Anyone who believes sexual orientation is something you can change has never been a single woman in New York. When I think back on all the amazing wonderful, sexy, awesome, smart, athletic, kind, single female friends of mine and compare them to the guys I dated / knew at the time – if I could have flipped a switch and chosen a team there is no way I would be straight.
I am missing thoughts that I had in my head this morning.
I have not be as good as I want to be with capturing my thoughts locking them down on paper in reality – no not nearly as good as I would wish.
I keep coming back to the thought that there are a finite number of truths. A finite number of lessons to be learned about the world, our selves and reality – immutable and changeless even relative to everything.
It recalls my thoughts to solid pale stone oak branches and sturdy bones – defining me but not limiting me, supporting my reach for the stars.
I dream of a massive architecture of mineral veins and intricate lattice - a stone tree - a spiritual monument against which truth and understanding vibrate.
I didn’t realize how worried I had been until I left my mother in the hospital, and tears started rolling down my eyes - relieved that she was through surgery and doing as well as could possibly be expected. I overheard the technician quietly ask my mother “Is she your only child?” — I’m not sure what that meant, as the oldest was I supposed to be tougher, less mushy?
I took the stairs not wanting to share a crowded elevator with tear stained cheeks.
It’s been a weird week, in truth it’s been a weird few months. So many people, friends and loved ones have been visited by death, my stepdad’s father, my friend’s son, the sister of another friend and last night I received word that my uncle went into a coma Saturday and passed away Tuesday night.
It’s unbelievable. I’m not entirely sure how I feel or if I do.
I’m not entirely sure. A ghost? A shell? A disembodied voice screaming inside a gourd? Potentially everything and nothing
until I find my words
no matter how meager
In two days my mom goes under the knife. She has no cartilage left in one knee and very little left in the other and needs knee replacement.
She needs this so she can walk without pain, to improve the quality of her life, and I hope to make it possible to exercise once she gets better. This is a big part of why I moved back to Virginia. It seemed only right that I be here to support her, considering she came up to support me through both my ACL surgeries.
Still I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. At the moment, I worry about the possibility of infection. I worry about this because she is overweight , one of the reasons she needs knee replacement point of fact and smokes. Both increase the possibility of infection.
I never worried about infection for myself, since piss and vinegar flows through my veins and perhaps because I was so focused on recovery, I had neither fear nor tolerance for an additional inconvenience like an infection. My mother, I fear, is too sweet and indulgent - made up of a sweet smoky molasses that tolerates too much, giving in when she should fight.
The doctor sent home instructions to use specially purchased antiseptic shower gel, and to launder the sheet and towels nightly Sunday through Wednesday.
And so, task in hand, I found myself on my knees, not praying but cleaning. (God and I do converse but we both agree that wishing to a higher power is silly and rather implies an abdication of responsibility. When I do pray I am reminded that I do not have control over the uncontrollable; and that prayer is a rather powerful proxy for positive thinking, which is absolutely necessary).
I scrubbed the floors and walls, disinfected the sinks, tub and toilet and did all the laundry I could find. I wish there was more.
I worry even as I remind myself that I did not spring up from nowhere, that I can remind her of her own strength, which manifests more often as mulish stubbornness, and that there is only so much I can do.