Day After Tomorrow

And it's all I can do to not totally lose cohesion.  My head has felt wrong off and on for a couple of weeks, but starting a few days ago, it became pretty constant.  It's not quite a headache, it's not quite dizziness.  It's a buzzing feeling like pressure.  Think that strange "off" sensation you get when you move your head into an odd position or stand up too quickly.  That weird feeling when you close your eyes, then roll them hard and tense up.  Sort of dizzy.  Sort of stoned.  Sort of painful.  Behind my nose, eyes, and forehead, mostly.  I know, it's probably stress, but there's a voice that whispers "It's spread to your head."

I need an answer.  I need to know what's going on.  And I may not get that answer, come Tuesday.  I may just get a referral to an oncologist.

Which is, in itself, an answer, I suppose.

Going to Shenandoah again today.  Hoping for some fall color.  Can't afford it, doing it anyway, because . . . well, you know.

Doing the obits today, came across a woman who died at my age of cancer.  I may have to hand this task over to someone else until I know what's happening to me.  While it's great that I can shower and cry at the same time (something I already knew from my late teens, but good to know I haven't lost that skill), I'd rather not.  I'd rather be okay.

Please.

My Cancer Story's Better than Your Cancer Story

I was thinking this morning, as I was out painstakingly MISTING the fancy "all the way from England" low-spreading thyme seeds I've planted between the stones on the porch.  I was thinking about how much, as kids, we hate those adults who don't want you on the grass, who are forever admonishing you to not pick that or step over there or sit on that.

I was the kid who broke branches off pussy willows and pinched shoots off chives on my way to school.  I was the girl who got shouted at by the guy with the apple trees.  You know, the ground is littered with rotten, unused apples, yet the guy comes out with a shotgun (seriously) and shouts at us to stay off his apples?

While I haven't made the leap to shotgun-toting apple tree owner, fact is there's been a sea change somewhere along the line.  I think it came right around the time I started putting my own flowers and plants in.  I remember the first time I found myself going completely nutty over a kid in my yard.  We had a family that used to come and do the yard work every week.  I worked full time, my husband worked full time, we were both full-time university students, and there just wasn't time.  One day, they showed up with their three year old girl.  Adorable, lovely child who, while her parents mowed the grass, tore up my pansies and marigolds one by one.  By the time I got home and found this, she was sitting in the middle of my garden, surrounded by a few dozen broken, torn up, desiccating plants.

I lost it.  We were poor, we didn't have a lot of money, and those flowers had been my birthday gift.  We couldn't afford to replace them, and my heart was broken.

I refused to pay them for the yard work that week.  The next week, they weed-whacked my rose bushes out back (girdled and killed them), and that was it.  We found someone else.

The next time I got freaky on a kid (well, I didn't get freaky on the toddler, but you know what I mean) for yard damage?  After my wonderful neighbor/mentor/surrogate father Frank died, the local kids took to playing in his back yard.  These kids' parents were somewhat close to Frank's daughter, so I didn't step in.  But then, one day, they came running out of the back yard with huge, snapped off branches/limbs from Frank's blooming snowball bush.  I went in the back yard, and they had destroyed this large, beautiful bush Frank had planted and nurtured.  Broken it right down to the ground.  I was devastated, I was SO upset, and I shouted at the kids over it.  Spoke to their parents, who spoke to them, and the kids stopped playing in Frank's yard.  I'm sure those kids hated me, and it was the first time I realized I was becoming the garden shouter.

And since we've moved away from the west?  Well, we moved into a place with a torn up, sparse, weed-infested lawn that's taken a LOT of work (and money) to bring into some sort of shape.  We had just done the first raking and reseeding of the back yard when those scary-freak rat children from across the street came over.  They went out in our back yard, and I looked out to see them kicking up the soil and seed mixture, like that's something fun or something.  I didn't yell, but I did come out back and say, "Hey, guys, I can't have you playing out here, we're trying to get the grass to come back so we've put down seed."

They looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.  Seeing their back yard later, I understand why--it's all weeds and dust.

A couple of months later, those same kids came to our front lawn (now on its second reseeding) and were jumping up and down and peeking in our windows while we were eating.  They tore the new grass to bits, killed it.  And this time I did yell.

Front yard when we moved in

Front yard now

So, am I that crazy lady who freaks out on the kids who get in her yard?  Or am I just a woman who wants her yard to look nice and only objects when kids (or adults, to be fair to myself) tear up my stuff?

And to a kid, is there a difference?

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So, someone on my Facebook friends list posted some snide, mean little meme about fat folks.  And, unbidden, the thought came into my mind, "I will never meet you.  If you come into town, I will have an excuse for why I can't meet you."  

I'm fat, you see.  I've been fighting it my whole life, since I was seven.  I've been terrifically thin (think a loose size one), and I've been incredibly large (can barely jam into an airplane seat large).  I've been each of these things more than once.  But being thin never scarred me, it never set me up for ridicule, it never broke my heart.  And so, in that broken heart, I am fat.  Regardless of my weight at the moment, I am forever fat, because being fat, and being mistreated because of my weight, are the things that made me who I am.  And if you post nasty memes, rotten pictures, cruel jokes, or otherwise use people who are heavy as humor points, you've lost me, because you've shown me what you think of me.

Yes.  ME.  That heavy woman in the stretch pants at Walmart?  She's ME.  That poor, sad woman on the park bench with her panniculus showing from under her skirt?  She's ME.  The NASCAR guy in the back of the truck with his belly hanging out?  He's ME.  The obese women in the bikinis being shared around Facebook because, ewww, isn't that awful?  All three of those women are ME.

In other words, when you share a photo of a heavy person for a laugh, when you point, stare, and say cruel or ugly things, you're doing those things to ME.  Which means there's no way I could ever be around you without knowing that I disgust you, I horrify you, you think I'm worthy of ridicule and abuse.  

Why would I want you in my house?  In my presence?  

Obviously, I wouldn't.  

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It turns out there are "obese meme makers."  You know, they provide the pictures of the fat people, you provide the mean-spirited caption.  I was going to post a screen shot of one page (one page of many), but I just can't.  It's that awful.  

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Still no word from the landlord.  It's been a week.  Turns out his daugher is local, which adds to the fear--what if he's promised the place to her?  He has until July 8th to let us know he wants to end the lease.  And if he does that?

We are SO screwed.  We have NO place to go, NO way of scraping together 1st and last plus deposit, and a sadly awful credit score right now.  Yes, we pay our bills on time, but our "credit to debt ratio" is awful, and we've got a bunch of inquiries on our record because of the car.  

What a scary thing.  I can't even adequately describe how afraid I am right now.  It's almost my birthday, and all I can think about is the lease, the landlord, and how we can't possibly bail this if he tosses us.

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One last thing.  Melissa?  Ms. Etheridge?  Are you listening?

STFU. Seriously.  If you can't be empathetic, if you can't be supportive, if you can't be intelligent and reasonable and conversant in the science behind the BRCA gene mutations, if you can't be sympathetic to another woman facing cancer, a woman who lost her mother to this gene mutation, the least you can do is shut your woo-spewing, "Secret" spraying, "it comes from the INSIDE, not from genes" face and respect another human being's suffering.  Even if you don't like the devastating choice Ms. Jolie made, the very LEAST you can do is feel the pain and fear that went into it instead of barfing up your "that didn't take courage" crap.  You loud-mouthed, unkind person. Hush your face and spare us the "I'm a REAL survivor, she took the EASY way out" garbage. 

Devastation Deepening

If you read my previous post, you'll know that I was concerned at having "outed" my family as atheists to our son's best friend. For the sake of clarity, let's call that friend Armen.

I was right to be worried.

Oh, Armen quite glibly "accepted" our atheism, didn't seem at all fazed. Spent the rest of the night laughing and having a seemingly great time with our boy. But he left before 7 am, claiming that, because it was Father's Day, he wanted to be home early. I knew. The moment I came downstairs to find him gone, I knew. But our boy wasn't concerned, said everything seemed just fine.

Everything wasn't fine. In fact, our boy's "best friend" has completely ditched him. Our boy kept trying to hang with him, and Armen kept offering up glib, smiling lies and BS promises. Things like, "Oh, I can't, I'm grounded today, but maybe tomorrow!" Then, twenty minutes later, we see him down the street, hanging with other kids. "I'll come over later this afternoon." Of course, he doesn't. Instead, he goes across the street to hang with the psychopathic, small-animal-killing kids because he knows our boy isn't allowed in that house. To our son's credit, he kept trying, kept giving Armen the benefit of the doubt. But after a week, even he knew.

I did this. By ADMITTING our atheism, I blasted our son's social life to bits. I try not to blame myself, I try to turn it around--if we were CATHOLIC or JEWISH and received this sort of treatment, the world would rise up and condemn this kid for his blatant bigotry. Sadly, we live in a nation that, according to recent polls, holds CHILD RAPISTS in higher esteem than atheists.

CHILD RAPISTS!

Republicans in this country are more likely to want a Muslim in the White House than an Atheist. Now, I don't have a problem with a Muslim in the White House, but let's be honest--the right has a mighty impressive stiffy against Islam. And yet, even Islam is preferable to atheism in their eyes.

It gets worse--you see, a couple of weeks earlier, our boy spent the night at another friend's house. While there, he was cornered by the friend's mother, who wanted to know what church we go to. Our boy was honest--he said we don't go to any church. That was pretty much the last time that friend and our boy hung out. And just night before last, our boy stayed over at another friend's--a mutual friend of Armen's. Mutual friend cornered our son, demanding to know what religion he is. I suppose it's a tribute to our parenting that our boy can't just "lie on the fly," he doesn't know how to fashion BS effortlessly, so he answered honestly. He said he's an atheist. Mutual friend's younger brother said, "We're atheists, too." Mutual friend became very upset, said that they are NOT atheists!

I fear that friendship is now toast, too. I was already concerned--see, the night before, Armen had hidden at the mutual friend's house, while mutual friend lied to our boy and said he wasn't there. Even though we'd watched him go in and, a few minutes after, sneak back out. And I mean SNEAK--he actually ducked down behind bushes and crawled behind a truck. All to hide from the evil atheists.

I’m not just heartbroken and hurt for our boy. No, I'm also scared. Deeply frightened. Understand that people HURT atheists. They do. Not everywhere--gosh, no, in civilized Western nations, atheists are accepted and make up a sizeable chunk of the population. Canada, England, France, etc.? Loaded with atheists who work, live, love just like everyone else. But not here. No, not in America, the Land of the Free. No, here we are despised. I think it's an intellect thing--as a nation, we're increasingly lacking.

So I'm afraid. What we have here is a social group made up of a ten-year-old violent, foul-mouthed, scary-type liar (dangerous lies like "so-and-so hit me with a bat") who steals and kills small animals; The psychopath's twin brother, who is a pale, weak version of his crazy-assed sibling; a glib, cowardly 13 year-old bigot who lies freely, lacks the courage required for honesty, and spends his time doing the bidding of the psychopathic 10 year-olds, and a 13 year old who, while not taking part in the games, dropped our boy like a hot potato the instant we failed the "what church do you go to" test.

A scary group. A group that, between the violent psychopaths and the suck-up, two-faced true believer, could conceivably decide to do our child harm because of his atheism. Don't tell me I'm being paranoid--look at the news. Kids pouring alcohol on other kids and setting them ablaze. Kids shooting other kids. Kids beating other kids. Hell, there have been cases of kids forcibly sodomizing other kids with sticks.

Sticks.

And these crimes are committed over things as trivial as movie tickets or teenage flirtation gone awry. Imagine what kids might do to an atheist? What they might do to someone who ranks lower on the social totem pole than a CHILD RAPIST.

Know what REALLY sticks in my craw? The idea that these kids think they're better than us, more MORAL than us. The psychopaths? Their mother and Armen's father? Drug buddies from days of old. Armen's father? I only know what he looks like because I've seen his MUG SHOT online. Drugs. Armen's mother? I've seen her mug shot, too--prostitution and drugs. His older sister?  Junkie with mug shots.  His older brother? I've seen HIS mug shot--a junkie on his way to prison for felony burglary.  But WE'RE immoral.

We are clean. Our home is clean. We are kind. We do not lie about our neighbors, we do not lie to our friends. We do not do drugs, we are not given to drunkenness, we do not break the law. We are gentle with animals, and we are caring with other people. Most importantly, we do not discriminate against others based upon their religion. Yet WE are immoral.

I fear for our son. I fear for us. I am afraid that someone will call our landlord and fill him in on our evil ways, and he will, as a result, choose not to extend our lease. I am afraid that we will be the victims of vandalism or worse. Through all of this, I keep coming back to one thing: I should have kept my mouth shut. I can take the pressure, but our boy? Our poor, 14 year-old boy? Maybe for him, it would have been better to be silent and okay than loud, proud, and despised.

The World Eats Children

I was reading the local paper yesterday morning (the online version to save the trees, of course). As per usual, I hit the obits second (front page comes first). I’ve always been drawn to the obituaries, just as I’ve always felt myself attracted to cemeteries. The last, usually loving tributes to folks who aren’t anymore. It’s beautiful, but beyond that, it often brings with it a wave of “what ifs.” You know—“what if I died, what would Tom put in my obit?” and “What if that was my mother, what would I say about her?”

Yesterday, it was “What if my 12 year old child who loved playing guitar and dreamed of traveling had committed suicide?”

Oh, damn. What if? What if it was my beautiful child, my heart, his life tapped out in a few dozen lines on an obit page? What if the world chewed up my boy and spat him out broken?

I look back on all the things my parents didn’t discuss with me. Suicide, drugs, alcohol, sex, violence, bullying, peer pressure, devastating depression—all of which were a big part of my growing up. I shambled through my childhood, completely lost. I was lucky in that most of my friends were good ones. Maybe not moral compasses, but certainly not wells of depravity, either. I was lucky that, with one notable exception, they all cared about my welfare, even if the stick they used to measure good from bad wasn’t quite in keeping with society’s norms. Or “nerms,” as we used to say.

They say the world is what we make it. If that’s true, we’re breathtakingly broken. I sit down and I talk about suicide, meth, and teen pregnancy with my 12 year old and my brain screams, “WHY? Why does he have to know this stuff at 12 years old? What is WRONG with us, that we’ve created a world where 12 year olds are getting other 12 year olds pregnant and 13 year olds are bullying their classmates to DEATH?”

Why do I have to explain to my child that poking at people who are different, whether it be skin color or sexual orientation, is a bad thing? Shouldn’t we, as a society, already know that? Shouldn’t that be a given? It’s 2010—how can racism or bigotry still be an issue? Aren’t we smarter than that?

And am I part of the problem because I’m making my child aware? I told him about auto-erotic asphyxiation and “huffing” when he was NINE, because other NINE year olds were doing it—and DYING. How jacked up is that? How terrible?

And if you think all THAT'S bad, imagine being a child in Gaza? Haiti? Thailand?

I don’t have a point here. I’m railing against a messed up world that eats people. That eats children. And my heart is thrumming and mind is buzzing with fear because maybe our love and our lectures and our watchful eyes just aren’t enough. That child in yesterday’s paper? Her parents loved her, too. She was their heart. They watched and guided and adored.

And the world got her anyway.