A three days kind of post

Today is Wednesday. The third day. Three days. 

Because I don't know how to introduce this... I don't know how to tell the story without telling the end first, here it is:

My mother has leukemia. 

Every time I have started a post to tell you a story and explain this fact, I have deleted it. Every time I have been tempted by my ever present desire to share this news via facebook, I have deleted it. Every time I tell someone, I choke on tears. They may not see them or hear the choke in my throat, but I feel it all in the depths of my being. 

My mother has leukemia.

I found out three days ago. She has known for months. She didn't want to burden me with the news, because my father has stage IV laryngeal cancer and my grandfather was dying and I was losing my job, and she thought (like the martyred heroine she is) that I couldn't handle it, so she would wait. 

My mother has leukemia. 

I have cried every day for so many days, I am no longer sure I know how to fall asleep without tears. I can only sing the songs in choir that are not familiar or not in English, because we are practicing our Christmas selections and Christmas songs make me cry. I can't listen to my favorite comfort music, because my favorite comfort music is music I listen to with my mother (Rod Stewart and Chicago) and that makes me cry. I can't take walks, because I like to walk with my mother, and that makes me cry. 

My mother has leukemia.

Monday I wanted to stop at her work and give her a hug, but I didn't because I didn't know if I would be able to drive away. I am afraid of being with her because I want to be brave and strong and cheerful, because she's the one with the Leukemia, not me, but I'm not sure I can be. I am working on it. I'll get there. I'm getting better at explaining it to people. I'm going to see her tomorrow. 

My mother has leukemia.

When daddy got sick it was terrifying because I didn't know how to take care of him like a loving daughter and I loved my father. When Grandpa died it was devastating because he was my very identity and my very solid foundation and I missed him so. But my mother... I do not make sense without her. I am not human without her. She is because I am. I know that doesn't make sense, but she lives and breathes her children and I am her daughter, the only one she has, and I am her best friend. She is my mother. My mutti. My mommy. Mom... please. 

My mother has leukemia. 

She won't die soon. Probably. She's not so sick. Hopefully. She's just tired and that's okay. I can take care of tired. I am happy to take care of tired. I am thrilled at the chance to care for my mother. There is no hesitation  and no fear of the care taking. It is only the end idea that frightens me. It is only the anger that once again my life has a tragedy. A purpose again in illness (I refuse to say in death). Somehow my heart is broken beyond recognition. 

My mother has leukemia. 

and here the smallest of small voices makes this one small confession, "I have no dreams remaining. Grad School is over. Marriage is over. Babies are over. The Middle East is over." Because I cannot leave here. I cannot go knowing she is ill and I am away from her. And this, while my choice and my need to stay, not hers and not obligation, breaks my heart. 

i love you mom.

-b.

Still mourning...

I'm not a big mourner. I usually mourn for a bit, and then life takes over and I move on.

I've had a lot of practice with death. I'm not so afraid of it. It can be peaceful. And this death was peaceful.

But it still sneaks up on me at the strangest times: Driving on the freeway, putting on my make up, taking off my shoes. He is still there in my heart and he is still dead. I am still broken. It's all still not right.

I'll be back when this is over. For now, I am resting in my grief.

Life, Death, and my favorite man

Before I jump in to the meat of today's post, let's all take a second and welcome Annie Marie Hall to the world. Born this morning, to my lovely cousin Christine and her husband Jeremy, Annie (which is just the cutest name ever!) will join her sister Lily in making one of the sweetest families I know.

While I am rejoicing that my family has gained a new little lovely, my heart is full of the most immense sorrow. Yesterday, my dearest grandfather, Peter August Gomes, Jr. passed away. We've known and expected his death for a few months now, but not that long ago, he was bossing me around and checking in on my day to day business.

I had a very special relationship with my grandfather. He was my favorite man in the whole world. He was superman. He could do anything. As a child, I was certain that he must be bff's with the President of the United States, because Grandpa knew just everything and just everyone. People would ask me if I was knew "Pete" just about every where I went. Grandpa was just that involved.

I loved this man with my whole heart and soul. I based my very identity on his very identity. I am Pete's Granddaughter. Through and through. I cannot speak ill of the man. I know he has flaws. I have seen the handiwork of some of his greater ones (i.e. much of my father), but to me he was never anything but wonderful. He loved me, provided for me, and he showed up all the time. No occasion was complete without him. I became Catholic largely because of who he has been to me.

I remember his smell and how it changed over the years from one of cigar smoke to one of clean laundry. I remember his gruff expectations when I was a child and how much delight and fear I had whenever I sat next to him at the dinner table. I was "Baby", always. Even at 23, when I was going through Catechism to be confirmed, he would introduce me to his church buddies saying, "And this is Baby". I was his girl. Sweet and obedient always for that man. I would have done anything for him.

I have grieved for so many people in the last few years my life. I have been plagued by death and cannot seem to run far enough or fast enough for death to not catch up to me. Never, though, has there been grief like this. A piece of my heart died yesterday. I know I will heal, I know it's not tragic, I know that he needed to go. I know most certainly that what he has been and is still to me will never change. I know that he is still with me as much as he ever was, because he made me so much of who I am. But still my heart is broken and I am lost, because this man, my favorite man, is dead.

I honestly cannot wait to be held by him in Heaven.

26, single, and sick

I love being 26. I love being single. I hate being those two things while I am sick. I am such a pathetic mess when I am ill. I just want tomato soup and crackers and hot tea. I want .... wait wait wait. I am just realizing that I am pretty sure I wrote nearly this same post last year. Oh dear. I am pathetic. 

My nose is swollen. Not from the sickness, but from a huge bruise. My nephew threw his fat head back into my nose last night. After a loud pop, I felt my head whoosh and my body sway. I woke up this morning with a purple bruise spreading across my nose and now that my nose is stuffed, I am feeling particularly silly. I can't blow my nose, I can't wipe my nose, I can't even laugh without the pain my face exploding through the rest of my head. 

So here I sit on my sofa, watching stupid chick flicks and drinking coffee, waiting for the moment when I can drive to my mother's house for soup and bread (because my debit card was cancelled before my new one arrived so I cannot access the heaps of money I have sitting in the bank). 

What a waste of a perfectly good Sunday.

Excepting, Accepting, and Expecting

The last 10 days have brought on a whole new world. Except not really, but totally kind of actually. I know that doesn't make sense, so let me try to explain.

On Thursday, September 23rd - the day after I found out I don't have the cancer gene and also the day after my father finished his treatments - I found out through an extremely large conference call that my company was about to go through the most drastic of changes, which would put everyone in every office in a bit of turmoil for possibly weeks. After the conference call I found out that I was most likely without a job, but that I was welcome to apply and try to compete for a position. So I did.

I was upset, but very excited. I wanted the opportunity to leave marketing. I love marketing, but not as a full time portion of my job. I'd rather do it for fun on the side, not as my full time work. Service is my full time heart. I thought about going back to teaching pre-school or doing something equally fulfilling. I wanted to be thrilled at the prospect of a new adventure. The only problem was the very big "EXCEPT..." blocking my view of a new future.

Except, my company didn't want me anymore. Except, why was I not good enough? Except, I've never lost a job before. Except, I am awesome, right? Except, except, except...

After days of excepting, I began accepting. I started applying for new jobs and I began to bolster myself and research how to bargain for a great severance package. I went to see my dear friend for a great man hug that would make everything okay. I discussed what I could do with my amazing severance (buy a new car, go to Beirut, and pay off school loans!) Accepting is a hard business.

The very last thing I thought of doing was Expecting. I did not expect to get a job through my current company. I thought I didn't stand a chance. So much so that I sounded rather intense and angry in my interview, because I just really didn't think I would get it. When that little call came, I was shocked, thrilled, and totally left expecting.

Now I sit with the knowledge of a new position, expecting a totally new life. I expect to love being out of marketing. I expect that working from home will suit my nature completely. I expect to adore being over Seattle AND Portland so that I can visit my second favorite city with more regularity. I expect to do well... after over a year of just scraping by.

I expect to have time for relationships. I expect to make this a great success. In 10 days I have learned that excepting must lead to accepting... which with hope always becomes expecting.

Woo.

All Coffee and no Omelet

I do not have the cancer gene.

Just saying. That's how I roll.

pink tutus and yellow hair

Last week my mother told me a little story about my childhood. When I was very little I went to daycare at the Thueringer home. There were a lot of kids at this daycare, and all of them were white. All of them except for me. Apparently I came home one day and said, "Mommy, I'm brown." I was maybe 3 or 4. She told me that she would never forget that day.

I can remember growing up knowing I was brown. I remember in ballet, we were the Rainbow Ballerinas, all of the girls were given pastel tutus- light pink, mint green, soft yellow, lavender - except me. I was bright red. I will never forget Amanda, and her pretty pink tutu, with her blond hair and blue eyes, when she pointed at me and said "You have to be red because you are brown. Only white girls get pink." I tried to argue with her, but honestly what did I know? I was brown and that was my first (and only) ballet class. Maybe she knew something about ballet that I didn't. Maybe in Ballet you had to be white with blue eyes and yellow hair if you were going to wear pink. Stupid pink tutus.

Eventually, I was like everyone else. My skin isn't that dark and frankly the further into adulthood I got, the more the girls I knew went tanning and were my color or darker than me anyway. I just fit in and my tan skin became the norm. I stopped thinking about being brown, because I just wasn't that different.

Now, after years of spending my summers indoors under the florescent lights of my grey walled cubicle, my skin is definitely "olive" but not so brown. My eyes turned greenish from a run-in with the sun at Disneyland. I typically dye my hair a little lighter than it's natural black.

As I am preparing myself to walk into the geneticist appointment on Wednesday, I am sitting here thinking that once again, there is this brown smeared over what "should" have been white. I'm still not fit for pink tutus.

But I make red look good. Blue eyed girls, with yellow hair, may look awesome in Pink, but it takes brown to really rock the red.

(and no matter how sick this stupid birth control makes me, I will rock the red. No stupid disease is going to tell me what I can and cannot be. Today I have managed to keep down just water. I hate most food today... and I cannot tell you how gross dairy and meat are. Seriously. I can't even have them near my face or I will lose it).