The Precious.

I finally — finally! — bought a new laptop. So preeeetty! I feel like Gollum talking about the precious. It’s shiny and clean and perfect.

Now I have to get my writing mojo back. I’ve been remiss in posting lately. And when I have posted, it’s been about the most mundane things. (At the end of the day, who really cares that I bought a new computer? My point exactly.) That wasn’t the purpose of this blog. I will have to find the courage to reach down into what’s in me and be more creative with my posts. Or, at the very least, not so … stale.

Part of the reason for this staleness is that I shared this blog with some real friends. It is the same problem I have about writing other things: I worry about what people I know will think. I do such a good job (I think) at maintaining this impression of Well-Adjusted Woman that I worry about what will happen when folks — folks I know — see how far from the truth that is. I’ve been censoring myself. That’s death for a writer. Sure, there will continue to be the “day in the life” posts. But I’ll try to balance them with more thoughtful items. For one thing, I promised years ago that I would continue with this post here. (Holy crap! That was over three years ago!) I really should get on that.

For now, though, I play with the precious.

 

Where I’ve Been

Happy 2012!

It’s been a few months, huh? Sorry about that. Does it help to know that I’ve been busy? What’s that? You want to know what I’ve been doing? Fine. I’ll tell you.

I fell in love with a guy who I’m all but certain had a thing for me too, but because of a pesky little thing called professional ethics, he couldn’t ask me out and I’ve been afraid to ask him. I did invite him to a get-together I had before Christmas, believing (hoping?) that it would give him an out, but he couldn’t come. In retrospect, I’m glad — it would’ve been terribly awkward. Still, I was initially crushed. Tears were shed.

I haven’t seen him in a while. I’ve decided to avoid doing so for fear that it would only be harder to move on. The last time I saw him I gave him a reason to see me that wouldn’t be an ethical problem, so the ball is in his court. Of course, there’s a big difference between attraction and intention: It could be that despite his obvious attraction to me he had no intention in actually asking me out.  It’s unfortunate; we really clicked. But I’ve never chased a man, and I’m not about to start. You either want me or you don’t.

Anyway, it’s gotten easier. For a while, in the beginning days of my crush, he was all I could think about. It was distracting. I confess, I still remember the flash of his collarbone I spotted one afternoon, how he’d find innocent ways to touch me, the first time he hugged me. But the pain of his absence isn’t as consuming. If there really was something there, maybe he’ll call when enough time goes by that it won’t be an ethical concern. Otherwise I’ll use the time to get over him.

I got my couch! There was a heart-stopping 45 minutes when it looked like the delivery guys couldn’t get it in (it was a special order; stores don’t just take those back — they store them and charge you high storage rates). Finally, they managed to pivot it just the right way. (This makes me think of that Friends episode with Ross screaming, “Pivot! Pivot!”)

Once I got the couch in, I realized just how desperately I wanted to paint my living room and dining area. It took quite a while to nail down some colors. And by “quite a while” I mean 60+ of those little paper paint samples and about 16 actual paint samples. For a while my walls looked like they had some sort of pox, there were so many sample spots. I even recruited a friend from my old hometown to help. She helped loosen my thoughts on color. One night, before I headed to bed, I muttered to myself, “Please let me wake up tomorrow with a color idea.” You know what? It worked. The first thing I thought that next day upon waking was, “Coral.” So I have a coral accent wall behind the couch (Behr color match of Martha Stewart’s Peony). The other walls are Mushroom by Ellen Kennon, an unassuming but absolutely gorgeous neutral. It looks different on virtually every wall depending on the lighting and what’s around it.

You can see some of the neutral color in the background; the walls closest to the accent wall pick up some of the coral. It is very warm and cozy. Like a hug.

I’ve also gained weight. There are no pictures of that, thankfully. I got off track on hitting the gym when I started going to the chiropractor. That, plus the rapidly disappearing metabolism thanks to being a woman in her mid-40, means that it’s even harder to keep the pounds off. Before I started at the gym, I was about 145. That was distressing enough, given that my “happy weight” was 135, a weight I’d maintained for almost 30 years. After I started at the gym, I got down to 139, but that went up quickly to 142. And now it’s 148. Well, 148.2, if you want the full truth. Sigh.

I had a party. I’d run into my crush and mentioned that I was thinking about having a glogg and nog party sometime in December and asked if he’d be interested. He was very excited about it and said he’d love to come, which basically sealed the deal for me. I was fifty-fifty about it before he suggested that he’d come, but after? Nothing was going to stop me. So I worked to fix up my place. I painted, re-covered the cushion of this great iron chair I rescued from the trash, hung some art, etc.

And then he couldn’t come. But back to the party: It was fine. I cooked a lot. The condo looked lovely (if I may so so myself). But in the end, I just don’t feel like I’m good at the whole party hosting thing. I plan to have another get-together when the weather warms up, but it’ll be a more casual affair.

I went home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. I saw Ren during my Thanksgiving visit. She actually greeted me at the door! That was a welcome surprise. She covered my neck with kisses, and she seemed stronger. I still visited her at her bedside, but it was wonderful to see her moving around much better. I called her today, as well, to wish her a happy new year. She sounded somewhat weaker, but compared with how she’s occasionally been in the last couple of years, she sounded good.

I realize that I’ve been writing about only surface stuff. Sometimes it’s easier (even if it isn’t healthier). Sometimes … well, sometimes it’s ’cause I’m filtering myself because there are people I know who read this. That will have to stop if I’m going to be true to the intent of this space. For now, though, bed. This chick’s gotta head to the gym in the morning.

Pendulum

September wore me out. The wild swings from bad to good to fucking awful left me drained.

The Bad

The month opened with a car repair that was quickly followed by the discovery that someone hit my car in a parking lot. Between all the repairs to my car, I spent just over $1,000 — money that I absolutely did not expect to spend.

This all happened the week just before two dear friends got married. Mind you, that in itself is good. No — it’s better than good, it’s fabulous. Truly. They are two of the most wonderful men I know. The bad is that I couldn’t go. Today, three weeks after the wedding of the century, it still makes me sick that I couldn’t go. I just didn’t have the money. And yes, I know in the long run, I made the right decision, especially since it turned out that I had surprise car repairs. It still sucked. I haven’t even been able to read the poem someone read during the ceremony. Or listen to the playlists one of the grooms burned for me. And as badly as I want to see photos, every time I look at their page on Facebook, I damn near cry. I feel like I failed them. (More on this later.)

The Good

I’m still in love. Totally, ridiculously head over heels in love. And no, I still haven’t said anything. I can’t, not yet. But he would be a fool not to be able to tell. And I think he likes me too. Now whether he likes me enough to actually go out with me, we’ll have to see when the time comes.

I had a surprise freelance job last week, and I have another next weekend. The one last week was a cookbook, so in addition to getting a much-needed extra check, I got some great recipes. The one next weekend is for The Big Deal Company, which has asked me for the third year in a row to do its annual report. I wish I could do more for them. Someday, perhaps.

One of my favorite people had a baby. A boy, AJ. He is precious. Very, very good.

It was also a month full of family. Kicking it off was a visit by my parents, who stopped through for a night before heading to Baltimore to go on a bus trip to Quebec City. My mother was in rare form, as she often is when she’s with my father. She’s like a child who has to show off. She was a bitch, is what I’m saying. My father can barely talk to me about … anything, really, without her shitting all over the conversation.

Yeah, I know that that wasn’t exactly good, but it leads to this: The next week, one of my cousins, Rick, stayed with me for a few days while waiting for a military hop to Germany to see his kids. He’s of the younger generation of cousins. He’s 15 years my junior, so he feels more like a nephew than a cousin. Anyway, it was fun getting to know him as a person — as a friend, really — instead of just a cousin I see occasionally. We discovered some surprising things we had in common. I was kind of sad when he finally got a flight out, despite also being glad to have my place back to myself.

He was still here when my parents stopped back by on their way back home the next weekend. It was good for him to be close to family, too, given what happened at the end of the month.

The Awful

There was a death. I have an uncle who has not been doing well, and recently he’s gotten worse. So we’ve been expecting him to go soon.

But that wasn’t who died. It was a cousin’s husband. A man I’ve known since I was a little girl took his own life on the 21st. Of every member of my family, through marriage or by blood, he was the one I least expected to do something like this. Not because he was ever the life of the party, but because he was also so calm and even-tempered. He and my cousin had been together since they were in junior high school. Really, even before then. It is still hard to believe.

I went down for the funeral Thursday. In the car at the cemetery, my parents, another cousin, and I were all talking about how shocking it was that he of all people would do this, how supportive he was to his wife as they helped take care of so many in their church. My father said something interesting: He was so busy taking care of other people that he didn’t take care of himself.

Which takes me back to the whole thing I said above about how I feel like I failed my friends. I do the same thing. I am so worried about others’ happiness that I often neglect my own. And by “often” I mean “always.” It’s why I feel like such a bad friend for missing the wedding earlier this month — I feel like I disappointed two people I care about. That I made the right decision for me (and my financial health) doesn’t seem to matter.

I have no one to take care of me. While my parents took care of the basics growing up — food, clothing, shelter — they failed miserably with emotional support. I’ve gone without it so long that I don’t know how to ask for it. And when it’s offered freely, I don’t know how to accept it — I don’t want to appear needy.

I don’t know how to fix this personality failing. And I don’t know how to end this post.

* * *

Anyway, September ended like it began: unpleasant. I stepped on a small nail last night (my fault; I left the board with the nails face up instead of face down), so this morning found me at a walk-in clinic to get a tetanus shot. Happy October!

Life Happens.

It’s been a while, I know. I have very good excuses, and I promise to catch up soon. It has been an eventful September; I have lots to share. Not all of it is good.

But I’m OK and will be back soon.

Taking the Plunge

This is not me:

… but I can relate.

I still remember my parents and their friends laughing. I was about 4 and had just slipped off a raft in the swimming pool and was flailing about trying, I suppose, not to drown. Apparently the extremity of my panic was amusing.

They had no idea how much that laughter would influence virtually everything I’ve done — or, rather, not done — the rest of my life. The things I would not try for fear of failing miserably and having people laugh at me.

Not long after that day in the pool, my father tried to get me to go float with him in the ocean. Remember, we lived in Cuba at the time. There’s “ocean” and then there’s “ocean in the Caribbean.” There is really nothing like that water — its clarity, its colorful array of oceanlife.

I refused, but my father, who swam like a fish, didn’t give up. “You can hold on to my back,” he said. “You won’t fall off.” When that didn’t work, he appealed to my curiosity about the pretty fishes swimming around my ankles. “Don’t you want to see what else is out there?” Yes, I screamed inside my head. Instead, I just shook my head stiffly. No.

Fucking fear.

It became obvious then that it was time for swimming lessons. I’m not sure how long they lasted, but I do remember the first day pretty well: I’d gone to take a shower either before or after my lesson and there beside me in the stall was a green lizard. While spotting lizards became a daily and sometimes eagerly anticipated activity, at the time I was still new to the island and seeing a lizard right there beside me was yet another thing to scare me that afternoon. A lizard and swimming lesson? No, thank you.

It would be 10 years before I tried again. I wasn’t excited about it. Instead, I was embarrassed. There I was, 14 years old and taking beginning swimming lessons again. I was sure I was going to be the oldest one in the group. Added to that was the fact that with my height, I looked even older. People at the pool are going to laugh at me, I thought. But I went.

There was another girl my age in class, so we became fast friends. Over the course of five days, I learned to float, kick, and get my swim on. It was glorious! This? This is what I’d been afraid of? It seemed ludicrous! But then came the last day when my swimming instructor, without having prepared us, told us to jump into the deep end. Just jump in and come up. Flashbacks to that moment 10 years before came flooding back. Panic set in. I watched everyone in my class do it, but when it was my turn, I jumped and swam across to the shallow end. My instructor told me, “You swam great, but that isn’t what I wanted you to do. Let’s try that again.”

Paralyzed with fear and, now, embarrassment, I refused. And in my fear, everything I had learned the last week — floating, kicking, swimming — left my head.

So for the next 30 years, I lingered on the edges of pools. Sitting on the side with my cute bathing suit, my freshly shaved legs dangling in the water. I would say things like, “I don’t want to mess up my hair.” When you’re a black woman, this is a valid explanation. (If you’re not black and don’t have (m)any black friends and therefore don’t understand this, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to explain here The Black Woman’s Many Hair Issues. But I will say this: Stop accepting that the hair you see on most black women in the media is their hair or the norm. It isn’t. Thanks to history and today’s notions of “ideal” beauty, it’s no surprise the black-hair-care industry is a multibillion-dollar one.)

About six years ago, I started getting the itch to take swimming lessons yet again. I asked a friend if she’d be interested in taking with me. No, she said. Maybe when she stopped wearing her weave she’d be able to do it. (She’s been wearing it for 10 years, and now has everyone convinced it’s hers. Waiting for her to take it out was no longer an option.) So then I asked another friend — who is not black and does not have Hair Issues — if she’d be interested. No, she said. She was too afraid and not knowing how to swim really didn’t matter to her. It became clear that if I wanted to do this, I’d have to do it alone.

I’d look online for classes but then chicken out. I had great excuses: No, they’re too far away. The hours aren’t good for work. No, they’re not just for adults and I want classes only for adults.

The itch started getting stronger when a friend of my mother’s, a popular newscaster in our hometown, learned to swim at 45. “If she can do it, and do it so publicly,” I told myself, “surely I can do it.” And so the magic age of 45 was imprinted on my brain. I did not want to turn 45 and not know how to swim. And, frankly, I was tired of being a stereotype. Besides, I knew I could swim because I’d done it before.

I found some private lessons by a Red Cross instructor. He’s even written books on the subject. One of his locations was close to my condo, in a hotel swimming pool sans a deep end. Perfect! So despite my fear — and worst, my embarrassment — I showed up for my first class. And my second. And my third and fourth.

During the fourth class, he informed me that it was his last class at that location. The hotel was no longer allowing him to teach there. Too many students, or some such rot. For my fifth and final class, I would have to go to his other location, in D.C. The one with the deep end. Which, he said, I needed.

I was annoyed. I hate the unfamiliar. And I didn’t want to have to go “all the way” to D.C. And while the inconvenience of the location was somewhat valid, it wasn’t the real reason. Underlying all that was my old friend Fear. That deep end and my last experience loomed large.

But there I was yesterday, doing my drills. After completing my kickboard drill the length of the pool, there was my instructor beside me in the deep end saying, “See? You did it: You swam in deep water.” I played down my accomplishment (self-deprecation is my superpower, after all). “Yeah,” I answered, “but I had the kickboard …”

He wouldn’t have it. “Doesn’t matter. Look where you are.”

“Yeah. Clinging to the edge of the pool,” I joked.

“We’ll get you there. Now grab your board and finish your drill.”

And so I did.

I worked on my other drills, not venturing too far. My crawl isn’t that strong yet — mostly because I forget to breathe, which is apparently important in swimming — but I got in a fair amount of practice.

Before the end, however, he had to prove to me and my classmate (a nice young man more frightened than I was when I started) that the deep end wasn’t that big a deal. So he had us hold onto the edge while explaining that he would be dunking us. “Flap your arms, push yourself up, breathe, level off, swim two strokes to the side.” Once, twice, three times. Done.

“OK, Veronica. Good.  Now I want you to stand on the side and jump in.”

Blank stare.

“You can do it.”

“You want me to voluntarily jump in?”

“Yep.”

“You know … you know I’m afraid, right?”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. You just did it.”

“No, I didn’t. You dunked me.”

“Yeah, but it’s the same thing. In fact, I dunked you farther down than you’ll be when you jump in.”

I pulled myself out of the pool and stood there.

“OK,” he said. “Toes over the edge.”

I walked up to the edge. Curled my toes over.

“OK. Now take one leg and jump in.”

I took one leg, stuck it out, and … pulled it back in. “Wait,” I said.

“I’m right here,” he reminded me. “You’re going to do it and you’re going to want to do it again.”

I took one leg, stuck it out, and jumped.

Flapped my arms, bobbed to the surface, leveled off, swam to the edge.

And you know what? He was right: I wanted to do it again. And I did.

Crush.

I’ve got a crush on someone. It’s been a while since I’ve had one like this. Sure, there has been the occasional guy who’s made me look twice, given me that extra pep in my step.

But this? This is ridiculous.

Before I see him, I tell myself to calm down, to keep it together. But when I hear his voice? It’s all over. We have this amazing rapport. It’s like we’re old friends. And when he looks at me …

And before you suggest that I make a move on this guy, there’s a reason I haven’t. No, he’s not married — I’m not trying to break up someone’s relationship. But there is a valid reason.

Is he interested in me? I don’t know. I definitely think he finds me attractive, but I’m not sure if the thought of something more has crossed his mind. Sometimes I definitely think so, but then I worry that I’m seeing things through the fog of my lust, which softens the edges of every interaction.

The other night, I was so lost in thought from thinking about him that I put a pot holder in the trash can instead of the bin on the shelf. I didn’t realize it until the next day, when I went to throw something away and there it was, sitting up top and gloating.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll get to be in his company, but until I’m not, I’m going to enjoy this feeling. The thrill, the giddiness. It’s been a long time.

* * *

In other news, I’m feeling pretty well. Mom Week 2011 was a success. I kept things fairly low-key, and that helped a lot with my stress level. (You can’t get stressed over planning if you don’t plan anything.) My health is OK. My neck stuff flared up again recently, but I’m seeing a chiropractor and that seems to be helping. And it’s helping the lower back stuff, thankfully. The last injection has started wearing off (already!), so I picked a good time to go get help. I’m not 100 percent, but I do feel better.

Work is work. No complaints there. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I’m thankful as I always am for having a job. I haven’t had any freelance work in a while, but that’s OK.

I’ve been sewing. I recently made something so cute that when I took it to work to show it off, a coworker offered to pay me to do one for her. So I’ve been working on that. I’m definitely more at peace when I’m creating something. And I’m thinking about taking an art class in November that will be taught by a woman I met at the beach birthday bash in May. She’ll be teaching a workshop about an hour away, so I’m going to try to take advantage of that opportunity.

For now, though, I’m going to bed, where I’ll fall asleep thinking of my crush.

The Sweetest Dog I Ever Knew

I’ve tried to curb the “woe is me” posts, but it is what it is.

Not long after my last post, Daisy, our family dog, started failing. My parents and I had that unfortunate conversation about when to do “it.” My father scheduled the appointment for June 4, and I made plans to head down the night before so that I could spend some quality time with her.

And then the next day she was better. She was moving around more and begging for treats like her old self. The governor (my mother) told the warden (my father) to cancel the appointment. On the day of what would’ve been her last, my father took her to the vet to get checked. The vet discovered polyps around her heart and an enlarged liver — all this in addition to the cancer she was diagnosed with back in January. Still, the vet said, she probably still had a few months to go.

Except that she didn’t. The next Sunday, June 12, she … (I’m sorry, it’s hard to type this) … she took a turn for the worse. She’d slept upstairs with my mother all night, something she rarely does. She usually ended up in my father’s bedroom, or, during my visit home, in mine. My mother got up expecting Daisy to wake up with her to get her morning treat; it had been their routine for years. She didn’t. So my mother called her name. Daisy woke up but didn’t really make any move to follow her. My mother headed downstairs to the kitchen, a short trip of six steps, and when she was halfway down, Daisy, who had decided to tag along after all, took a few steps down and then tumbled the rest of the way.

She seemed dazed, but uninjured, and went to one of her spots to lie down. But then the groaning started. About once every minute or two, she’d lift her head and make this short but heartbreaking groan. My mother called me immediately and told me I needed to get home. It was time.

While I made the three-hour trip, my parents worked to keep her as comfortable as possible, and my father went to the local emergency animal hospital for help. Our original plan was to get something from them for pain to get our Daisy through the night so that we could take her to her regular vet, a place we used for 17 years with our first dog and all 12 of the years we had Daisy. For the last few years, Daisy had a standing appointment with them for her “spa” day. Every other Thursday, my father would drop her off, and after greeting everyone there, Daisy would, on her own, head to the back to her crate for a bath, maybe a haircut, and lots of hugs and kisses from the staff. When it was time to go, Daisy would go to everyone to say goodbye and politely take her dog biscuit … which she would surreptitiously deposit outside. She wasn’t a fan of dog biscuits but she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by not accepting them.

So of course it made sense to us to have her final moments there. But life doesn’t always work according to plan.

I checked in with my parents about an hour or so away. Daisy was still groaning a few seconds every minute or so. We weren’t about to make that sweet dog wait 24 hours for relief. For release. The decision was made to take her to the emergency vet after I arrived.

When I got home, she was curled up on the floor in the den, not quite asleep but quiet. I got down on the floor with her. She picked up my scent and lifted her head at the recognition. And — O God! — she wagged her little nubbin of a tail and kissed my nose. The thought of that moment still brings me to tears.

I scooped her up in her blanket, and off we went. In the backseat I laid her on my chest with her head against my heart, like I did when she was a puppy. My mother jokes that that was how we ended up with her — I spoiled her so much when I dog-sat her that her former owner had no choice but to give her to us.

Mercifully the emergency vet is only about five minutes from my parents’ house. Still, with Daisy occasionally groaning, it felt like we’d never get there. Once we got there, the vet realized the situation and took care of us as quickly, and as compassionately, as possible.

I kissed her till the end.

We all still miss her terribly. Mornings are hardest for my dad. They had their own routine every day: He’d wash her face, put in her eye drops, give her a vitamin, maybe change her scarf. Before her arthritis got bad, she’d join him for a ride to 7-11 for coffee and then to Walmart. And she’d hang with him most of the day, and sleep with him at night. My mom’s mornings started with Daisy coming to get her first treat of the day — often with Daisy “talking” and telling her to get up out of the bed right now.

As for me, Daisy’s alpha “dog,” I still find myself crying when I think about it all. (I’ve gone through many tissues writing this post.) But I’m grateful, too, for the gift of her. She brought so much joy to our household and to others. She mellowed my father in ways I never expected. When my aunt was diagnosed with cancer and stayed with my parents, Daisy would lie beside her whenever she called out in pain, until my aunt finally fell back asleep. She never growled, she never snapped. She rarely barked. She was so gentle that even during playtime, she couldn’t bring herself to “play bite.” She brought joy to everyone she encountered. Her prettiness is what drew folks in, but it was her gentleness that lingered with them and made them fall in love. She was without a doubt the sweetest dog I ever knew.

Happy Anniversary!

One year ago today I signed the settlement papers for my home. This home.

A year later, I’m still in awe at how everything came together to get me here. And at the risk of sounding like a sentimental fool, I must confess that I still find myself standing in the middle of one room or another saying thank you, thank you, thank you! I am still so grateful. For being here. For those who helped me. For how things seemed to miraculously fall into place all to get me here. Even now, almost a year after I moved in, I often place my palm on the wall behind me when I go to bed, to orient myself, to prove that I am indeed here.

Here.

In my home.

It’s taken me a while to feel at home, though. For the first few months I maintained this place like a museum to the previous owner. It wasn’t until just this year that I realized I could paint the inside of my pantry closet door. (It’s Martha Stewart’s yam, by the way.) And it wasn’t until just last month that I decided that it is OK to paint over the two turquoise accent walls in the living/dining area. Not that I don’t like the color. It’s just not me, and it’s too difficult to decorate around the color with things.

One of my biggest joys is still enjoying the morning sun. And as my body has decided it needs less sleep and I’m waking up earlier and earlier, I have more time to enjoy it. I grab some OJ and head outside for a bit. And since the days are longer courtesy Daylight Savings Time, I get to enjoy the occasional dinner out there as well. I’ve even got a nice assortment of plants and flowers to keep me company.

Now to work on my Self with the same diligence (and faith) that I had for this home. It’s been hard. But that’s a post for another day. For now, I am just so grateful to be in a home I love so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

A Fine Time

Once, a few years ago, I flipped through some old journals, going as far back as those from 8th and 9th grade. Two things became abundantly clear. First, I live a fairly boring life. Second, virtually every post regarded money, my (crappy) love life, or my parents. The only things that seemed to change were the date and, at least as far as the love life was concerned, the names.

Things haven’t changed much: I’m still dealing with money, I’m still looking (yearning?) for love, and I’m still working through parental drama.

You might be wondering why I’m bringing this up. Well, it’s because after a while, even I get tired of hearing it. That’s why I’ve been away. I needed a break from me. I’ve barely even written in my real journal.

So what’s been going on? I’m still going to the gym fairly regularly. Getting myself out of bed and into the car is the hardest part, but once I get to the gym, I’m good to go. I do 20 to 30 minutes of cardio and then some weight resistance stuff. My jeans fit better and my belt fits again.

My back still sucks. The doc says it’s a facet joint that’s causing the pain. I had some injections about a month ago (they didn’t do much for the pain), and I’m supposed to get an epidural in a few weeks. I’m not thrilled about this. I’m nervous about the injection, and I’m depressed thinking that I will have this pain for the rest of my life.

In other news, I’ve hit my hometown twice in the last month. The last time I went home twice in such a short span of time was for a funeral. I’m happy to report that that was not the case this time. No, this time was to celebrate a friend who turns the big 5-0 this month. Her husband came up with the fabulous idea of a house party on the beach, and I was one of the lucky guests. I’d planned to visit this past weekend, but when I got the invitation for the party, which was Mother’s Day weekend, I knew I had to go to that too.

The house was huge. Because I got there fairly early, I had many bedrooms to choose from. It goes without saying that I picked one facing the ocean. Each floor had its own deck. This was the view from my floor:

Before I hit the beach, however, I surprised Ren, calling her from her driveway. Our visit was brief as I didn’t want to tire her out. All visits are now at bedside. She’d fallen again recently, and her face bore the bruises still.

I am grateful for that visit. This past weekend, when I went back down, she was too tired to see anyone.

Why, exactly, did I go back so soon? At 44, I know my mother very well. Even though I spent Mother’s Day with her and stayed the night (which meant I had to get up early Monday to drive three-plus hours to get to work), I know she didn’t consider that visit a “real” visit since I’d spent one night with friends. (Imagine!) So back down I went.

The weather was sublime. Thursday was uneventful. I was scheduled to see Ren on Friday, but then I got the call that she was too tired, so my mother and I … you know what? I don’t remember what we did Friday — isn’t that hilarious? Saturday, though, was a nice, full day. After a quick trip to Sandbridge, we found ourselves in the Virginia Beach countryside picking strawberries. The air was heavy with their sweet scent. There’s really nothing quite like picking strawberries on a sunny afternoon.

Luscious:

After the berry extravaganza, we had pedicures, got dolled up, and headed to an exhibition opening/book-signing. That friend who turns 50 this month? Yeah, she wrote a book. And she had a piece of art in the exhibition. (I have some ridiculously talented/successful friends. And then there’s me. I predict there will be a post about that at some point.) All in all, it was a fine time.

Reality Bites

Earlier this year my parents and I got some sad news: Our family dog has cancer. She’s 13 and a half, hard of hearing, and slightly blind, so we’re all of one accord on not taking drastic measures to prolong her life when the time comes. I mentioned briefly a few months ago that I had received some sad news but have avoided following up because I don’t want to think about it. I still don’t. We are crushed.

So why mention it now? Because the same thing is happening with Ren. She’s not well, and I’m having a hard time dealing with that reality. Last Tuesday morning I awoke from a dream in which she was sick — very sick. I was desperate to see her, but her sister, whom I’ve never met, was trying to keep me out of her room. I finally managed to get in just in time for her to plant one last kiss on my cheek.

The kiss woke me up. I was overcome with the need to hear her voice, so I called before heading to work. She answered on the fifth ring. She sounded weak. Frail. She confessed that she was sick and she cut the call short. I convinced myself that she wasn’t that sick. That she probably just had a cold or something. After all, if it had been terribly serious, our mutual friend would’ve dropped me an e-mail to let me know. Right?

On Wednesday I had another dream, this time of DC. It was one of his visits. It was a great visit — we reenacted our first kiss. But when I woke up I remembered that this wasn’t the first time that I’ve dreamed of Ren and DC in the same week. It unnerved me then; it unnerved me this time. All this death, past and possible.

The dread lingered, so yesterday I e-mailed Ren’s and my mutual friend just so that she could put my fears aside. Only she didn’t. She was very honest in telling me that this amazing, vibrant woman we have loved for so long is failing, and quickly. She cautioned me to not be surprised if she didn’t know who I was the next time I called. People she’s known for decades are lost to her memory. She’s suffering from severe back problems and is now using a cane or a walker. And she stays in bed most days. Ren tells people that she doesn’t think she’ll make it to her next birthday.

I started to shake. Tears filled my eyes. I was at work when I read this — a good thing since it kept me from completely falling apart — and was again overcome with the need to talk to Ren immediately. So I called. She sounded stronger and, thank God, she knew exactly who I was. I told her that I was thinking about her and that I hoped she was feeling better. She seemed delighted at the call.

And then she proceeded to tell me things that one would say to another during a last conversation. How much she loved me. How much she’s treasured our friendship. It’s not that she hasn’t said these things to me before. But this time? There was a sense of urgency. A forcefulness to her tone, like she was engraving the words on my soul.

I must’ve told her I love her a dozen times before I hung up, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. I sat at my desk and cried.

* * *

When we got the news about Daisy’s cancer earlier this year, I thought to myself, “This is just the beginning. Things are moving, shifting. This year isn’t done with me yet.” I tried to chalk it up to the realization that I’m in my mid-40s and that people in my life are of viable, dieable ages. But the sense of foreboding is too great. It scares me, so much so that I had to force myself to write these words here. I want to escape my skin.

Sometimes this world is too much for me.