Or is it the other way around?
I have known Barry for many years. We met at the gym, back when I was spending there, at least 3 hours daily. He is tall, dark, handsome and muscular. A regular at the gym, always a gentleman and always hanging out with the hottest women there.
I talk too much. Therefore it is easy for me to conclude certain people are not just "men of few words," but simply, non talkative at all.
I noticed that Barry had trouble expressing himself verbally, but I did not give it a second thought. That is how a spoiled, popular, shallow female behaves. She thinks the Universe revolves around her. I am ashamed to say, I was somewhat like that. Not as bad, as the really beautiful women behave, but I was not a role model for a good person.
Barry, on the other hand, was and still is, the kindest, friendliest, easiest to get along person.
I found out that along his regular job, he was a handyman. He painted my house more than once. He repaired countless little things that went wrong in the house, after my husband's departure. Barry fixed my flower bed, straightened out the bricks that surrounded the flowers and made it pretty, just to please me.
He had his regular job, of course, so I had to acquire eventually a full time handy man. But, until then, Barry was always there, fixing something or other.
It was not all that easy. You see, Barry is a deaf/mute. He learned how to read lips. I am a foreigner. Even to a deaf person, I sound speaking with an accent. It was frustrating to both of us. I was trying to speak slowly, placing my tongue and lips as precisely as I could, for him to understand. He was paying extra attention to my mouth, trying to figure out, what I was trying to tell him.
In hind side, it was comical. I remember how loudly I shouted, with the hope he would understand me.
He tried so hard to speak clearly and curse me only in sign language.
At the end of the day, we somehow achieved, what we had started and we would eat dinner in silence at the back porch.
I do not know how, but I remember, we were laughing at jokes we had just shared. Between "legitimate" sign language he used and I never learned, "auto improvised" sign language by me, using every part of my body, we somehow communicated and gossiped, laughed, shared some precious moments together.
I lost touch with him, when he started dating a married lady, who also did work in my house. She also did my hair, every so often. The whole situation was getting too "sticky" for me. I withdrew from both of them.
I was very surprised to see him even in a night club a couple of times, trying to dance. His lover's husband was the DJ. Boy, is life the biggest story teller, or what?
Years passed and I saw Barry, after I started going to my old gym. It was after I got diagnosed with advanced stage cancer, but I was getting better.
I looked of course like a corpse, after 2 surgeries and chemo. He just had some gray hair.
We cought up with each other's life and he gave me his number.
I went through the coma, the rehab. and the final statement from the doctors that I am dying within a year or so.
I shared all these things with Barry. He never lost his nerve. He did not make an extra effort to understand. He was just there. I did not try sign language to communicate with him. Somehow, he understands everything.
He brings me something that I need a lot of:joy. Now that I need him the most, he understands me the most. He visits and plays music that he thinks, I might like. He even tries to dance with me, because he knows that I get annoyed, when I dance with people, who do not how to dance structurally. He thinks it is funny, annoying me. It actually is, the way he does it.
He came to the ER, when I ended up there, bleeding one night. No one was at hand. Another friend, supposedly "real" friend, old lover, left me there, with no explanation. I asked him to come and keep me company, because I was scared. He was available, he said he would stop by, but he reneged. He never showed up. Barry, a casual friend, dropped everything and came.
He was listening carefully to what the doctors were saying to make sure he understood and transfer the information to me, when my head would be clear. And he did. And I understood.
Barry, finally understands everything. He brings me joy with his silence. He makes me feel less alone with his presence. He feels my pain and he simply tries to do, what he can, easier and better for me.
We finally understand each other perfectly. God is good.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Saturday, March 3, 2012
....and we kept on dancing.......
I have a very poor imagination. When I first read someplace, that Oscar Wilde made a comment, what a deep flaw that was, I was depressed for days.
I could never sit down and come up with a totally beautiful tale of romance, drama, funny story, nothing original. I am simply dried up and devoid of imagination.
Then, I am one of those individuals, who had a sign outside their bedroom door hanging and reading "DEATH BEFORE BOREDOM." Does everybody see the inconsistency here?
Thank God, Somebody up there took care of the problem early on, by giving me a life that resembled a soap opera. Ever since I can remember, I did not have to try too hard to entertain myself. Something was always happening to impress me. Real life was always more interesting than fiction to me. It had more of everything, from funny to supremely sad moments, surreal and unusual incidents, name it, it was happening at one point or another.
Last night was one of those moments. The whole evening unfolded so smoothly, with such perfection of details, that if I were not there, I would bet that somebody made it up. It was a scene out of those Romance novels. I can not stop thinking about it. I may have become too melodramatic with middle age and battling cancer every day. I still think, you will find it, at least poignant, bitter sweet and a guilty pleasure, snooping into somebody else's deep emotions, while an incident was taking place, transporting them to the past and mirroring their future.
I have been working extra hard recently, despite the fact that I am not supposed to. I need a great deal of money, because my health maintenance is an expensive ordeal. I had decided that Friday evening was going to be the day that I would decompress. I was invited to a formal ball and it had been a long time, since I had attended one of those. For somebody, whose biggest joy in life is ballroom dancing, you understand, what that meant to me. PAAAAARTY!!!!!!!!!!
I love the whole ritual; from the moment I start putting the make up on, to hair and finally the dress and accessories. The whole preparation, is such a beautiful routine to me. These days it is a bit cumbersome, tiring, but I still enjoy it. This time, instinctively, I got out of the closet a gown, that I wore only once before, years and years ago. My custom made, engagement party, gown. I wore it for my formal engagement, Christmas Day, when I was 17 years old. It was a great party my father gave me back then. I did not enjoy a moment of it. I felt I was being sold to slavery that night. The gown and the memories of that night, were locked in some dark place in a closet.
Last night, I felt a yearning for that particular dress. I dug it out and I admired it's sustained beauty. It is a real old fashioned ballroom dress, with the all the glamor and sparkle that goes with that. The "dusty rose" color was faded slightly, but the rest was perfect. I am terribly thin now. I was not that thin then, but it was barely fitting my tiny waist. The theory that after 40, all your fat is being carried around your waistline, was proven true.
It still looked smashing, with the appropriate soft make up, the pulled up hair and the rest, that made me look and feel like a princess. Heads turned and people wanted to know, where the dress came from and all that stuff that take place in a fancy ballroom affair.
I danced mostly the "elegant" dances, as in Waltz, Tango, Rumba and some Foxtrot. The dress was not appropriate for the cha-cha or the other Latin, fast dances.
In the next room, there was another formal affair taking place. Being curious and slightly bored after a while, I wondered in the ballroom next door. It turned out, a Greek festivity was being celebrated. The orchestra was playing only Greek songs, mainly from the islands, because those ones are the dances of courtship. There were professional dancers dressed in Greek, traditional attire and they were executing dances from different Greek regions. I used to dance all those dances while in high school. Our little dance co. was touring Greece, ever since I can remember.
I walked in, uninvited. I am Greek, what would they say, if they caught me "Get out of our festivities?" Their festivities, are MY festivities too.
I sat on a chair, right at the edge of the dancing floor, watching and clapping while the professionals were performing. When they finished, the guests took over the floor. Still, most of the people on the dance floor seemed that they knew what they were doing. They were not improvising too much. And then....
I saw this dashing figure, making his way across the dancing floor, avoiding carefully the other dancers and kept on coming towards my direction. I could make out that his eyes were glued on me and he was smiling. When he came closer, I recognized him from my days, when I was living in New York. The same impressive EVERYTHING, that as a youngster, I had such a crush on him. His hair was gray, but full, wavy and beautiful, as ever. His dark, double breasted, expensive suit, fit perfectly his still, very athletic physique. His green eyes were hooded a bit more and had beautiful expression lines around them.
My heart started pumping faster, because I recognized him. I always admired him from afar. We knew of each other, but we were not even friends. Just distant acquaintances.
He came closer and closer and without saying a word, he offered me the "handkerchief," the Greek way of asking somebody to lead the dancing circle.
I took it and I followed him, while he placed me in front of everybody and he was holding the other end of the handkerchief. Once we started dancing and people noticed we REALLY knew what we were doing, they left us alone in the middle of the circle, so that we could execute all the fancy steps of the "courtship" dance.
"How are you?" he screamed from the top of his voice, while he had his arms around my shoulders.
"I am dying from cancer" I answered dryly, as if I was saying, "fine."
He stopped dancing. He stopped smiling. He drew me closer and asked me to confirm what I said.
"I am dying from cancer," I repeated.
He stayed immobile for a minute. Then he hugged me so tight, I thought he was going to suffocate me. I looked at his face and he was crying.
"Don't cry, do not ask any questions right now. Go back to your table, to your wife, your friends and do not discuss it, please. Not, now. Just be grateful for your life."
He kissed me on my cheek for the longest time, while holding me tightly. Just before he walked off the floor, he whispered in my ear "You will be fine, otherwise, nothing makes sense. You were always the gold standard. That never dies."
I appreciate the vote of confidence. But the gold standard has died in many places of the world.
I can always be the exception.
He walked away and the rest of us kept on dancing.....
I could never sit down and come up with a totally beautiful tale of romance, drama, funny story, nothing original. I am simply dried up and devoid of imagination.
Then, I am one of those individuals, who had a sign outside their bedroom door hanging and reading "DEATH BEFORE BOREDOM." Does everybody see the inconsistency here?
Thank God, Somebody up there took care of the problem early on, by giving me a life that resembled a soap opera. Ever since I can remember, I did not have to try too hard to entertain myself. Something was always happening to impress me. Real life was always more interesting than fiction to me. It had more of everything, from funny to supremely sad moments, surreal and unusual incidents, name it, it was happening at one point or another.
Last night was one of those moments. The whole evening unfolded so smoothly, with such perfection of details, that if I were not there, I would bet that somebody made it up. It was a scene out of those Romance novels. I can not stop thinking about it. I may have become too melodramatic with middle age and battling cancer every day. I still think, you will find it, at least poignant, bitter sweet and a guilty pleasure, snooping into somebody else's deep emotions, while an incident was taking place, transporting them to the past and mirroring their future.
I have been working extra hard recently, despite the fact that I am not supposed to. I need a great deal of money, because my health maintenance is an expensive ordeal. I had decided that Friday evening was going to be the day that I would decompress. I was invited to a formal ball and it had been a long time, since I had attended one of those. For somebody, whose biggest joy in life is ballroom dancing, you understand, what that meant to me. PAAAAARTY!!!!!!!!!!
I love the whole ritual; from the moment I start putting the make up on, to hair and finally the dress and accessories. The whole preparation, is such a beautiful routine to me. These days it is a bit cumbersome, tiring, but I still enjoy it. This time, instinctively, I got out of the closet a gown, that I wore only once before, years and years ago. My custom made, engagement party, gown. I wore it for my formal engagement, Christmas Day, when I was 17 years old. It was a great party my father gave me back then. I did not enjoy a moment of it. I felt I was being sold to slavery that night. The gown and the memories of that night, were locked in some dark place in a closet.
Last night, I felt a yearning for that particular dress. I dug it out and I admired it's sustained beauty. It is a real old fashioned ballroom dress, with the all the glamor and sparkle that goes with that. The "dusty rose" color was faded slightly, but the rest was perfect. I am terribly thin now. I was not that thin then, but it was barely fitting my tiny waist. The theory that after 40, all your fat is being carried around your waistline, was proven true.
It still looked smashing, with the appropriate soft make up, the pulled up hair and the rest, that made me look and feel like a princess. Heads turned and people wanted to know, where the dress came from and all that stuff that take place in a fancy ballroom affair.
I danced mostly the "elegant" dances, as in Waltz, Tango, Rumba and some Foxtrot. The dress was not appropriate for the cha-cha or the other Latin, fast dances.
In the next room, there was another formal affair taking place. Being curious and slightly bored after a while, I wondered in the ballroom next door. It turned out, a Greek festivity was being celebrated. The orchestra was playing only Greek songs, mainly from the islands, because those ones are the dances of courtship. There were professional dancers dressed in Greek, traditional attire and they were executing dances from different Greek regions. I used to dance all those dances while in high school. Our little dance co. was touring Greece, ever since I can remember.
I walked in, uninvited. I am Greek, what would they say, if they caught me "Get out of our festivities?" Their festivities, are MY festivities too.
I sat on a chair, right at the edge of the dancing floor, watching and clapping while the professionals were performing. When they finished, the guests took over the floor. Still, most of the people on the dance floor seemed that they knew what they were doing. They were not improvising too much. And then....
I saw this dashing figure, making his way across the dancing floor, avoiding carefully the other dancers and kept on coming towards my direction. I could make out that his eyes were glued on me and he was smiling. When he came closer, I recognized him from my days, when I was living in New York. The same impressive EVERYTHING, that as a youngster, I had such a crush on him. His hair was gray, but full, wavy and beautiful, as ever. His dark, double breasted, expensive suit, fit perfectly his still, very athletic physique. His green eyes were hooded a bit more and had beautiful expression lines around them.
My heart started pumping faster, because I recognized him. I always admired him from afar. We knew of each other, but we were not even friends. Just distant acquaintances.
He came closer and closer and without saying a word, he offered me the "handkerchief," the Greek way of asking somebody to lead the dancing circle.
I took it and I followed him, while he placed me in front of everybody and he was holding the other end of the handkerchief. Once we started dancing and people noticed we REALLY knew what we were doing, they left us alone in the middle of the circle, so that we could execute all the fancy steps of the "courtship" dance.
"How are you?" he screamed from the top of his voice, while he had his arms around my shoulders.
"I am dying from cancer" I answered dryly, as if I was saying, "fine."
He stopped dancing. He stopped smiling. He drew me closer and asked me to confirm what I said.
"I am dying from cancer," I repeated.
He stayed immobile for a minute. Then he hugged me so tight, I thought he was going to suffocate me. I looked at his face and he was crying.
"Don't cry, do not ask any questions right now. Go back to your table, to your wife, your friends and do not discuss it, please. Not, now. Just be grateful for your life."
He kissed me on my cheek for the longest time, while holding me tightly. Just before he walked off the floor, he whispered in my ear "You will be fine, otherwise, nothing makes sense. You were always the gold standard. That never dies."
I appreciate the vote of confidence. But the gold standard has died in many places of the world.
I can always be the exception.
He walked away and the rest of us kept on dancing.....
Friday, March 2, 2012
I HAVE A REQUEST!!!!!
I am writing this text in a bold color with the hope that I will attract the reaction that I am looking for.
I am very grateful, pleased, flattered and I have a sense of accomplishment, when I receive comments, about what I am writing on the blog. The problem is, that they are done mostly in person.
Part of my daily routine is to visit, when time or energy levels permit, institutions with people afflicted by cancer or other very difficult diseases. I go to hospices and I do not do much, because I can't, due to my own difficult situation. My main mission is to make them feel remembered. To put a smile on their face. To celebrate somebody's birthday by "butchering" a dance or two in their honor.
Yesterday in specific, because it is 2:20AM EST right now, I visited a hospice, where I am rather popular.
An older gentleman, named Norm, confined in a wheelchair, stopped me while, I was passing through the isles.
"Darling, before you leave tonight, will you please read to me, even for 5 minutes?" he was almost pleading with me.
When we do not have other activities, one of my contributions there, is reading or simply visiting and talking to patients, about anything, they desire. Many of them expressed this wish. Many phrased it in the usual cliche "read to me, even if you are reading, from the package of a toothpaste, as long we can listen to your voice."
Yesterday, Norm was holding my hand, kissed the palm of it, not the top and he put his request in this way.
"Kalli, you have not written often enough recently. But, even worse, I miss your video blogging more. Because then, I do not need anybody to read to me. I put your voice, next to my pillow and I fall asleep listening to you. Will you please, put a smile on my face before you leave? I want to know that the last thing, before I go with Morpheus tonight, will be your voice."
I am aware that many of these people love my voice and my accent more than what I am saying, even though they deny it vehemently. Many discuss what I am writing and it pleases me, when I see them touched. I was wondering, why they never bothered to leave a comment, never mind becoming followers; that last one is not that important. But, I would have loved to hear everybody's comments, every time. I can not be there to hear it in person.
I found out, after a bit of asking and digging around, there were two main reasons.
The first I understood and empathized a great deal, because I suffer from it too. Intimidation from technology. In the past, I tried to leave comments in other people's blogs and I had to give up in frustration, because many steps were involved and something or other would go wrong and I ended up with my opinion unexpressed and me just frustrated.
So I gave up, more than once.
The second reason, was and still is to me, surprising and somewhat fascinating, because I can not identify. The common denominator for the reason that people avoided leaving comments, even though they were dying to get a hold of me, to tell me their opinion in person, was the fact that the subject matter, even funny many times, deals with CANCER. They do not want to admit in "black and white" staring at them, that they are suffering from the same problem that I am. It is OK to read stories and incidents about it, as long as they are not involved.
That is why they admire my courage, as they put it, to talk so openly about it. I asked a doctor and a brief explanation he gave me was that, by not talking about it, they think they deny the situation and they hide from it.
Well ladies and gentlemen, who are reading this. First, as I said before, I can not meet and talk to each one of you individually and discuss, what I am writing in these pages. I wish I could, I would not mind; it is logistically impossible. Secondly, what is wrong, in admitting we are ill? There is no shame to it.
I made the vow to everybody out there to be honest, uncensored, raw and real. I promised to allow my pain to show, my goofiness not to stop me from sharing some silly things that I do. I promised to share my desperate and joyful moments, days and incidents.
I understand the intimidation coming from the technology, which is foreign to us. But, if I can do it, so can you.
If I am willing to open up to you so much, I would love a bit of reciprocation. Make me feel less lonely in this difficult journey. You make me so happy, when you tell me in person, how much you admire me for being me. Tell me in the comment section too, please.
My challenges will feel lighter, if I know that you are out there, supporting me mentally.
If my voice or a thought of a silly deed of mine, puts a smile on your face, let me know. If my pain reaches you and a tear drop falls, let me know. It is only fair. I need your support too. I am alone and scared. But I came to terms with my fate. I am not hiding from it. I am just living day by day, trying to do my best with my time and, if I know there are so many of you behind me, I grow wings.
So, please do not hide in the shadows. Every so often, just push that button that says "comments" and say anything at all, even if it is anything as simple as, "keep on going Kalli, we are with you."
Thank you.
I am very grateful, pleased, flattered and I have a sense of accomplishment, when I receive comments, about what I am writing on the blog. The problem is, that they are done mostly in person.
Part of my daily routine is to visit, when time or energy levels permit, institutions with people afflicted by cancer or other very difficult diseases. I go to hospices and I do not do much, because I can't, due to my own difficult situation. My main mission is to make them feel remembered. To put a smile on their face. To celebrate somebody's birthday by "butchering" a dance or two in their honor.
Yesterday in specific, because it is 2:20AM EST right now, I visited a hospice, where I am rather popular.
An older gentleman, named Norm, confined in a wheelchair, stopped me while, I was passing through the isles.
"Darling, before you leave tonight, will you please read to me, even for 5 minutes?" he was almost pleading with me.
When we do not have other activities, one of my contributions there, is reading or simply visiting and talking to patients, about anything, they desire. Many of them expressed this wish. Many phrased it in the usual cliche "read to me, even if you are reading, from the package of a toothpaste, as long we can listen to your voice."
Yesterday, Norm was holding my hand, kissed the palm of it, not the top and he put his request in this way.
"Kalli, you have not written often enough recently. But, even worse, I miss your video blogging more. Because then, I do not need anybody to read to me. I put your voice, next to my pillow and I fall asleep listening to you. Will you please, put a smile on my face before you leave? I want to know that the last thing, before I go with Morpheus tonight, will be your voice."
I am aware that many of these people love my voice and my accent more than what I am saying, even though they deny it vehemently. Many discuss what I am writing and it pleases me, when I see them touched. I was wondering, why they never bothered to leave a comment, never mind becoming followers; that last one is not that important. But, I would have loved to hear everybody's comments, every time. I can not be there to hear it in person.
I found out, after a bit of asking and digging around, there were two main reasons.
The first I understood and empathized a great deal, because I suffer from it too. Intimidation from technology. In the past, I tried to leave comments in other people's blogs and I had to give up in frustration, because many steps were involved and something or other would go wrong and I ended up with my opinion unexpressed and me just frustrated.
So I gave up, more than once.
The second reason, was and still is to me, surprising and somewhat fascinating, because I can not identify. The common denominator for the reason that people avoided leaving comments, even though they were dying to get a hold of me, to tell me their opinion in person, was the fact that the subject matter, even funny many times, deals with CANCER. They do not want to admit in "black and white" staring at them, that they are suffering from the same problem that I am. It is OK to read stories and incidents about it, as long as they are not involved.
That is why they admire my courage, as they put it, to talk so openly about it. I asked a doctor and a brief explanation he gave me was that, by not talking about it, they think they deny the situation and they hide from it.
Well ladies and gentlemen, who are reading this. First, as I said before, I can not meet and talk to each one of you individually and discuss, what I am writing in these pages. I wish I could, I would not mind; it is logistically impossible. Secondly, what is wrong, in admitting we are ill? There is no shame to it.
I made the vow to everybody out there to be honest, uncensored, raw and real. I promised to allow my pain to show, my goofiness not to stop me from sharing some silly things that I do. I promised to share my desperate and joyful moments, days and incidents.
I understand the intimidation coming from the technology, which is foreign to us. But, if I can do it, so can you.
If I am willing to open up to you so much, I would love a bit of reciprocation. Make me feel less lonely in this difficult journey. You make me so happy, when you tell me in person, how much you admire me for being me. Tell me in the comment section too, please.
My challenges will feel lighter, if I know that you are out there, supporting me mentally.
If my voice or a thought of a silly deed of mine, puts a smile on your face, let me know. If my pain reaches you and a tear drop falls, let me know. It is only fair. I need your support too. I am alone and scared. But I came to terms with my fate. I am not hiding from it. I am just living day by day, trying to do my best with my time and, if I know there are so many of you behind me, I grow wings.
So, please do not hide in the shadows. Every so often, just push that button that says "comments" and say anything at all, even if it is anything as simple as, "keep on going Kalli, we are with you."
Thank you.
Monday, February 27, 2012
AS IF, I WOULD LIVE FOREVER........
Hello to all.
I have a confession to make: I went on a spending spree, that I actually could not afford.
When one has limited funds, even one thousand dollars, is a great deal of money to spend, on even necessary things.
There were days that a thousand dollars meant one cent to me. My credit cards had a balance of 40k per month average, each one of them and there were many. They were paid off always, to the last penny, every month, the very next day the bill arrived.
Those days are long gone. They will come back, because I hate being poor. I hate it more, than I detest being sick.
I bought more undergarments, because they were on sale and I loved them. A few here and there should have sufficed. But I bought, as if I was going to be alive for more than one year, so that I could get to wear them out.
I bought more dancing shoes, when only 3 pair would have sufficed. I will need at least 5 years to wear those out, with constant lessons, practice and general partying.
They were beautiful, they were ridiculously low priced -I could not resist.
When they arrived, I put them all out, arranged them beautifully and I kept admiring them.
The meticulous craftsmanship and the shiny colors of the shoes. The bold colored, practical, but utterly beautiful and some sexy undergarments. I was so happy. It did not cross my mind, even for a second, this act was rather foolish, especially with a premature ending to everything, looming over my head.
That would have been an acceptance of the "death sentence" I was given. That would have meant catastrophic results to my fragile emotions.
I do not know, but I am perceived as strong. I do not feel strong at all. I feel vulnerable and exposed to hidden and obvious dangers, with no ammunition and no fighting gear. I can not stay on my diet. Its a daily struggle. I can not smile easily, it is a chore. Finding joy in things, is an unattainable goal. Where is this strength that everybody is congratulating me for?
I think they refer to my newly found strong faith in God. When I look at my situation up closer, I find and I listen to a quiet current of relentless determination running, almost in total silence. It is a constant flow of hopes and dreams, with a few rocks and other debris getting in the way, slowing down the flow.
So, sometimes, I have to do some "irrational" acts to defy the logic that would be appropriate, according to what I was told. Having been given 12 months to live maximum -out of which 6 have passed already- and buying items for the next 3 years, is a total act of incogruency to the facts.
It was necessary for my survival. I do not accept the death sentence.
With God's help and infinite Grace, I shall live long enough to wear and get a lot of joy from my new lingerie. I will be given many nights and opportunities, to dance long nights away.
This is what keeps me going. If it means, I have to wok extra hard, until 4 in the morning, to pay off the seemingly "unnecessary" purchases, so be it.
They are my oxygen, the engine that pumps life in my lungs and makes me want to keep on living.
Therefore they are worth it.
My fellow warriors, think like that too. It helps. DO NOT GIVE UP TO LOGIC. LONG LIVE THE MIRACLES, because they happen.
I have a confession to make: I went on a spending spree, that I actually could not afford.
When one has limited funds, even one thousand dollars, is a great deal of money to spend, on even necessary things.
There were days that a thousand dollars meant one cent to me. My credit cards had a balance of 40k per month average, each one of them and there were many. They were paid off always, to the last penny, every month, the very next day the bill arrived.
Those days are long gone. They will come back, because I hate being poor. I hate it more, than I detest being sick.
I bought more undergarments, because they were on sale and I loved them. A few here and there should have sufficed. But I bought, as if I was going to be alive for more than one year, so that I could get to wear them out.
I bought more dancing shoes, when only 3 pair would have sufficed. I will need at least 5 years to wear those out, with constant lessons, practice and general partying.
They were beautiful, they were ridiculously low priced -I could not resist.
When they arrived, I put them all out, arranged them beautifully and I kept admiring them.
The meticulous craftsmanship and the shiny colors of the shoes. The bold colored, practical, but utterly beautiful and some sexy undergarments. I was so happy. It did not cross my mind, even for a second, this act was rather foolish, especially with a premature ending to everything, looming over my head.
That would have been an acceptance of the "death sentence" I was given. That would have meant catastrophic results to my fragile emotions.
I do not know, but I am perceived as strong. I do not feel strong at all. I feel vulnerable and exposed to hidden and obvious dangers, with no ammunition and no fighting gear. I can not stay on my diet. Its a daily struggle. I can not smile easily, it is a chore. Finding joy in things, is an unattainable goal. Where is this strength that everybody is congratulating me for?
I think they refer to my newly found strong faith in God. When I look at my situation up closer, I find and I listen to a quiet current of relentless determination running, almost in total silence. It is a constant flow of hopes and dreams, with a few rocks and other debris getting in the way, slowing down the flow.
So, sometimes, I have to do some "irrational" acts to defy the logic that would be appropriate, according to what I was told. Having been given 12 months to live maximum -out of which 6 have passed already- and buying items for the next 3 years, is a total act of incogruency to the facts.
It was necessary for my survival. I do not accept the death sentence.
With God's help and infinite Grace, I shall live long enough to wear and get a lot of joy from my new lingerie. I will be given many nights and opportunities, to dance long nights away.
This is what keeps me going. If it means, I have to wok extra hard, until 4 in the morning, to pay off the seemingly "unnecessary" purchases, so be it.
They are my oxygen, the engine that pumps life in my lungs and makes me want to keep on living.
Therefore they are worth it.
My fellow warriors, think like that too. It helps. DO NOT GIVE UP TO LOGIC. LONG LIVE THE MIRACLES, because they happen.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
LOSER OR HEROINE?
I was called both in one day. Last Monday, actually.
That day started hectically and ended with two silly stories and name calling.
I dropped my ill friend in the hospital for surgery and I left. Being ill myself, I try to spend as little time there, as possible. I am sick of the medical establishments. So, I decided to spend the next 5-6 hours, until pick-up time, doing things that would keep my mind occupied with things that had nothing to do with "illness."
My first stop was the library. On my way out and in the middle of a conversation with a lady whom, I do not know, an older gentleman, whom I know, from different discussions we hold in a section of the library, injected himself in our conversation. The other lady and I were both admiring, how "famous" couples were planning to spend Valentine's Day, according to a gossip magazine. I made the comment, after I read something that impressed me .
"I wish I had a husband to buy rare flowers for me," something to that effect.
I do not like flowers and I urge men not to waste their money on silly gestures like that. I prefer practical presents. It was so out of character, what I said. I guess I was feeling lonely and with the Valentine's Day around the corner, a tad more sentimental.
"Well, may be if you looked like PP(the name of the actress in the picture,) you would have a husband to buy these things for you and you would not feel like such a loser." My old geezer sounded off, pleased with himself.
My usual self would have attacked right away and would have made him feel poorly by pointing out his wrinkled ass, his Bulgarian trashy girlfriend, who had just stolen money from him and disappeared and other mean comments like that.
No, this time, I stood there and I just said: "I am not a loser, I am a fighter. Losing is part of fighting. When it comes, I will have no choice, but accept it. But for now, I am not a loser."
No reply was made. He just put his head down and left.
I refuse to accept I am a loser, because I do not have a husband, a great job, perfect health and perfect little everything. I have value and nobody can tell me otherwise.
While I was contemplating all these things, I had made it home already. I do not own a cell phone. The only way I can be reached is the good old fashioned land line. My phone was ringing and the answering service showed I had about 20 messages. I panicked. I thought something went wrong with the surgery. Thank God, no. What happened was funny, really funny.
Now stay with me.
Mark is Rebecca's husband. Mark was the one calling frantically. Rebbecca is an old acquittance of mine and her step mom is only 2 years older than her. Her father is a super wealthy lawyer, with his own law firm, where Rebbecca is still working. Erika, the step mom, also worked for the firm for a very short period of time. Her real goal was to marry the owner, (Rebecca's dad,) so that she would never had to work hard for all the rewards of wealth. Both ladies are brilliant Harvard Law School graduates and they get along famously. Erika was the one, who found Mark for Rebbecca through a trip to Alaska, taken just for that purpose.
Mark is a man's man. Very "Alaskan," very masculine, very manly. Manly men do not take care of children in his book. That is a woman's job, mainly. He is trying to help, because he loves his wife and that is what is expected of him. But every time, something goofy happens, because his heart is not in it.
I forgot to mention that both couples have twins. Erika has 2 sets and Rebbecca and Mark have one.
This past Monday, Mark was entrusted with 2 sets of twins to be dropped off to two different activities.
The frantic call to me had to do with the fact that both sets were missing, because they were dropped in the wrong place. Mark was aware he would get yelled at, so he called me to help him out.
I met him, we retrieved the children, dropped off the right set to the right activity and begged everybody to keep it to themselves.
When I asked Mark how could he make such a mistake the answer, the tone of voice and the face that went with it, were indescribably funny.
"The kids are so close to the age and one set had to go ice skating the other ice hockey. Both activities involve ice, it is easy to make the mistake. And, what difference does it make anyway? All we want, is to keep them occupied and active, either activity would have done that."
That was Mark's logic.
Mark is really grateful for my helping that day with making the swap and helping to soften the blow, when we told the "women." I defended him and I told them that he was right. That they had plenty of help and if, he did not want to participate in things like that, he should not. He is a good father otherwise and yes, I am with him, it is a woman's job mainly to tend to the young ones.
In one man's eyes I was a "loser," because he does not like my political views and the fact that I talk back to him( he is an ex-judge, you see.) In another man's eyes I was the "hero," who rescued him from a small misunderstanding , which could have escalated to an ugly fight with his family.
I am neither a loser nor a hero. It just goes to show, how we are viewed in different ways, by different people, for different reasons. We should try not to buy the negative views, because they will bring us down. Instead, let us enjoy, the joy or the help we give to another human being. There are no small gestures. Everything counts, big or small, good or negative. Let us strive to stay with the positive, see the silliness and humorous side of things. It feels better; positive, funny, supportive, helpful. All good stuff.
That day started hectically and ended with two silly stories and name calling.
I dropped my ill friend in the hospital for surgery and I left. Being ill myself, I try to spend as little time there, as possible. I am sick of the medical establishments. So, I decided to spend the next 5-6 hours, until pick-up time, doing things that would keep my mind occupied with things that had nothing to do with "illness."
My first stop was the library. On my way out and in the middle of a conversation with a lady whom, I do not know, an older gentleman, whom I know, from different discussions we hold in a section of the library, injected himself in our conversation. The other lady and I were both admiring, how "famous" couples were planning to spend Valentine's Day, according to a gossip magazine. I made the comment, after I read something that impressed me .
"I wish I had a husband to buy rare flowers for me," something to that effect.
I do not like flowers and I urge men not to waste their money on silly gestures like that. I prefer practical presents. It was so out of character, what I said. I guess I was feeling lonely and with the Valentine's Day around the corner, a tad more sentimental.
"Well, may be if you looked like PP(the name of the actress in the picture,) you would have a husband to buy these things for you and you would not feel like such a loser." My old geezer sounded off, pleased with himself.
My usual self would have attacked right away and would have made him feel poorly by pointing out his wrinkled ass, his Bulgarian trashy girlfriend, who had just stolen money from him and disappeared and other mean comments like that.
No, this time, I stood there and I just said: "I am not a loser, I am a fighter. Losing is part of fighting. When it comes, I will have no choice, but accept it. But for now, I am not a loser."
No reply was made. He just put his head down and left.
I refuse to accept I am a loser, because I do not have a husband, a great job, perfect health and perfect little everything. I have value and nobody can tell me otherwise.
While I was contemplating all these things, I had made it home already. I do not own a cell phone. The only way I can be reached is the good old fashioned land line. My phone was ringing and the answering service showed I had about 20 messages. I panicked. I thought something went wrong with the surgery. Thank God, no. What happened was funny, really funny.
Now stay with me.
Mark is Rebecca's husband. Mark was the one calling frantically. Rebbecca is an old acquittance of mine and her step mom is only 2 years older than her. Her father is a super wealthy lawyer, with his own law firm, where Rebbecca is still working. Erika, the step mom, also worked for the firm for a very short period of time. Her real goal was to marry the owner, (Rebecca's dad,) so that she would never had to work hard for all the rewards of wealth. Both ladies are brilliant Harvard Law School graduates and they get along famously. Erika was the one, who found Mark for Rebbecca through a trip to Alaska, taken just for that purpose.
Mark is a man's man. Very "Alaskan," very masculine, very manly. Manly men do not take care of children in his book. That is a woman's job, mainly. He is trying to help, because he loves his wife and that is what is expected of him. But every time, something goofy happens, because his heart is not in it.
I forgot to mention that both couples have twins. Erika has 2 sets and Rebbecca and Mark have one.
This past Monday, Mark was entrusted with 2 sets of twins to be dropped off to two different activities.
The frantic call to me had to do with the fact that both sets were missing, because they were dropped in the wrong place. Mark was aware he would get yelled at, so he called me to help him out.
I met him, we retrieved the children, dropped off the right set to the right activity and begged everybody to keep it to themselves.
When I asked Mark how could he make such a mistake the answer, the tone of voice and the face that went with it, were indescribably funny.
"The kids are so close to the age and one set had to go ice skating the other ice hockey. Both activities involve ice, it is easy to make the mistake. And, what difference does it make anyway? All we want, is to keep them occupied and active, either activity would have done that."
That was Mark's logic.
Mark is really grateful for my helping that day with making the swap and helping to soften the blow, when we told the "women." I defended him and I told them that he was right. That they had plenty of help and if, he did not want to participate in things like that, he should not. He is a good father otherwise and yes, I am with him, it is a woman's job mainly to tend to the young ones.
In one man's eyes I was a "loser," because he does not like my political views and the fact that I talk back to him( he is an ex-judge, you see.) In another man's eyes I was the "hero," who rescued him from a small misunderstanding , which could have escalated to an ugly fight with his family.
I am neither a loser nor a hero. It just goes to show, how we are viewed in different ways, by different people, for different reasons. We should try not to buy the negative views, because they will bring us down. Instead, let us enjoy, the joy or the help we give to another human being. There are no small gestures. Everything counts, big or small, good or negative. Let us strive to stay with the positive, see the silliness and humorous side of things. It feels better; positive, funny, supportive, helpful. All good stuff.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
CONQUERING ONE FEAR AT A TIME.
I decided that I am going back on the dance floor, not as an"injured" dancer, but as a dancer, period.
It takes a lot of courage to even think this way, because my feet are still numb with dead nerve endings, I have trouble keeping my balance , even walking, never mind trying to spin on the ball of my foot.
But, I decided, it was time. No more cutting corners, no more avoiding taking classes from tough coaches, no more procrastination. This is something that gives me immeasurable pleasure and I am going back to it.
So, I invested in some social dancing shoes, practice ones and one pair for each division. The smooth division uses a different type of shoe, as opposed to the Latin division.
It was an investment on my psychological state of mind, that I will live long enough to wear them out, by dancing.
I still did not have the confidence to go to one of those studios yet. So, I went to a smaller, less professional establishment with my new shoes , my new music and simple routines, uploaded in a small computer that I take with me everywhere. It would help me remember "school figures," the grammar of dancing, and technique.
I started working with a great deal of enthusiasm and anticipation, because, dancing is my passion.
Within 5 minutes, I was getting so frustrated, because I had no partner to help stabilize my balance and my turns were beyond pathetic.
When I fell more than once, practicing moving turns (because they can be stationary,) I sat in the corner of the ballroom floor and I started crying.
I am willing to give up a lot, but not dancing. If it kills my body by practicing, I will have to do it.
While, all these thoughts crossed my mind and how I was going to attack my problem, my head was hanging between my legs, sitting on the floor, feeling defeated, rubbing my slightly injured ankle. A little hand showed up and rested on my thigh. I looked up and the prettiest face of a little girl with a typical pink tutu, was looking deep into my face.
"Did you hurt your self?" I heard her sweet, concerned voice.
"No, not really. It is my pride that is wounded, because I can not perform, what used to be second nature to me."
"So what, with practice, it comes back, right?"
I could not explain to her that I had my numb feet in the way, the lack of a regular dancing partner and all these details made a big difference.
"Come on, get up, try it one more time and then leave it alone. The next time you will find progress in your routine."
She extended her perfect little hand to help me up and smiled a smile of an angel.
"The next time I see you, you may fall again, but I shall be here to help you up as many times as it takes. That is what my instructor does and it works. I am progressing every time, as long I overcome the fear of what might happen. So remember, no fear."
I got a wonderful life lesson today from a young "angel" in a strange studio, with a special message, "first conquer your fear."
And that is exactly what I shall do. No thinking about "terminal illness," no embarrassment from constant falling, while spinning due to the lack of balance. Just practice, lose myself self in the music and concentrate on what I can do, not what I can not do.
And I needed to be told that by an 8 year old?
It takes a lot of courage to even think this way, because my feet are still numb with dead nerve endings, I have trouble keeping my balance , even walking, never mind trying to spin on the ball of my foot.
But, I decided, it was time. No more cutting corners, no more avoiding taking classes from tough coaches, no more procrastination. This is something that gives me immeasurable pleasure and I am going back to it.
So, I invested in some social dancing shoes, practice ones and one pair for each division. The smooth division uses a different type of shoe, as opposed to the Latin division.
It was an investment on my psychological state of mind, that I will live long enough to wear them out, by dancing.
I still did not have the confidence to go to one of those studios yet. So, I went to a smaller, less professional establishment with my new shoes , my new music and simple routines, uploaded in a small computer that I take with me everywhere. It would help me remember "school figures," the grammar of dancing, and technique.
I started working with a great deal of enthusiasm and anticipation, because, dancing is my passion.
Within 5 minutes, I was getting so frustrated, because I had no partner to help stabilize my balance and my turns were beyond pathetic.
When I fell more than once, practicing moving turns (because they can be stationary,) I sat in the corner of the ballroom floor and I started crying.
I am willing to give up a lot, but not dancing. If it kills my body by practicing, I will have to do it.
While, all these thoughts crossed my mind and how I was going to attack my problem, my head was hanging between my legs, sitting on the floor, feeling defeated, rubbing my slightly injured ankle. A little hand showed up and rested on my thigh. I looked up and the prettiest face of a little girl with a typical pink tutu, was looking deep into my face.
"Did you hurt your self?" I heard her sweet, concerned voice.
"No, not really. It is my pride that is wounded, because I can not perform, what used to be second nature to me."
"So what, with practice, it comes back, right?"
I could not explain to her that I had my numb feet in the way, the lack of a regular dancing partner and all these details made a big difference.
"Come on, get up, try it one more time and then leave it alone. The next time you will find progress in your routine."
She extended her perfect little hand to help me up and smiled a smile of an angel.
"The next time I see you, you may fall again, but I shall be here to help you up as many times as it takes. That is what my instructor does and it works. I am progressing every time, as long I overcome the fear of what might happen. So remember, no fear."
I got a wonderful life lesson today from a young "angel" in a strange studio, with a special message, "first conquer your fear."
And that is exactly what I shall do. No thinking about "terminal illness," no embarrassment from constant falling, while spinning due to the lack of balance. Just practice, lose myself self in the music and concentrate on what I can do, not what I can not do.
And I needed to be told that by an 8 year old?
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