3. Be a missionary
4. Help someone reverse their cancer through diet and lifestyle change
5. Write my Nonna's story
6. Visit the places where Jesus walked in Israel
7. Go Cage Diving off the coast of South Africa
8. Restore a '69 Camaro z28
9. Write something somewhere that will affect change
10. Watch Mila grow into womanhood and be there for her every step of the way

And I Have Become Comfortably Numb

I haven't been to Buffalo for a month and, much as I dread it, I have slipped into that numb state of mind where I just pretend that all of the dread and pain doesn't exist. I've actually become quite adept at avoiding any thought of death or cancer or....Nonna. The worst part is that in my search for solace from this raw, gaping wound, I have shut her out as well. When was the last time I called her just to make sure she ate a good breakfast, or to tell her that I love her?

I am a horrible person.

I am a selfish person.

Tomorrow I will call her and gauge her reaction when I hint of coming up for a visit. This time last week I should've been in Buffalo with my sister loving her and taking care of her. However, a combination of winter storms, illness, and other circumstances prevented that. Those other circumstances were simply that my Nonna didn't want us to come...doesn't want to be a burden on anyone now that she's starting to loose control of bodily functions and needs more and more care. Is it even possible to put into words how much I hate this? How much I want to tell her that it would be a joy and an honor to take care of her when she can't take care of herself? How I desire so badly to be her support now that, at the very end, her immense strength is finally leaving her?

When I spoke with my sister right after we found out that her flight was cancelled and the trip itself was cancelled, she mentioned how there are some animals who, when they know they are dying, will separate themselves from everyone and die alone. I pray that this is not what she is doing in the attempt to not be the burden she's so nervous of becoming.
Yet, despite the doom in my heart, her MRI results showed that the evil tumor in her pancreas has not grown. What does this mean? The cancer is not growing, but her strength continues to wane? Everything is so vague and so uncertain. Is it the chemoradiation that is destroying her body more than the cancer at this point? I don't know. I don't know how much longer she has on this earth. I don't know how I will deal with her passing, whenever it happens.

But, I do know that I will call her tomorrow. And I will tell her that I love her.

The Dream

I woke up at 7:30 Monday morning to the sound of my phone vibrating. The caller ID said "Dad" and I knew exactly why he was calling me at that hour in the morning. I knew even more because of the dream from which I was awakened.

I did not know exactly why he was calling me. It turns out he was on his way to Boston and had "butt dialed" me, as they say. However, the sight of his name on my phone and the dream I just had was enough for me to stumble out of bed and curse, making it to the bathroom just in time to let my tears fall. I don't think I hid my crying well enough from the person I was trying to hide my crying from. I really hate being that raw and vulnerable in front of people. For some reason though, he had the right response when I climbed back into bed of not making me talk about it. I like that he doesn't pry for details and lets me contribute information on my own.

But, despite being able to find solace in a few more minutes of sleep and then a day filled with glorious distraction, I was not distracted enough from my dream. I thought about it while I was sorting through receipts and various pieces of paper with drawings and notes. I thought about it eating one of the best veggie burgers I've ever had. I thought about it the entire 6 hour drive back to snowy Pittsburgh. I thought about it when I stopped in Johnstown to grocery shop because I knew all the stores in Pittsburgh were depleted from panicked people stocking up for the storm. Most of all, I thought about it last night when I was trying to fall asleep again, begging the heavens that I would have no more dreams.

Sometimes I hate that I have such vivid, prophetic dreams. Why is this the way God chooses to communicate with me? Why must I struggle with finding the meaning to these meaningful visions? But, I will not be going to dreams.com to find the interpretation to this dream...I know all too well what it means:

I think that in some way, my soul left my body and I was actually at the ocean. The feel of the sand under my feet and the smell of the salt was so palpable. And there she was. Like she always used to be. That ridiculous old-lady bathing suit with the skirt, her bosom popping out of it and her thick Italian accent carrying down the beach. I could feel the lump in my throat. I could feel the tears stinging my eyes. I was in that strange dream-place where I was living completely in the moment of the dream and yet I could see reality so clearly. I knew that this image I have of her is just that...an image. A memory. A phantom of the past and what will never be again in this world.
We were sitting in a circle; all our beach chairs facing each other like an old-fashioned circling of the wagons. My entire family protecting the sanctity of our unit. It was so beautiful. The sand so white, the blue of the water in stark contrast to its white-cap bedecked waves, the sky so bright that it was blinding to look at.
And then there was darkness.
And wind.
And terror.
And when the cloud passed she sat there. Small. Thin. Frail. Pale. This was no image. This was reality. This is Nonna now. Skeletal. The pinched expression of pain permanently sketched on her features. A few less teeth in her mouth. Less hair that has lost its curl on her head. And she was talking. Quoting almost in a robotic way all the things that were going wrong inside her body. All her systems which the cancer was shutting down and squeezing her life away. And as she continued to talk everything began to fade until all I was really aware of was this tremendous pressure on my chest.

And then my phone rang. And that's when I realized that I am still struck to the core with the terror of reality...with not knowing whether it's better to ignore it and become numb, pretending as if the inevitable is not so, or to face it head on and stay in this state of hopeless depression.

What is the worst part about yesterday morning is that I almost wished that I really did know why my dad was calling me at that hour. At least then I will not be haunted by the knowledge of how much pain she is in and how there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Perhaps then all this panic and lostness inside will disappear and I will be able to move through the actual grief and move on and away from it. Then I would stop dreading my phone ringing and the caller ID. Then I would stop wondering every time I drive away from Buffalo, "Is this the last time?"

I'm going up this weekend snow or no snow. Will it be the last time?

"Write, she told me..."

Writing, as always, has been my therapy. My escape. My way to figure out all of the unanswered questions I have in my life. I often think back to a moment in college when it seemed as if life would swallow me whole and she told me to write. She, my inspiration to continually write better, is perhaps one of my oldest friends who constantly amazes me with how her writing is always insightful and fresh.

I'm hoping to see her at the end of this month with my childhood best friend. We will have a "Grown & Sexy Reunion" where we will sit around in sweat pants and eat junk food and talk about how grown and sexy we've become. Her words. Did I mention she's a comedian?

However, this post is not about what a wonderful person she is, but rather, what wonderful people I have in my life. Period.

The last several weeks have been a lesson in grieving...which is strange because I haven't lost anyone yet–my Nonna's heart still beats, her hand is still warm for me to hold. But, just knowing that it will not always be like this—and probably on a day sooner than I would like—has left me exhausted, bitter, and confused. Enter the wonderfully caring, amazingly supportive people who surround me. The people who abstained from talking to me about their own trials because they knew I couldn't handle any more grief. The amazing women who always had the exact right thing to say without ever sounding trite. The incredible family who have held me up despite their own sorrow. The friends who have fantastic things happening in their lives and have helped me to look beyond myself and rejoice with them. All of these combined to get me over one of the most challenging times in my life.

And while I have entered into a place of acceptance and peace, it doesn't mean that the worst is over. It means that I have more good days than bad days now. It means that I don't feel guilty about finding joy in life anymore. But, I still have this restlessness in my soul, this feeling of needing to escape, of needing to fill my life with distractions. I want to get in my car and just start driving. I don't know what stage of grief this is called. But, I know I will get through this as well. I will continue to dig deep and find the strength that I don't think I have.

I will be more than a conqueror.

Break Through

I had a break through last night. I was driving home channel surfing on the radio after the battery on my CD player wore out* and I came across this song about death and not knowing how to cope after a loved one has passed on. Obviously I started crying. But, it wasn't the chest-spasmed, blinding, ugly cry I cried during my phone conversation with my sister last Tuesday when I had to pull over into the emergency lane because I couldn't see through my tears. No, it was the silent, tears-running-down-my-face sort of cry when all of a sudden I realized, It's OK To Be Sad. It's OK to have to cry it out and it's OK if I have trouble eating or sleeping. It's OK, because it's all part of the grieving process.

(*Yes, I still use a disk-man to play CD's in my car. Don't be a hater.)

I guess my break through was that I'm not scared of the pain anymore. I am embracing it as a natural part of life and something that must be experienced right now. I am embracing and accepting it. I am at peace knowing that soon her suffering will be over.

I will most likely be in Buffalo this weekend and then again in another two weeks when my sister will be flying in. This is it. This is the time when every possible moment must be spent with her and making her remaining days more comfortable.

I have no idea how much longer I have with her, but I will make every moment of it count. I will not let the sadness overtake me or the darkness close in around me. I must be strong for her. For me. For my family. I shall conquer this.

Your Hands

I have unanswered prayers
I have trouble I wish wasn't there
And I have asked a thousand ways
That You would take my pain away
Oh, that You would take my pain away.

I am trying to understand
How to walk this weary land
Make straight the paths that crooked lie
Oh Lord before these feet of mine
Oh Lord before these feet of mine.

When my world is shaking
Heaven Stands
And when my heart is breaking
I never leave Your hands

When you walked upon the earth
You healed the broken, lost, and hurt
I know You hate to see me cry
One day You will set all things right
One day You will set all things right

When my world is shaking
Heaven Stands
And when my heart is breaking
I never leave Your hands

Your hands
Your hands that shaped the world
Are holding me, they hold me still
Your hands that shaped the world
Are holding, they hold me still

When my world is shaking
Heaven Stands
And when my heart is breaking
I never leave
I never leave
I never leave Your hands

Remembering

There are times when my dad throws up his hands in exasperation to whatever my problem is and exclaims, "What do you want me to do about it?" And there are times when he knows exactly what to do about it. When I don't even have to call out to him for help. When I'm navigating a winding South-Western Pennsylvanian road in the driving rain and he's there with all the right words and silences, knowing when to listen and when to talk. And his words are so cooling that the heated anger in my heart begins to dispel and I can once again, if only briefly, see the truth in what he's saying.

God wants me in Pittsburgh for a reason. I'm starting to think that the only reason is to be closer to Buffalo and have this precious, priceless time with her. To, as my dad told me last night, be her Simon and help her carry her cross to Golgotha. To somehow share the burdon with her, if only by cleaning her front windows and washing her floors, doing the dishes and sitting quietly stroking her hand while she sleeps. If only by sitting silent and listening to her life story and promising to remember after she has gone.

My dad told me last night that this is my legacy. This is the time for me to comfort her and support her...and when she is gone, I will remember this time and know how blessed I was to have it. And I will tell my children her story and the story of my life with her and tell them to remember. Remember long after she has gone. Long after I have gone.

I will remember.

The Stages of Grief

I have settled into a numb routine. And to anyone on the outside it would seem as if I am a normal, functioning human being...albeit a rude and bitchy one. Why is it that I feel the need to take out my anger on complete strangers? And yet I am still extremely giving and selfless to friends even when they fail to return the favor. It's during times of intense pain that it becomes apparent who your true friends are; or perhaps the more kind term would be who your strong friends are. I understand that not everyone can handle the raw intensity of my grief right now. And I, being the good friend that I am, put on a show for them and pretend that everything is fine and I'm doing much better.

I am doing much better. I have actually slept the last two nights. And despite the raging sore throat I have today, I feel motivated to do more than just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. But, it's funny how there is still that small voice in the back of my head that is begging to be in control of something...anything. Chop off all your hair again. Color it. Get bangs. Stop eating. Work out for hours on end. Scrub the house until it's spotless. And while I am going to scrub the house spotless today and probably hit the gym, that voice is still small enough for me to control and for me to understand when the need to control is an unhealthy choice.

It's funny what grief will do to a person. They say there are stages of grief and what each stage will do to a person while they're experiencing it. I don't know what this stage is called...maybe something between denial and anger and depression. But, definitely not acceptance. Yet. I look at certain members of my family and either they are very good at hiding what they're feeling, or they have come to the final stage of acceptance. And I marvel at their strength. And I think, why don't I have that? And I wonder, how do I get that? And then I get angry again that they seem to have such a peace about it and I don't. And then I feel guilty that that probably means I'm not as good of a Christian, or don't have as close of a relationship with God right now. But, I don't necessarily know how to navigate myself to that safe place of trust and peace. I've been there before. I've been to the place where I am at perfect peace in Christ's hands and I know how amazing it is. So, why I am fighting against it so hard right now?

Perhaps this is just one more lesson, one more study on becoming the person I am meant to be. But, I'm beginning to wonder if all these steps and stages and chapters in my life will actually bring me to a final destination or if they will continue for the rest of my life? Where will this all end? And in the process, I'm still stuck on how to be at peace. How to be strong. How to not be an additional burden on a family who is suffering enough already. How to move past the Denial, Anger, Bargaining, and Depression.

How to get to Acceptance.

The Inevitable

I've had ideas and plans to turn this blog into something of value. And I might still do it. I'm on a nutrition kick and that's what I want to write about...but, I'm too lazy. Today is not going to be the day I turn this into a nutrition blog. Today is the day I write about cancer.

Pancreatic Cancer.

The deadliest, most painful cancer.

The cancer my Nonna has. The cancer in which 95% of the people diagnosed with it are dead within a year. Within a year. It's been 6 months. 6 months of chemoradiation and MRI's and CT scans and false hope, and utter despair.

A friend told me yesterday that death is as much a part of life as life is and that I should be happy that she has led a long life filled with love. Some people never have that. I am grateful. I'm grateful for every moment with her. I am not grateful for cancer. I am not grateful for how it is eating her life away. How the chemo is disintegrating her esophagus and makes it difficult to impossible to eat. How the cancer is ravaging her body and makes digestion, using the bathroom, walking a subject in pain. How she barely has the energy to get herself out of bed in the mornings. How she used to be the stereotypical large Italian mama and now she is nothing but skin and bones.

No. I am not grateful for these things and I refuse to accept this as a fact of life. I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of the pain. It is so intense that I cannot understand it. I cannot understand God. And while I will continue to believe in blind faith because it is the only way of life that I know, I am furious at him. Furious in the way a small child is furious at his parent for something that is not their fault, yet kicks and screams and pounds against them all the same. And at the end of it, all the parent will do is enfold the child and hold her while she cries. But, I don't want God to hold me while I cry right now. I want to take him out at the kneecaps for not doing a miracle. For not removing every spot of cancer from her body. I mean, he's capable, right? Hasn't she been through enough? Why is this happening?

I've been listening to this song by J.J. Heller which has been incredibly comforting, but there's this one verse that infuriates me: "When You walked upon the earth, You healed the wounded, lost, and hurt. I know you hate to see me cry. One day you will make all things right." Why isn't that one day today? And if He hates to see me cry then why the fuck is He allowing it?

I haven't slept for the past five nights. I don't even know how to function anymore without crying. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want to do anything. I just want to lie in bed all day and stare at the ceiling. And I don't think people understand that by doing that I'm not being selfish, I'm just practicing how to survive. How to survive this awful word. Cancer. What. The. Fuck.

I don't even really think there's anyway to survive this. For me. For her. For my whole family whose hearts are bleeding and raw from the pain. After seeing her over the weekend, I knew. I knew what my dad and sister and it seems like everyone else has known for awhile. This is her last battle. But no, I keep telling myself, she beat cancer before, she can do it again. But no, I keep telling myself, God isn't cruel enough to take her this way, she's meant to go peacefully in her sleep without the pain. Without the pills. Without the despair.

And yet, even though I know...I know that she's going...she's fading...she's wasting away...I still cannot get there. I cannot get to a place of peace...to the place of "she's lived a long, happy life, I am thankful for the memories." I cannot get resigned or even comfortable with the fact that this is inevitable. I am thrashing against it. I am beating my fists in futility and frustration hoping beyond hope that somehow my being so angry will make a difference. Somehow God will listen to my anger more than he's listened to my desperate, pleading prayers.

There is no way to prepare. So, I am left with all my nerves exposed, flinching every time someone touches me, or talks to me, or looks at me. But, apparently life goes on....or so I hear...