Live, Hope, Create

For Myself, and for Scott...

2010-10-27T10:07:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been a long time coming, and I've been craving it, so...now I'm back! Writing a little something for you, and for me. :)

I'm on this journey with my brother, Scott. On August 6th, I flew to Oregon to save his life. He was depressed to the point of (almost) no return, was wanting and waiting to die. He had given up. At nearly 700 pounds, who could really blame him?

For two months in Oregon I went crazy on his ass, implemented a new diet and exercise routine, and chatted with him daily about the positivities in life, the potential he has, the reasons he could focus on to get better. It worked.

I brought Scott back to Vegas with me a month ago. And here's where the story really starts. I've been feeling sorry for myself. I've been feeling like I've taken on too much, burdened myself with the ginormous responsibility of Scott's disease. I've been full of anxiety, full of doubt, and full of SHIT. Last night I realized something that brought me back to reality. A family dinner. So simple, so normal, so very honest, and so, so important.

When I first moved to Vegas, I adopted a brilliant little family almost instantly. Through a mutual connection, these people became my home-away-from-home, my link to job sources, my personal GPS in a city I had never driven in before, and my place to share, hug, and laugh. Last night they all came over for dinner, and Scott was introduced, instantly accepted, and loved as though they'd known him forever. We ate like it was Thanksgiving, we talked about nothing and everything, we played poker and ate some more. We bickered, rolled our eyes, debated things, laughed. We hugged, shared, winked, and smiled. A real family dinner.

After our guests left, Scott and I rehashed the night, laughing about everyone's quirks, and feeling generally satisfied. And then Scott said this, "I just LOVE a family dinner, it's what I've enjoyed most in life, and what I crave!" It wasn't until we were done chatting and I retreated to my room that I really thought about that comment, really thought about what that dinner meant.

Scott has not been to a family gathering for several years. We have a large extended family, and everyone gathers for one reason or another several times a year. I have missed some events because I'm far away or because of work. With Scott's inability to travel, he has missed them all. It has been YEARS since he experienced that camaraderie that comes with a family dinner. Years since he's felt the feeling of "family". And it brought me to tears.

There are lots of things in life we all take for granted without even knowing it. Family seems like it rides the top of the list most often. What Scott taught me last night was that I'm stupid, selfish, and forgetful. What I have been able to experience in this life is Mount Everest in comparison to Scott's little sand dune of life experience. And I am truly grateful for that. But, most of all, I am in awe at the beauty of the journey in front of us. The path we are on now, together, is something I cherish, and something I would never, ever want to give back. Who gets to be a part of something like this, really? Who gets to bring someone back from the brink, and live the process so truly? Who gets to give someone hope, and reap the rewards of that on a daily basis? Well, I do. Me. Wow! What a gift!

I regret to say, the reason I haven't written about all of this since a few weeks into my Oregon stay, is because I've been unable to shake my "poor, poor me" attitude. I was ashamed of it, but couldn't get away from it. I didn't want the world to know how utterly selfish I was. All the while, my friends and family have been telling me how strong I am, how wonderful I am to take on this "project", how great of a person I am for it. And all I could think was, "what the hell am I doing, and WHY am I doing this to myself?" Yeah, not the most humanitarian or selfless way to think or feel. But it was there, so much so that I sort of forgot what this is all about. Don't get me wrong, though, because there is not ONE MOMENT that I've regretted the reason...to keep my brother alive, and to help him live that life how he wants to, without the restrictions he has now.

I am of a different mind about it all today. I have finally come to a place in my heart and mind that isn't punishing, but happy...isn't doubtful, but proud...isn't sorry, but thankful. It feels much better to be in this place. It feels right, and productive. It feels hopeful, and I needed that...for myself, and for Scott.

Catch 22

2010-05-16T07:09:00.001-07:00

My horoscope today, May 16th, 2010: You seem keen to solve a mystery that continually plagues you. This is the kind of problem you enjoy looking into as it involves doing research into an area that holds a powerful fascination for you. You both love the idea of a mystical relationship with the Universe and yet are frightened of losing yourself in the process. This is your personal Catch-22.

How very true. When I left New York a few years ago, I had begun to start a new relationship with the universe. A new religion, so-to-speak. A new faith in myself. The personal journey from questioning myself to believing in myself was extremely difficult. The constant positive thinking was an intense transition. Up until then, I had always considered myself a pretty positive person, and was literally dumbfounded when something went horribly wrong. After beginning this transition, I realized how really negative I was at times. But I had to give it a try, had to change the way I thought, and felt about life. And so I did. The results have been shockingly transparent and life-changing for me.

The book that helped me kick-start this whole life change was "The Secret". I still use it as a reference from time to time, but its teachings are pretty well ingrained in my brain by now. Ask for what you want, believe you have it, be thankful for it. Pretty simple, really. I suppose it's the other, deeper tenets in the book that put me in what my horoscope calls my "catch 22". Constant positivity. Constant gratitude. Constant belief in something unknown, something imagined.

I am a person, still, who believes there must be a down to have an up, a dark to have a light. And I also believe EVERYONE needs to have a few bad days. Days to cry, sleep for 12 hours, curl up and die - if only for a little while. There is always a way to find a positive spin on something. But sometimes I don't think the energy I expend doing that is necessarily worth it. Sometimes just feeling the bad, all the way to my soul, is better for me. And, yes, I'm grateful. Very grateful for my life and all the things in it. But, I tire at times, of thanking the universe when bad shit happens. Honestly, I just want to say, "Fuck you, Universe! What's THIS supposed to do for me?!?!?" when something terrible happens. This is my personal "catch 22" I suppose. Trying to keep positive, all the while keeping my soul original. Keeping my thoughts mine, staying REAL.

What I do know, the thing that hasn't ever changed or waivered, is my hopefulness. I believe in so much possibility, so much good, I'm pretty sure it's unhealthy. :) But that, I will NEVER give up. That is the only constant I can claim. And, hopefully, it's the one thing that will last long after I'm gone...like when you can smell the rain coming, and think only of the rainbow that may appear.

For My Mommy...

2010-05-08T18:17:00.000-07:00

This Mother's Day, I haven't sent my Mom a card or flowers or a gift. I have been thinking about it for weeks now, and have come up empty-handed. Truthfully, every time I thought of buying a card, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I've always bought a card, always. But this time I feel so much more in my heart than a cheesy card would do justice to. I don't know what, if anything, has changed this year. I don't know why a card won't be enough. But it isn't. So, the only thing I can really think of is to tell my Mom, on this blog, just exactly how I feel about her.
I am 32 years old, I often call her Mommy, and I don't care what you think of that. She is my everything. She is my favorite. She is my strength. So, without further ado, here's a letter to my Mom...

Hi Mommy!!!

Today is Mother's Day. Silly, though, 'cause I feel the same about you today as every other day. I really love you beyond words, but because we are both "words" people, I'm still going to try and put it in writing.

Every time I think of you, which is pretty darn often, I think about how much we laugh when we're together, and it makes me smile. Every time. We have so many inside jokes that I've lost count. And when something creeps into my head from a long ago joke we shared, sometimes I literally laugh so hard I cry...or pee my pants a little. No matter what has ever happened between us, we've ALWAYS been able to make each other smile.

Every time I miss you, which is pretty darn often, I think about how you still rock me in your chair if I'm having a bad day. How you smooth back my hair, and dry my eyes, and wrap your arms around me. How you've done that since I was born, and even though I'm 32 now, and kind of a big girl, you are still there for me in that most primitive way.

Every time I think of you, which is every day, I hope you know how much I love you. I'm a good person because of you. You have made me compassionate, and smart, and happy. You have made me tolerant, and kind, and helpful. You have made me humble, and strong, and passionate about life. You have fueled my dreams, and encouraged my creativity. You have taught me, celebrated me, loved me.

Every time I miss you, which is every day, I remember things we keep just for us, and my heart is filled. No one else knows the significance of "Mama...boo-da-boo-boo-da, Mama". No one knows who Jeff Erson is. No one knows how it feels when you "find your HOOOOME". No one knows what most of our stupid stories are, and I like it that way. We are silly, together. So, when I miss you, I close my eyes (except when I'm driving) and imagine some of these exact moments. I feel you here. And it helps to stay the lonliness.

Every time someone talks about losing their Mother, I have an anxiety attack. The mere thought of living life without you here sends me spinning into the abyss. So, instead I think of all the experiences we still have left together. I think of trips we'll take, things we'll see together, squabbling over crossword puzzles, and who took the last cup of coffee. I think of how I give you a nervous breakdown with my crazy driving, and how you laugh at me when I act like an idiot. I think of how, every time I've wanted to be something, you've told me I can. And every time an oppotunity came up, you sacrificed something of yourself to give me a chance.

I think about your life and all you've wanted to be. And I think I have the most amazing Mother on the planet, because you gave all of it to me instead. I hope that one day soon, you'll recognize that you are amazing, and take some of life for yourself. See the world, write a book, find your cabin in the woods and surround yourself with things to read. I hope someday soon, I can show you that your work is pretty much done with me, and it's time for you now. Not to say that I don't still (and always will) need my Mommy. I just want to give you back at least a little of what you have given me. Because you deserve everything that makes you happy.

I'm a pretty darn amazing person, if I do say so myself. But it's not me who can take most of the credit for that. You have poured so much love into me - all my life - and have created everything I am proud of about myself. I am your Opus, Mr. Holland. I just hope I can show you someday what an impact that will have on the world. What an impact YOUR love will have. What all your sacrifices were for.

So, for all the times we've laughed, or cried, yelled at each other, or hugged. For all the worries, and jokes, and time, and distance. For all the kisses on my boo-boos, and spanks on my butt. For all the pride in your face, and the care in your heart. For all your expectations and dreams of what I might become. For all the faith you've had when you shouldn't have. For all the times you put me first. For all the times you put me in my place. For the intelligence you stressed and the care you demanded of me. For all the Sunday crosswords and dinners you cooked. For every last piece of you that you've given to me. For being that one person I can ALWAYS count on for a real answer. For being my Mom, and all that has meant to you, and all it has meant to me...

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you much more than these words, and much, much more than my luggage. ;)

Face it, Facebook....I Love You

2010-03-09T16:03:00.000-08:00

Facebook. Fantastic. Is it only coincidence that these two words start with the same letter, and are alliterately similar? Methinks not so much a coincidence, after all.

What has Facebook done for me, you ask? Ohhhh, my dear, let me count the ways this product of the information super-highway has enriched my soul....

Facebook has given me a link, sometimes literally, to people I know, people I knew once, people I want to know better. People. Lives. The whole entire UNIVERSE, it seems. Maybe this makes me pathetic. But at least I'm in good company. :)

There's a lot of funny things about facebook, and funny ways to learn about people. For instance, you know by the information on your home page who has a business, kids, is married, is hopeful, is having a bad day, is going skiing for the weekend. I know more about some of these people than I ever knew when I knew them before. I know more about some of these people than I ever wanted to, in fact. Then there's the game addicts, the Farmville, Casino Land, Aquarium Master, Mafia Bosses. My current gauge of how interesting people's lives are is by visiting their profile. If more than 3 out of 5 recent posts are from these silly games, I know they must be lacking a little...or a lot of SOMETHING in their lives. Maybe just imagination?

On the other hand, stumbling upon my profile, one might find a random spattering of genuinely crazy rants, links, music, pictures of my cats, mundane status updates, drunken episodes, and perhaps something funny every so often.

Which is better? Being a truly open book and uncovering all of one's laundry, whether it be dirty or smelling irish-springs fresh? Or playing games and keeping your privacy settings wired like you house the Mona Lisa within?

I don't know the right answer, I just know what's right for ME, right now. And that is letting go, and letting people in. Letting myself be judged, read, seen....and not care what people say or think about any of it. Except, of course, when it's a good thing they say. I am addicted to seeing people "Like" my status, or comment. My heart picks up a beat or two when someone initiates a chat, or sends me a real message. Getting a friend request holds so much power sometimes, it's electrifying. Getting denied a friend request is disheartening, yet freeing and allows me to let go, figuratively, and literally.

One of the only Facebook applications I use is Iheart. I love it, which is the essence of the thing, I suppose. I send hearts to people because I want to say "hi" or "i love you" or "whasssup!". I send hearts to as many people as I can, as often as I can. I admit, I send hearts to people who send hearts back because I want to get hearts too. I send hearts to help Haiti, because they look pretty, to make someone's day, to let someone know I'm thinking about them. I send hearts, and I'll likely never stop. A few people have told me not to send them hearts anymore. Callous. Cold. Who doesn't have room in their lives for a heart? Really? But it's actually no big deal. I just send them to other people.

Facebook has brought people back to me that I will cherish forever, has gotten me closer to family, has reminded me how important the human connection really is. Facebook has also taught me that, in some circumstances, I was right to not want some people in my life. That their existence is made up of a lot of bullshit I don't care about, and never will. In snippets, Facebook provides a window into people's closets, journals, and secret hiding places. It is a place to share, and weren't we all taught as kids that sharing is caring?

This crazy forum is a place to cry, laugh, raise an eyebrow, learn, and play. It's a vessel upon which we sail in and out of each other's lives, as often or sparsely as we so wish. But for me, sometimes, it makes me ever so lonely. REAL human connection is what I crave. A touch, a smile, a hug, a story in full, a clink of the glass, a high five, a tissue handed over, a shared bowl of popcorn, a giggle-snort in all it's glory. Facebook makes me long for these things more than ever sometimes. But as it is, I'd rather have it virtually, than not at all.

So, to sum it up, I guess I can really say that Facebook has made my life a richer thing. It has created energy within me that wants to reach out, wants to KNOW people. Facebook has been, for me, a time-warp, a capsule opened up, a journey into unexplored territory, a connection. A blissful field of flowers; wise, beautiful, hopeful, funny flowers. Every day I pick a bunch, and LISTEN to what they write, and feel. Every day I find something on Facebook that makes me smile, frown, laugh out loud, or grimace. And sometimes, I find my own story, right in the middle of someone else's sentence, or photo, or link.

So, I'll be the first to say it - loud and proud - I LOVE YOU, FACEBOOK! Thanks for being the pod for my peas, the sun to my flower, the lighter for my cigarette, the spigot on my box of wine...you complete me.

A Heavy Heart...A Sad Truth

2010-03-03T13:37:00.000-08:00

When I decided to move to Vegas, a lot of my friends were quite worried for me. Not because of the crime, not because it was so far from home and I'd be all alone. But because I like to gamble. Somehow I ended up with a network of friends back home who neither have the slightest clue about gambling, nor the slightest interest in it.

I, on the other hand, have been gambling since I was a teenager. As soon as I turned 21, I was working as a blackjack dealer, and fully immersed in the gambling culture. Most of my family have been big-time gamblers for years. I've spent all-nighters with my Mom, aunts and uncles, cousins in one casino or another, cheering over a blackjack, playing the numbers in roulette, punching buttons on a machine, or bluffing at big pots on the poker table. We've all exchanged loans when we're stuck, pulled each other away from games when it was time, rejoiced in big wins, looked on as our stubborn loved ones dumped sometimes thousands of dollars into the great wide world of chance.

So, I suppose my friends (and family) were at least somewhat founded in their concerns for my move to this city of temptation. But what most degenerate gamblers don't know is that gambling can be, and often is, a problem for them. I knew this about myself. I owned it. And I knew that I would try my hardest to not let it get the best of me here, or anywhere. As every true gambler has been totalled by the chances they take, so have I.

There have been very few times since I moved here that I have put more at risk than I should have. Those times were devastating, and an unhappy reminder that, as a gambler, I walk that line every day. The line that defines the housed and the homeless, the sick and the well, the broken and the free. The line, that if crossed one too many times, takes it all away. Fortunately for me, my time in Vegas has been tied to a pretty strict budget, and I've made a priority of my bills, my rent, and my financial well-being. Such is not the case for most Las Vegas residents.

After living here for almost two years, I am still quite shocked when I discover a degenerate gambler who's unfettered addiction is otherwise well-hidden. Last night, a poker player of mine, upstanding guy, sweet, funny, caring, seemingly responsible man, reminded me that even the best of us can wind up being the worst of us. It was a heart-wrenching, sad, and ugly reminder.

In Las Vegas I have seen my supervisors steal from the poker players and dealers, a young girl I worked with try and steal from the casino cage, my favorite poker room manager get hauled out of Planet Hollywood for embezzlement, leaving a 7-month-old baby behind while he goes to jail for the majority of her life. All of this to support an addiction to games of chance. My co-workers sink their paychecks into slot machines, the men I meet and date sometimes drink too much and play until they've emptied their wallets. Everyone is susceptible to devastation, and most cradle it in their arms like a crippled child. They protect their addictions, and smother themselves with a hope that has no foundation, a hope that only gamblers hope - "I'll get it back this time". And still, as much as I've seen this all my life, it still takes me by surprise when it happens to someone I care about.

It's a lonely existence here, and a frightening prospect that there's really no one you can trust. No one. A degenerate gambler is generally a really good person, locked in hell. They steal. They lie. They beg and borrow. They pay you back so that they don't look like a degenerate gambler. And then they borrow again. They win a little and lose a lot. They worry. They hate themselves. Their food tastes like cardboard. Their alcohol tastes like holy water. They are ashamed. They are alone in a city with millions of other people just like them. They are sick. And they will always be here. Some come here because they are already this way. But most come here for opportunity, and end up in this life...working for money to gamble with, paying payday loans off, to borrow from other ones, always consumed with thoughts of money, and how to get enough to gamble with, always waiting, wanting for the big win.

My heart is heavy for my friends who, like many of us, have crossed the line and are no better off for it. The people who's potenetial could be unlimited...anywhere else but here. The people who's hearts are made up of gold...but would cut it out of their own chests to pawn it for cash.

I HEART LIFE!!

2010-02-28T12:49:00.000-08:00

For whatever reason, I am filled with the lightest, happiest bit of sunshine this morning. I suppose it could be I'm still a bit intoxicated from last night, or maybe that my morning headache has gone for now, or maybe because I'm listening to Jason Mraz - "I'm Yours" over and over.

It could also be, that after close examination of last night's events, I realize I escaped death, most certainly. I'm alive today....thanks angels.

Let me start over, and tell you a tale of a fun, wild, spectacular, and lucky evening...

In my sweatpants and t-shirt, without a bra, and my hair still wrapped in a towel, I embarked on the adventure of cooking dinner for my neighbors last night. Fried chicken and Janelle's Famous Mac 'n Cheese. Yummmmm. I had planned to change clothes before they all arrived, but as the story usually goes....I didn't have time. No matter though, it wasn't a dress-up event, and I could've really cared less, to be honest.

After much wine drinking, and gobbling of yummy, cheesy, fried, and gooey goodness, a spontaneous game night broke out with Cranium Turbo - a must-have for any home! As most of the time, we are quite lame and don't play any games or do anything fun except drink and chat and smoke, we had a bit of a rough start. But soon enough, we were all laughing, doing charades, drawing pictures with our eyes closed, ridiculing each other, giving high-fives, and did I mention...laughing?

There's rarely a time when I get together with friends that something random and humiliating doesn't happen to me. And this was no exception. At one point, I got up to talk to a friend on the phone, and my sweatpants caught on the chair, uncovered my bare ass, and mooned my guests. It was nearly enough to kill us all....we were in stitches for at least 30 full minutes. At one point I started singing "Pants on the Ground" and we all lost it a little bit more. It was one of those giggle-fests to top the charts...the more I laughed, the more they laughed - the more they laughed, the more I laughed....and it went on and on until we were holding our stomachs and crying and almost pissing our pants. Good times.

So, after all of that excitement, my plan was to go out with my friend Pamela to a Reggae club close to my house. The neighbors retreated home with a big pile of giggling leftovers, and I embarked on the task of getting ready to club it! After calling Liz, my Hair Guru, and getting advice on what to do with my hair for a Reggae outing, I whipped myself into a hot little package, and went outside to meet Pamela for my next adventure.

She had told me it was casual...to wear jeans...so I did. Pamela and her friend Princezz were in the car, dressed like Nubian Queens, beautiful - their hair and bodies were wrapped in rainbows it seemed. From their ears dangled ginormous works of art, and they were adorned in silver things, and gold things, and pretty things galore. Needless to say, I imagined the Reggae club scene in "Never Been Kissed", and hoped beyond hope that I wouldn't end up being the crazy white girl who dances on the stage with a pink boa after eating the special brownies...

I climbed in the car, and after seeing these two women in all their African glory, I said, "Damn, I don't have any Reggae clothes." To which Princezz replied, "What EXACTLY are Reggae clothes?" Oops. Shit. Pamela, my saving grace, piped in, "She just means she's got no colors, that's all." Princezz seemed to understand this inside bit of information, so off we went happily to the club, and I was forgiven my near-racist remark.

The club was a dingy little hole-in-the-wall bar, with a Reggae band playing in it. Good. Perfect. For whatever reason, maybe because I was new...or fresh meat, so to speak, it seemed everybody in that bar wanted a piece of me. An old Rastafarian man in the band, two or three guys watching the band, the lead singer of the band, a couple of other randoms, and a little asian woman.....I swear to God I had a neon sign on my head that said "Elixir" or "Sex" or maybe even "I'm Easy". Shit, I dunno. But I was like the flame, in a moth pit. Sometimes I love nights like that. One guy told me it was all "in my eyes", that he could see EVERYTHING. Hmmm... Two or three of them gave me their numbers, and I danced with so many people I was sure I was floating at one point. I ended up picking the lead singer. Cutie for sure, great kisser, and for the last song he sung my request - "No Woman, No Cry" while we danced and kissed and twirled together...talented young man to accomplish all of that at once, actually. ;)

Fun is a small word to describe such an experience, but that's what it was.

My brush with danger, and possible bloody death occurred in the parking lot of the club. Everyone was packing up, and we were all planning on heading to another club. There were several cars getting ready for our caravan. On the opposite side of the parking lot were three Mexican gangsters that had been fighting for some time. My singer had attempted to approach them at one point, but retreated with the news that "it's none of our business, we don't see it". So, we went along with our own business and forgot about the potential gang war about to break out.

At some point I decided I needed to go home instead of to the next club. I was pooped, and it was 4am already. Most everybody was in a car at that point. I wanted to say goodbye to a few of the band guys. I ran up to this black car, windows tinted, but the driver's window was open all the way. I dove in and hugged the driver. It was the meanest of the Mexican gangsters...the instigator from earlier. He instantly had his hand on a big shiny gun, but I think was so surprised to have been hugged instead of hit, that he just yelled at me instead of shot me. That was nice of him. I guess there really is something to be said about a good hug.

Pamela drove me home, she and my singer came upstairs to get leftover chicken and try and convice me to come back out. I bid them both farewell, dove into a couple chicken legs myself, explained all the commotion to my freshly woken-up roommate, took some advil, and went to bed.

It was only this morning that I fully realized the extent of craziness that occurred last night....all of it. And all I really have left to say is.....

I HEART LIFE!

Generation X

2010-01-27T11:10:00.000-08:00

I have always thought of my generation as the best. I'm not sure if other people, in other generations feel the same way about their own, or if it's just me. But to me, generations before us were a bit clueless, and generations after us, a bit spoiled.

Us X'ers have seen and done a lot of things in our lifetimes. We've gone from Atari, to Nintendo, to the Xbox. We've gone from Repulican to Democrat to Republican, and back to Democrat. We've seen the Berlin Wall come down, the Towers collapse, Katrina, and Haiti, just to mention a few. We've gone from rotary phones to cordless, to cellular and beyond. We remember HAL, and today, use a computer that fits in our pockets.

We adapt, we hope, we yearn for even more change. And we love. We are forgiving, strong, and talented. We explore, we work, we challenge ourselves.

Today, on Facebook, a fellow Gen X'er said it all...."you can turn off the sun, but I'm still gonna shine". -Shelley Purves Scarborough

That sentence, my inspiration for this blog post, sums up how I feel about my generation. We will always overcome loss, pain, and strife. We will always rise above. And we will always be grateful for the world we live in, and how we live in it. And if we don't like it, we'll change it.....because we can. Because we shine without sun. We rock like no other generation! We are unique, if only in how hopeful we remain, and how much we believe in ourselves.

Thanks Shelley!

"I love you" - What does it really mean?

2010-01-09T12:42:00.000-08:00

I realize that in my life, on a daily basis, I say "I love you" quite a bit.

I've had a lot of friends throughout my life who save their "I love you's" for special occasions, or for what they'd call "true friends" or family. I understand that, to a point. But, why reserve love? Why hold back? Why not just let yourself feel it, and say it, and feel it again when it's said back?

What does it mean, "I love you"? For some people I think it means, "have a good day", or "take care", or "goodbye, talk to ya later". I just finished a chat with a good friend of mine, and at the end of it, we both said our "I love you's". I'm pretty sure it meant just that, especially because this particular friend was one of those who, at times, reserves the statement for important people. How do I feel about that? Important.

Does "I love you" mean more from people who reserve it for the "special" ones in their lives?

What do I mean when I say "I love you"? Sometimes I mean that I love your spirit, your humor, your beauty, your smile, your friendship, your caring heart. Sometimes I mean I love that we can relate about something. Sometimes I mean I love that you love me. But, regardless, I always mean it. And I say it A LOT.

There are infinite ways to love. There is infinite opportunity to love. It is the most important thing in the world, to love someone or something.

Are there different degrees of love? Or is love just love. I love my cat. I love my family. I love my friends. I love my cozy bed. Shall we lump them all together, or do we somehow create a love chart to define the difference, the importance of each thing loved? I could never say I love one person more than another person, even though I might like one more than another. But, a love-ranking system for people just seems like it's missing the point. Either you love someone or you don't, right?

The only thing I know for sure about love is that it's the right thing to do. No, it's not always easy, and no, it's not always fun. Sometimes it's downright awful. But for the most part, love is all we need. Love for our children, love for our friends and family. Love for ourselves. Love for our work, our home, our pets, our coffee creamer. Every bit of love we feel for, or from another thing, or person.....is what keeps us going.

If you got shot in the heart, you'd die. The heart is the symbol for love. Coincidence? If you got shot in the love, you'd surely die. For, what would be the point of living without it?

Love something or someone today - and tell them (or it) about it. Even if that means you have to say to a slice of cheese, "I love you!"

Today, I've already told the coffee pot I loved it, my cousin, and a good friend heard it too. Now I feel like calling everyone I know and saying it some more. Dr. Drew, sign me up! I have a love addiction! ;)

Ode to the Ramble

2009-12-29T09:41:00.000-08:00

This morning I initially woke up to a text message from a man we'll call R. The exchange went like this:
R: "I miss and wuv u!! Wish u were in my cold-empty bed."
Me: "No u don't :)"
R: "Harsh! I just wanna hold u"
Me: "Yeah, but i don't think u really do. Lol, i'm pretty sure i don't smell very good, my mouth is gross, and i'm all sticky and sweaty right now lol. That's all i meant. ;)"
R: "I will give u something 2 sweat about. Jump in the shower i will bring the soap!"
Me: "Oh, R, way too early to be sexy. I'm goin' back to sleep :("

This is a poker player of mine, a man I've talked to just once on the phone, albeit for 2 hours, but still... My thoughts around this guy are shaky. I've known of his infatuation for a while, he always picks on me at work. He watches my every move when I get up or walk around or do, well,... anything. He's always asking me out or asking me about my life when the game dies or hasn't started yet. He's an interesting guy, I'll give him that. But, I'm not attracted to him. If there was ever a time in my life I wish I could force my brain receptors to shoot fireworks, this is probably one of those times. He told me on the phone that he wants to be with me, take care of me, KNOW me. I told him he shouldn't get mixed up with a girl like me. I've got too much going on, and I can't give my entire love and focus to anyone. What I meant was that I couldn't give it to him.

******

So, after I slept for a little while longer, I decided to get up - or more specifically, my bladder decided for me. I turned on my computer, wished strongly that there was fresh coffee in the kitchen, and had a cigarette. I considered texting my roommate (already at work), to ask about the coffee, but decided against it because I didn't want to annoy him, and that would've definitely annoyed him. I thought about Jeff and Jessica - my friends from Portland who left last night after a 2-day visit. We drank the bar out of liquor the other night - and then had a bathtub party at my house. Good times.

******

After waiting for what seemed like a year for my computer to start up and get moving, I checked both my emails. Hotmail delivered me some new friends on Facebook, new followers on Twitter, and one of my last Unemployment deposits in my account. But Yahoo Mail delivered something quite different. One of the most touching and sweet and heartfelt...and needed messages I have ever received. Kelly. An old high-school party friend, a new forever friend. A spectacular person. This email, her kind, thoughtful words, brought me to tears. We recently reconnected on Facebook, and discovered each other's Etsy stores, where we have used the "convo" feature to chat about stuff and business back and forth for a coupla months now. She noticed in my recent convos that I sounded a bit down, and asked if I was okay. I wrote a short paragraph telling her I was okay, but yes, a bit down, and wondering which path I should take next in my life. Wondering if I should put some things on hold until I found out if my brother was going to live or die. She didn't know what I was talking about. So, instead of asking...she found and read my ENTIRE blog. And, now she knows. Her email to me was one that complimented my writing, related wholly to my life, reached out quickly and entirely and wrapped around my heart, and asked for true friendship. Yes, is the answer. Yes, yes, yes. A friend like this one is a friend I will forever love, cherish, and give utmost gratitude for. And I can't wait to hear more about her life, share our stories, laugh, cry, and just plain relate...and love.

******

After making my own coffee, and complaining about it on Facebook, I sporadically watched "The West Wing", uploaded pictures from Jeff & Jessica's crazy visit/drunken escapade, and decided to write in my blog. Now "Philadelphia" is on, and that's a damn sad movie. I need to do my laundry so I have something to wear to work tonight. But I feel like writing, I feel like being lazy, and I wish I had a coffee pot in my room because the kitchen still seems so far away.

******

I realized the other day that I don't have any pictures of my cat on Facebook. I think I'm a bad mom.

******

My friend Leanna texted me this morning about how much fun she had with her family over Christmas - and that she spent a lot of time with a new boy. She's going to call me later to tell me the dish.

******

I'm tired of Christmas coffee creamer...I'm ready to go back to the normal stuff. No more mint and chocolate, just give me the regular ol' Southern Butter Pecan or Caramel Machiado. Christmas is over, and thank goodness for that. Not that I'm being a Scrooge, but well, I guess I am. Though it's a joyous time, it sucks too, and depressed me a bit. I'm definitely ready for a new year, a new start, a new anything. Somehow I got New Year's Eve off at work, which is a great thing. My friend Patty is coming in to town on that day, and I'm sure we're gonna drink yet another bar out of liquor on that night. Everywhere I turn in my house is a mess. Ugh. The Christmas tree is now out on my balcony, decorations and all. There's laundry in five places, the kitchen smells a little bit less disgusting because my roommate finally took the crab-filled garbage out, but it's still a big, fat mess.

******

So, how am I feeling? Well, a bit overwhelmed, a bit underwhelmed. A bit sore. A bit tired. A bit hopeless. A bit confused. I want a relationship, but not the ones I'm offered. I want a clean house, but I don't want to clean it. I want a business that sustains my life so that I don't have to work for anyone else anymore. But I'm losing confidence. I want to be happy, but it's a hard job sometimes. I want to stay motivated, but it's a lot of work. What I really want is to curl up in my comfy bed and sleep for a month. But, instead, I'll do my laundry. I'll go to work. I'll find something to love about each day, maybe even each moment. I'll force myself to find some light, until the light is just there again. I'll write, and that'll help. I'll love - I'm good at that. I'll hope, even though right now I don't think there's a point to it. And I'll stay afloat.

Just a Few AMAZING Women, & Friends of Mine

2009-12-09T10:04:00.000-08:00

There's a billion other things I could be doing besides blogging. But I don't want to. I miss writing. After a month of non-stop writing for National Novel Writing Month, and now over a week of absolutely NO writing of any kind, I'm ready to say something. I'm just not sure what.

I'm going home to Oregon for ten days. I'll leave Vegas tomorrow night. I really do love living in Las Vegas, but I'm VERY happy to be going home. I miss my Mom. I miss my brother. I miss my friends the most, though. This town is a crazy place to be if you like having friends. No one wants to let you too close. The general mindset is that either you will move away soon, or they might move away, and who stays friends after that? These people are nuts. I have friends all over this country, and some abroad. Sure, we don't talk every day, or even every year, but we still love each other and care about each other. And when we do pick up the phone, it is like there hasn't been a moment that's passed since the last time. People are intrinsically the same as when you first met them. We don't change much, inwardly. And that's comforting to me.

I want to mention a few of my closest friends today, because I love them, and I'm thinking about them. And by close, I don't mean in proximity, I mean in my heart.

Tracie - My Best Friend - She's in Redmond, OR - I love her smile, I love her momminess, I love her heart, and her strength, and our memories, and even her neat-freakness. She is a miracle, a light, a life-saving breath when I'm choking on my own pain. She's beautiful.

Mariana (Eme-puta) - She's in Ashland, OR - She makes me laugh, she makes me think, she's beautiful, talented, amazing at belly dancing, and a fantastic mother and wife, I adore her. And my life wouldn't be the same without her.

Saranga (Sarangie) - She's in Washington D.C. (or Africa, depending on the year) - This woman is amazing. She has done things most of us only dream about, she is a fantastic writer, friend, philanthropist, and person. Her heart is HUGE, and she's got a brain to match. Lovely, lovely person.

Martha (Marth) - She's in San Francisco, CA - One of my favorite friends of all time. I truly cherish the absolute genuine person she is. There's no bullshit here, folks. The best writer I've ever met, a fantastic friend (the only friend I have who actually writes letters), a kind and strong spirit, and with whom I've had minimal face-to-face friend time, but always significant. There is meaning in every moment with Martha. I love that.

LeAnna (Banana) - She's in Bend, OR - Without her in my life, there would have been much less laughter. My jaw hurts EVERY TIME I spend time with her, because we never stop laughing at each other, never. We have shared good and bad times, and have always come out of it, still laughing. She's one of the most giving and caring and no-nonsense women I've ever met, and I appreciate her for all of it.

Liz (Lizzie, or LizARD) - She's in Toledo, OR - Fantastic human being. One of the most loving people I have encountered, and funny too. She's laid back, happy, and always striving to make things just a little bit better. She's raised a beautiful daughter, created a fantastic business, and did it all mainly on her own - and without complaint. True character.

Jeanine (Jeaninieeeee) - She's in Davie, FL - Spectacular new friend! Talk about caring, loving, supportive, sweet, hilarious, beautiful, and generally A-MAZING! We've only had about 4 weeks of face-to-face friend time, but I'm positive our friendship will last a lifetime. How can you beat that??

Christine (Christiner-Wiener) - She's somewhere in Indiana (I think) - There's not an evil bone in her body. And oh, the struggles she has overcome. I love her beauty, her heart, her passion, her smile, her friendship, and her taste in music! She's simply wonderful.

Andrea - She's in Bend, OR - Though we have had our ups and downs, and spent many years without communication until recently, we have always shared a deep bond of true friendship. Our love for each other reaches through everything, and somehow, we always end up finding each other again. I couldn't be happier about that.

Stephanie (Step-On-Me) - She's in California, can't remember the city - My second roommate in college, she and I have remained friends for a long time. When I think of her, I think about how hilariously sarcastic she is, and how genuinely caring too. She is downright gorgeous, in mind, body, and spirit! I miss her terribly and wish upon a star that we could get together for a drink soon.

Paige (Pagina) - She's in Portland, OR - Oh, what a glorious woman she is! I love her hope, her strength, her matter-of-factness, and her beautiful smile! I met her in college in Ashland, and I think we fought over a boy, initially. But that was a crazy (literally crazy) boy and Paige and I are still friends after all these years. She's so talented, smart, funny, and fantastic - there just aren't enough words.

Lisa & Megan (Twin Miss McCaw-wahs) - They're in Bend, OR - Old, and new friends, they've been such a support to me recently. Through the magic of the internet, we have reconnected, and I can't help but feel like I've missed out on so much of their wonderfulness over the years. They're sweet, caring, hilarious, and encouraging. They're favorite new (and old) friends, and I'm looking forward to knowing them for a very long time. Beautiful, simply beautiful, they are, and in spectacularly different ways.

So, these are a few women, friends, in my life that today, I am truly grateful for, and love dearly. I know I don't have to live in their neighborhoods, or see them every day to know that they love me back, and it'll always be that way. These are the women I know I can count on. These are the people I pile into my heart, shuffle around, and pull out when I need certain things. They all serve spectacularly different "friend needs" and they are all AMAZING people.

Take time today to call a friend. Take time to love someone. Take time for yourself. Take time to connect. You'll never know who you might find out there in that big scary world, and believe me, there are TONS of beautiful, sparkling gems to discover. These are a few of mine.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, (Final) Chapter Forty-Two - In Mom's Eyes

2009-12-01T00:09:00.000-08:00

Chapter Forty-Two – Dreams – In Mom’s Eyes
2009, Present Day – I am 60, Scott is 35, Julie is 32

I dream that my children will both be happy and healthy one day soon. I dream that Scott will live a long life, and a life without pain, or heartache. I dream that Julie will find her niche in life, and really go for it. I know she can do it, she’s an amazing woman. When I look at her, I know I’ve done something right in my life. When I look at Scott, I know I’ve done a lot of things wrong. But I wonder how they both grew up in the same household and ended up so different. I know I treated them differently, growing up, but if anything, Scott should be more stable. I gave him more love, more care, more help, more attention. Because he needed it. He always needed it. Julie has been such an independent child, all her life. She’s had such big ideas, and big determination to match. She’s a shining star, whose shine won’t be tarnished, by anything or anyone. And that girl, that woman, has been through hell and back in this life. When I really think about all she’s been through, I am amazed. So much so, that I cannot speak, and usually cry for her. And yet, she seems to have overcome it all, and in a strange way, USED it all, to become who she is today. And that is one amazing young woman.

I dream that Julie finds someone to love her and appreciate all that she is, and all that she does. I dream that she’s able to be a mother soon, it’s all she’s talked about since she was a little girl. And she’d be a wonderful mother. I want to have grandchildren, and I’m afraid Julie is my only hope. Most days I don’t even think Scott will survive the year, let alone get better quick enough to find a wife, and have children. I dream that it’s still possible for him, but not often. I can't let myself look that far into the future with him, because I’m afraid to get my hopes up.

I do dream, though, that Scott gets better. Because the alternative is that he doesn’t. And I still really don’t know what’s going to happen if he dies. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I think Julie will make it through, but I worry that this could be the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back for her. With as much as she’s already endured throughout her life, this may be the thing that finally breaks her. I don’t know. But I don’t think so. I guess we’ll just see what happens. I dream that he gets better so that I can too, so that Julie can stop worrying about him, so that we can all stop worrying about him. And we can get on with our lives.

I dream that someday I will find enough courage to write a book. I’ve wanted to write a book about so many things throughout my life, and I still want to do it. I still have ideas. But I haven’t got the time, and I haven’t got the energy to do it right now. It takes a lot of energy to live with Scott, it wears me out. But Julie just had a big surprise 60th birthday for me, and she put together this book of sayings and well-wishes from all the family and my friends. At least half the book has quotes from people telling me to write a book. They said some really nice things to Julie, for her to put in that book, about how smart they think I am, and how talented I am at writing. God, it made me feel good to hear that, gave me a big boost, and definitely got me started thinking about writing a lot. I will do it someday, and I don’t even care if I ever publish a thing. But to do it, to accomplish that one feat, to write a book, would be my biggest life long dream, and the one I would hold dearest to my heart if I ever got to do it.

I dream that someday my children will be independent of me, but not that they’ll forget me. I want them in my life, and nearby. They are good people, and we’ve been through so much together that our bond is stronger than I’ve ever felt for anyone else, even my own parents. I fear that when they become independent, they won’t need me anymore, or won’t want me around. But I know that’s nonsense, really. When Julie finally has a family of her own, I’m sure she’ll want to bring them to Grandma’s house. I can’t wait for that. I imagine Julie with a few kids, a couple of little girls, maybe a couple of little boys too. I want to spoil them, do Grandma things with them. Like my Mom spoiled Julie, and Scott. She treated them like they were angels, she treated them like they were friends. She let them in on little secrets, and taught them things they still remember. I can’t wait to have grandbabies to love. I can’t wait to show them all the love that my parents gave me, and my children. And all the love I have in my heart for my own children. I just hope they’ll be able to meet, and get to know their uncle, Scott.

My son, Scott, is what I dream of most nights when I sleep. I dream sometimes that he’s thin, sometimes that he’s twice the size he is now, like a cartoon character. I dream that he stops breathing, I dream that he just falls over one day, falls over dead. I dream that he gets better and laughs all the time. I dream of him with my Mom and Dad, how he was when he was little. How he followed them around and was like Dad’s little shadow. How Mom used to put him, then later Julie, in bed with her as babies, so they’d sleep through the night. And they slept there until she after she died. I once caught Julie taking a nap in Mom’s bed, after she died. She was holding one of Mom’s empty bottles of perfume, and the electric blanket was on HIGH. She was sweating, with one leg hanging off the side of the bed, and one under the covers. She was out like a light, but I swear to God she had a smile on her face. And I wondered what she must be dreaming about. Maybe it was her Grandma, maybe it was the water dogs she and Scott had caught that day, hundreds of them. Maybe she was dreaming about school or her friends, or me. But she was smiling, and sweating in that blanket, and I didn’t touch her, or make a sound. I just held that picture in my head for always. For me.

Tonight I want to make my dream what I want it to be, so let’s see if it works. Tonight I’ll dream of easier times. I’ll dream that Julie and Scott are safe and happy. That before too long, a miracle will happen, and all things good will start for us. I’ll dream of that miracle all night, and when I wake up, it’ll be here. Someone, somewhere, will save Scott, save us all.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Forty-One - In Scott's Eyes

2009-12-01T00:08:00.000-08:00

Chapter Forty-One – Dreams – In Scott’s Eyes
2009, Present Day – Mom is 60, I am 35, Julie is 32

I had a dream this afternoon that I was dead. But I was a skinny dead person. It was really weird, and I woke up sweating. But I’m glad I was skinny at least. I don’t want to be a fat dead person. I don’t want to be fat in heaven either. I hope it doesn’t work that way. I dreamt I was floating over my old grade school in Salem. I saw all my old friends on the playground, but I couldn’t stop and play with them. They couldn’t see me, or hear me call their names. It was a shitty dream, really. Except the skinny part.

Most days I dream that I become thin, that I can move around with ease, that I am living on my own, taking care of myself, and living a normal life. I dream about going places and doing things I’ve only read about or seen on t.v. I want to travel, and see things, and meet regular people. The friends I have are losers. I don’t even like them, but I feel like they’re the only friends I have, so it’s better to have loser friends than none at all. But most days I can’t stand them. And don’t want to see or talk to them, but I do anyway, because I don’t want to be a bad friend to anybody, even losers. I’m bad at enough things, friendship doesn’t have to be one of them.

I dream about Julie becoming a mom. I know she really wants that someday, and she’s not getting any younger. So, I hope she gets it. I hope she finds a good man, and falls in love, has a couple of babies, and lives happily ever after. I wonder sometimes why she hasn’t done that yet. I hope beyond hope that it’s not because of me. She’s put a lot of her life on hold because of me, and if that’s one of the things she’s given up to take care of me, I’ll never forgive myself. I think we actually had this conversation a few years ago, and she assured me that I wasn’t the reason, that she just hadn’t found her true love yet. But I’m not entirely convinced. Especially because she tells me now that she is thinking about coming home to take care of me again. Leaving Las Vegas…for me. I can’t let her do that, I just won’t. That’s the last thing I want. And she’s really doing well there, I can’t take that away from her. But I guess I can’t really stop her either. I’ll be really pissed off though, if she comes back. As much as we probably need her, as much as I need her, I don’t want her here. She deserves to have a life. And so does my Mom, and so do I, for that matter.

I dream for my Mom to live her life to the fullest while she can. But she’s so tired all the time, and in pain too, I worry about her. I don’t know if she’s ever going to get better either. And with the stress I cause her, and the stress of her job, I’m afraid she’ll never have the energy to do the things SHE wants to do. But I dream that she finds a cabin to buy, way up in the woods somewhere, filled up with books to read, and with lots of windows for her to look out of while she’s writing her own. I dream that she’ll be able to travel again too. I know she wants to go back to New Orleans, she really loved it there. And she’s been wanting to go help them somehow after the hurricane. They still need help, and she still wants to go, so I dream that one day it’ll be possible for her. Mostly, I dream that she feels better, and is able to live a very long life. But I’m not sure how that will turn out if I die. I don’t know if she’ll break down, or if she’ll fly free. And the sad part is, either way, I’ll be dead.

I dream that one day, I won’t think about dying so much. That I will be so consumed with living, that the thought of death will only enter my head when I’m in reverie about the loved ones I’ve lost. That it won’t have anything to do with me, or Julie, or Mom. I dream that at some point, this nightmare will be over, or that one day soon, I’ll wake up thin. Just wake up that way. And be done with it. I fantasize about buying clothes in a regular store, going in a store at all, without being stared and pointed at. I wonder if I’ll always be looking over my shoulder as a result of being a huge man. If I’ll always be leery of people. If I’ll ever trust anyone fully again, outside of my family.

I dream that I could turn back time, to before I was really fat. And do it all over again. Knowing what I do now, about my body, about my mind, I dream that I had another chance. And in that dream, I turn out happy.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Forty - In Julie's Eyes

2009-12-01T00:07:00.000-08:00

Chapter Forty – Dreams – In Julie’s Eyes
2009, Present Day – Mom is 60, Scott is 35, I am 32

I dream about doing a lot of things in my life. I dream about having a bakery, a place I go to every morning at 3am to start baking breads and muffins, and all things yummy. I dream of becoming a published writer, writing novels, and articles, and children’s books. I dream of traveling to Italy, Norway, Australia, and many other places. And I dream of getting married someday soon, having a family of my own. I’ve always wanted a lot of kids, but I’m getting older now, and don’t know how feasible it’ll be to have lots of them, so maybe just a couple. I don’t know, but I dream about it, about being a Mom. And about owning a business, and doing what makes me happy in life. Fortunately for me, there are a lot of things that make me happy in life. I’m passionate about several different arts and crafts, and I love people. I love talking to them, learning about them, helping them when they need it, and befriending them. I love being needed by people too. It makes me feel important, like I can help somebody. I think it’s so important to me because of how hopeless I feel about helping Scott. I don’t know, maybe I just think too much.

I have other dreams too, the regular kind you have while sleeping. Lately they have been strange, unsettling. A lot of people from my past have popped up, people who I don’t care to see again, ever. But there they are, in my dream. Otherwise, I haven’t even thought of them in real life, so why am I dreaming about them? I’ll never understand dreams like that. It just doesn’t make any sense. Why can’t sleep just be sleep? Why do I have to think of crazy bad things while I sleep? There’s enough running through my head during the day, enough to kill a horse. I don’t want to think about bad things when I dream anymore. But I guess it doesn’t work that way.

I dream about me and Scott going places together. About him having a family, and inviting me over for a barbecue. I dream that he’s normal-sized, though I don’t even remember a time when he was even close. I have to imagine the whole scenario, make it up. But I can see it, I can see the day when he can put his arms around me, and I can put my arms around him. I can see the day that we don’t have to worry about how to get somewhere or where he’s going to sit when we get there. I can see the day when he isn’t on pain pills, and has a smile on his face most of the time. I can see him healthy. I dream about that all the time. I want that for him so bad, for him to have a normal life, to be able to have his own dreams again, real ones, reachable ones.

And I dream about Mom being happy. Happy with her life, enough so that she decides to embark on new adventures, or find herself a new man. She’s a beautiful person with a spectacular mind. She’s amazingly talented at writing, and so much more. She is the best friend anyone could ask for, and I know she wants to do something besides take care of Scott. But at the moment she won’t allow herself to even think of it. Someday, I dream that she will be happy. That she will dream again too. That she will live the life she deserves. That Scott and I both will make her proud. That she’ll leave behind her guilt. And that she’ll do what she wants to do, once and for all, for herself.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty-Nine - In Mom's Eyes

2009-12-01T00:06:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirty-Nine – Today, Tomorrow? – In Mom’s Eyes
2009, Present Day – I am 60, Scott is 35, Julie is 32

Today I came home and Scott was up, in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, trying to catch his breath. He was angry, and sweating and in pain. This is what I come home to most days, or if not, he is in his room, laying and watching t.v., laying and listening to music, laying and reading, or just laying. He’s in bed a lot these days. I know he gets up sometimes, because he does the laundry, and does the dishes. But he doesn’t do much else, and isn’t interested in doing much either. He’s awfully depressed these days, and I don’t know what to do about it. It takes a lot for me to even talk to him some days, because it seems like there’s nothing to talk about but his weight. And there’s nothing good about that. Julie wrote him a letter about going to the ranch in Texas. She talked to me about it too, but I don’t know what to think.

I don’t know how we’d get him there. I don’t know if he’d make it or not. I don’t know if it’s the right thing. I just don’t know. But we don’t have the money anyway, so it doesn’t really matter I guess. I won’t let my sister pay for it. I just don’t want to deal with her anymore. And Julie asked me if I’d rather just let Scott die, than swallow my pride and accept the money. Of course I don’t want Scott to die, but I didn’t have an answer for her. If that IS the only help we can get, and my pride gets in the way, how will I ever deal with the guilt of that? Am I going to cause my son’s death, because I’m stubborn? Because I don’t want my sister’s help? There has got to be another way.

Today Scott was mad because I didn’t renew his prescriptions in time, and he’s going to be out of pain pills some time this weekend. He’ll go through withdrawals and I’ll find somewhere to go, out of the house and away from his temper. He’s mad at ME, because I took control of his medicines a few weeks ago. I have them hidden, from him, and from his so-called friends. Someone had gotten into them, and taken a bunch of different ones, leaving him short last month too, way short. Who would do that? I don’t know about these people. They all have mental problems, and other problems. Not a one of them is on the up-and-up, and they’re bad for Scott. They just depress him, and distract him, and suck any energy he has away. So, I took all his pills and hid them, have been doling them out to him daily so that we don’t have a problem again. But I forgot this weekend was a holiday, and that the pharmacy would be closed certain hours. I forgot, and he’s mad. He has been crying, and is feeling really down, hopeless too. I can’t help him, I don’t know what to say anymore except that I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the life I’ve made for him. I’m sorry that he’s in pain. I’m sorry that I can’t help him. I’m sorry that whatever I did when he was growing up made him turn out this way. I’m sorry for a lot of things, every day. But mostly I’m sorry that he’s probably going to die. Without ever having a relationship, a home of his own, or a child. Without ever traveling to another country, or even another state as an adult. Without ever becoming what he wants to be, and succeeding at life, reaching his goals. He’ll probably never experience any of that, and I’m sorry about it. Sometimes it makes me so sad, I just want to disappear. Forget about everything, start over. Sometimes it makes me so angry, I just want to punch something, or someone. But most of the time, I just feel numb.

Tomorrow is the weekend. I’ll stay in my room most of the time, play on my Nintendo DSi that Julie got me for my birthday. Lose myself in crossword puzzles or books or stupid t.v. shows. I’ll try to stay calm when Scott freaks out. I’ll try not to let this house get me down, how dirty it is, how broken it is. I’ll read the paper and lose myself in that. I’ll take a nap, or take a drive. I’ll get through one more day by sheer avoidance of it. Tomorrow is a new day, my Dad used to say. But tomorrow is the same day as today, and the day after tomorrow will be the same as that. And one day, tomorrow is going to be the day we bury Scott. And that one day might be sooner than we all think.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty-Eight - In Scott's Eyes

2009-12-01T00:04:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirty-Eight – Today, Tomorrow? – In Scott’s Eyes
2009, Present Day – Mom is 60, I am 35, Julie is 32

Julie sent me this letter, and God it made me feel bad. I know how she feels about me, and I know I’m letting her down every day. But I don’t know what to tell her. I’m not going to that ranch. More than anything, I don’t want to owe anyone in this family anything – ever again. My aunt – the one with the money – has been treating my Mom like shit lately, and I won’t have anything to do with help from her. I don’t want it, and I don’t need it. I can do this on my own, if I can just find a support system of some sort, just find some help locally. I need a trainer. I need someone, and want desperately for someone to just come to the house every day and kick my ass into gear. Make me work out. Make me do it no matter what kind of fit I throw or tantrum I have. I need someone like that. And I need an exercise bike. Something to work out with. But it’s virtually impossible to find one that will sustain my weight. Mom and I thought we found one not long ago, but it didn’t work out. It never works out.

I talked to Julie a little bit about her letter, finally. It took me a while to be able to talk about it at all. I wasn’t mad at her for anything she said, just hurt about it a little. Just feeling depressed and exposed. I feel her hopelessness growing and it’s exactly the opposite of what I need from her. But how am I supposed to expect her to have hope? I’m a big fat loser who never does what he says. I have a bad temper. I can’t stay motivated. I lie, still, about what I eat. I don’t know why she still loves me at all. But she’s trying really hard to find me help. I love her for that, but I feel like I’m disappointing her even more every day. I don’t call her very often because I don’t want to talk to her about ME anymore. I don’t want the conversation to end up where it always does…on my diet, my exercise, my plan, my efforts – or lack of them, my sleeping patterns, how much I lay in bed. I don’t want to talk about it anymore! I don’t want to be THIS anymore. Some days I consider killing myself, but those days aren’t really very often. I just want so bad to disappear sometimes, and even try and will myself to have a heart attack. I want Mom and Julie to have the lives they deserve. I want to have a life too, but if I can’t have that, then maybe at least THEY can, without me around. I feel miserable. All the time.

I did actually look at the ranch website the other day. It looks like a pretty cool place, actually. But it freaked me out to think of going there. What if I went there and Mom and Julie never came to see me? What if they just went on with their lives, without me, and forgot about me? What if I died there? Most people don’t really know what they’re in for when it comes to caring for me. I have a bad temper sometimes, mostly because of the pain, and the pain pills. I can’t control myself sometimes, and I say the meanest things. What if I got kicked out? What if I couldn’t do what they needed me to do? The whole idea scares the shit out of me, and there’s got to be a way to do this at home. I’ve got to find a way. But, God, I’m tired. And, God, I hurt. All the way to my soul and back, I hurt.

Tomorrow I’m going to start boxing Vlad, my rubber boxing statue. He helps me get out my aggression, he’s the only work out I can handle right now, and only for a few minutes at a time. Tomorrow, I’m going to make a new plan. I’ll make a healthy grocery list, make some phone calls, try to find another exercise bike, and make Julie proud. Tomorrow, I’ll get on it, and stay motivated. Tomorrow is another day, and I look forward to it. I’ll make it happen…tomorrow.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Section Prelude & Chapter Thirty-Seven - In Julie's Eyes

2009-12-01T00:02:00.000-08:00

Scott's Story
Today, Tomorrow?

Every day now, I picture my brother’s funeral. I’m sure we’ll have it out where Grandma and Grandpa are buried. I’ve been there a lot, so I can picture it well. For some reason I still picture him in a casket, although I know we are going to have him cremated. I don’t know why I picture that, but it’s always a silver casket, a big one. And it is a big task to unload it from the hearse. It rains on that day, like it always seems to at funerals. Everyone comes, and cries, and hugs me and Mom. Everyone is racked with guilt and sorrow. They all whisper about how young he is, about what’s going to happen to Mom and I. We go back to Gramps’ house where my aunt now lives. There is a lot of people, and food, and the fire is hot. Everyone eats, and sweats, and stares at nothing, and talks about nothing. I just wander around and look at all the food. I hate it. I want to throw it all to the dogs. It killed him, and I hate it. I can’t even eat a bite. I’ve just lost my brother, and the whole world is worse off for it. Every day now, I think of that. And I think of what else I can do to try and save him. And this is my answer. These pages, this mini-novel. This is the only hope I’ve got, and all my chips are in, my cards on the table. And I just pray to whoever or whatever is out there, that it works.

Every day now, I try to focus on losing weight, getting better. I know my Mom and Julie are feeling hopeless, and Julie is really losing it, but I’m still trying to do something. I just get so discouraged, so tired, and it’s so hard to stay motivated. I need help, there’s no denying it anymore. Julie tells me to find the help, get on the phone, work harder, find somebody. And I want to, but I forget, or get tired, or lose hope myself, or get frustrated. It’s not that easy, and I don’t know how to stay motivated to do ANYTHING, even make phone calls. I don’t think that’s going to work anyway, so what’s the point? Mom barely talks to me anymore, except about what I need to do, what we’re going to do to change all this. She’s so frustrated and angry, and I don’t blame her. I’m just a big disappointment to everyone. I really hate my life. But I still want to strive for a better life, to make something of myself, to travel, see things, move out of this town. I want to be able to help children overcome weight issues someday. I want to be a businessman. I want to move to Vegas and see my sister. I want to succeed. But I can’t do any of those things until I get better. Problem is, every day I feel worse. Every day my pain gets the best of me. Every day I don’t do what I need to do. And every day I give up a little bit more. I’m losing hope. Every day.

Every day now, I come home and go to my room. I have such a hard time dealing with Scott without getting angry, or upset, or even hateful. I don’t mean to react to him that way, I just love him so much, and I’m so worried he’s going to die, that every day I lose control of my emotions, and any hope, a little bit more. I just don’t know how to cope with it anymore, except to hide from it, try and forget about it, and become numb. I want so much to help him, but there’s nothing more I can do. I’ve tried everything I know of to try. He talks all the time about moving to Vegas, about getting on with his life. Then he does NOTHING to make it happen. It’s all empty words, empty hope, empty dreams. He’s lying to himself, setting himself up for failure. Again. And I can’t even bear to listen to it anymore. I have failed him. I don’t know what to do. And every day, I wait for him to die. I wait for him to die…every day. My son.

Chapter Thirty-Seven – Today, Tomorrow? – In Julie’s Eyes
2009, Present Day – Mom is 60, Scott is 35, I am 32

A couple of months ago, I talked to Scott about this ranch I found in Texas, a place he could go to get better. I have been researching and making phone calls for years now. But most recently spent about two weeks on the phone with every hospital and treatment center across the country, looking for a solution for him. Looking for help. Besides this ranch, Rancho Cortez, there’s nothing else out there. There are a few facilities on the East Coast, but they don’t take Scott’s Oregon health insurance, and he’d have to be a resident to get state health insurance first. Since that’s pretty much impossible, and we can’t afford to pay $10,000 to $15,000 a month for his care in a place like that, things look pretty hopeless. The ranch is still expensive, for sure. It costs about $4000 a month, and that’s the discounted work-program cost. I think he could really prosper out there, and I think it’s the only solution for him. But he doesn’t like it, and the only person that can help pay for it has pissed off my Mom, to the point where now she won’t accept help either, even if it means saving him.

Not long ago, I wrote Scott a letter, telling him how I feel about everything. The response I got was less than satisfactory. He still doesn’t want to go to the ranch, he doesn’t know what he wants, and he’s full of excuses. Here’s the letter:

My Dearest Brother Scott,

I wanted to write you a letter because I can't sit down and talk with you in person, unfortunately, and over the phone is not right either. I really want you to know how I feel about some stuff and for us to try and figure out a solution together. I love you so much and I don't think you can even imagine or understand it fully. The reason I don't think you could really fathom the love I have for you is because it is clear that you don't have much love for yourself, and I even wonder if you can really feel love from me or anyone else under those circumstances. That being said, I really DO love you so, so much, and hopefully one day you'll understand how much. And maybe one day, you'll love yourself too. You are a wonderful person with a ton of great qualities. You are very intelligent, kind, caring, understanding, giving, and loving. You have a heart the size of Mount Everest. You are a very special person and I cherish you as my brother.

I know you don't like to hear things I have to say about your life sometimes, or never. And I know you don't particularly like to talk about your issues at all most days. I understand you have a lot of depression at times, and your physical pain is nothing I ever want to imagine, or ever could. I can't and won't give up on you. I want my big brother back. Right now. It has been years and years since you have just called me out of the blue to ask how my day was. I call you quite often to ask how your day is, encourage you to feel better or stay on track with whatever the current plan is, or just to talk and share things with you. I remind you to make a doctor's appointment, or stay positive. I try and teach you ways to train your mind to be in a happier place. I try to help you however I can from a distance. Most of the time I feel like I'm just annoying you. Most of the time, I feel like you want me to give up or stop suggesting things or just plain go away. Sometimes you seem to cheer up when I call. Sometimes we have a good, hopeful talk about the future. Sometimes you aren't too tired to hold a conversation. But those times aren't very often, unfortunately, and I just want a big brother again. I want you to be in a place with yourself that you are healthy and happier, and where you actually call ME, ask how my day is, give me advice, encourage me, just plain chat with me - and laugh. Quite frankly, I don't think it's even possible for that to really happen for now. I liken it to if you were dying of cancer. I would never expect you, in that condition, to be able to care for anyone but yourself because it would be more important for you to focus on your health or recovery than on anyone else. I know you love me, and I know you have a very special place in your heart for me. But I also know you can't fully participate in that love or our relationship because of how sick you are.

I want so much for you. I want mostly for you to be happy and healthy. I want you to travel, see things, meet people. I want you to be able to work again, and be successful. I want you to have everything in life you desire. I want you to have hope. I want you to have a relationship and maybe even some kids someday - if that's what you want. I just want you to have every opportunity and joy in the world. I really do. It's been almost 2 months now since we talked about the ranch in Texas. You told me that if this glycemic index thing didn't give you big results that you would go there. I don't think you're getting the big results you were looking for. But, you still don't want to go, and now it's because you don't want family to pay for it. This may seem harsh, but would you rather have family pay for a program like that, or pay for your funeral? Or pay every day - in lost love, feeling helpless, losing sleep, losing hope, losing years? Money can be made back, paid back. Life cannot. There is going to be a payment made either way. It is your decision as to what kind of payment, and who makes it.

I know you are scared about getting a treatment like that. I know the unknown comes with a lot of fear and uncertainty. I know you would be leaving all the comforts of your current daily routine, home, and life. You would also be leaving the comfort of having Mom. Having Mom to help you with meals, help you with living expenses, and help you by having someone to blame so nearby. Honestly, looking at yourself as a singular entity is one of the scariest things to do. Giving up the security blanket that is Mom, in so many ways, is a huge deal. I know you don't want to hear it, but you know it's true. We've all done it. I'm sure at times I blamed the both of you for me staying in Newport so long. I'm sure she's blamed you for some of her misery. And I know you blame her from time to time for yours. But once you truly face yourself, without having anyone else to look at, you can be free of so much pain. It is the hardest thing, to look at yourself honestly - all the good and bad - and then find a way to love what you see, and have faith in yourself. But you need to give yourself that chance. And Mom needs that chance too. To find herself and love herself - without either one of us getting in her way. We all need that chance. I took mine, by moving to Vegas, and I think if we all stay out of each other's way, but are still able to be there and encourage each other in healthy ways, we will ALL be happy. The trouble is, at this point, we all love each other so much that we can't figure out how to let go - and let each other fly - without being enablers for each other's demons.

For the life of me, besides fear, I don't see any reason you wouldn't jump at the chance to go to Texas and start living again. I know fear is a very powerful emotion and feeling and force. But to let that get in the way of your life - or just even being able to live at all - is unfathomable. You are stronger than that. I know you. You have fought this battle for so many years - and it takes strength to even make it this far - incredible strength. I know you can do this, but I know FOR A FACT that you can't do this on your own. And you can't do it in Newport, living with Mom, and having distractions like Archie and others. And you can't do it without a professional - or team of professionals at first - keeping you on track. You have said this many, many times yourself. You know the truth in this. But, with the right place, and people, and structure, you can succeed. And every step of the way, it is YOU who is accomplishing each goal along the way. It is YOU who does the work and feels the satisfaction of that. It is YOUR life, and YOU will make it fantastic one day. You always refer back to the time you lost a bunch of weight before as a reason you want to "do this on your own". But you didn't do it on your own then either. Gary put you to work on a strict schedule. Anita fixed your meals. The guy at the gym created workouts for you. People and a system got you going - and kept you going. And when all of that went away, you reverted back to old habits and depression. And you were also 100 pounds less when you started that particular journey. Also, a lot of things and life and stuff has transpired since then. A lot has changed in your body. A lot has changed in your mind, and spirit. There is no way you can do this "alone". No way. It's stupid even to try, because you are just setting yourself up for failure, more depression, more guilt, more unhappiness, more hopelessness. A glutton for punishment I guess. I don't know anymore.

If your main concern for not going to Texas is the cost, maybe you should call and talk to the owners. See if there is any way to scholarship some or all of the cost with a promise to repay in advertising or inspirational seminars once you have accomplished your goals. Show them how adamant you are about living life and inspiring others with your story in the end. Tell them how desperate you are to get better and how hopeful you are about the progress you will make. Find a way to make it happen. But with your social security money each month, a few hundred from Mom and I, and other family support, you could be on the way to a new, happy life within weeks! Also, I understand you are physically sick - probably your gall bladder. But what if the doctors can't do anything for you until you lose weight? What if you have to lose 100-200 pounds before they can make that problem better? Are you going to give up? You won't make any major progress where you are...so why not go to Texas and make REAL progress right away? Maybe that would fix a few problems with your physical health. Doing nothing won't fix anything. So, maybe you don't want to go to Texas. Find somewhere else. But find somewhere. The only reason I searched and searched and spent hours upon hours on the phone with dozens of places across the country is because I knew you wouldn't do any of it for yourself. The ranch in Texas just seemed to be the best fit. But by all means, please look for yourself, and find somewhere that appeals to you if you need to do that. I'm just gonna say, it's a lot of legwork - and I've done it already - so I would hope that you could trust me on this one. It's a very discouraging search - dead ends all over the place. But do what you have to do. Like I said, just do something. Take charge, take control, and GO FOR IT!!

I'm hopeful for your life and your dreams and successes. I'm hopeful to get my big brother back. I'm hopeful that you'll make the right choice. I'm hopeful that one day soon, you'll find the complete serenity of knowing and loving yourself. I'm hopeful for your journey. And I love you - to the moon and back a thousand times.

I also hope that in this letter you find my love, some change-of-heart, a renewed passion for life. I hope you find some truth. I hope you understand what this letter is for - but if you don't - it is for you. For you to know how much I love you, and how much I want to help you get better. For you to understand that I am here for you, and that I want you to stay here - for a very long time. For you to realize, once and for all, that you are worth so much in this world. You deserve happiness. You deserve life. And you can do it. I believe in you. Still. And always.

Love, Julie

Rancho Cortez - Ranch number: 830-796-9339 or 866-797-9339
Rancho Cortez - Personal number - Mary/Larry Cortez: 830-796-3541

Scott’s answer to this letter came many days later. I called him, and he said he had read it. Said that I was right on with 90% of what I said. That the 10% I was wrong about was the ranch. That he wouldn’t go, wouldn’t take the money from family to pay for it. My heart broke in a million pieces. I don’t know what else to do. Today, I’m feeling very hopeless and sad. And all I want is for Scott to have a chance at tomorrow. To really have a chance. But I can’t force him, and I can’t change his mind. And I can’t do a damn thing but wait and see.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty-Six - In Mom's Eyes

2009-12-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirty-Six – No Time – In Mom’s Eyes
2004 – I am 55, Scott is 30, Julie is 27

My Dad is dying. I can’t bear it, I can’t believe it. And it’s going too fast. There’s no time left for me to tell him how much I love him. No time left to tell him everything I need him to know. And there’s no time for Scott to show him he’ll get better. Scott is tormented by it. He’s losing it more and more every day. Julie and I, and my sisters, have been taking care of Dad for the last four months, spending time out at the farm, making sure he’s as comfortable as he can be. Every time I go out there, he’s a little bit worse. He’s losing weight rather fast, won’t hardly eat anything. And he has these coughing attacks that scare the daylights out of me. He can’t breathe, he can’t hardly walk anymore, and I’m losing him. We’re all losing him.

Julie is out there now, she’ll be there for two more days. I don’t know how she does it. It’s not even her dad, but I think she feels closer to him than some of his own children. Scott is doing a little better physically, thank God, because we do need Julie’s help with Dad. Julie’s been taking care of Scott for a few months now, bathing him, cooking for him, trying to keep him on track, and positive. But it’s been hard for her. She acts so strong and tough, but I know it has beaten her down a bit. And now this, now she’s taking care of MY Dad. Taking care of my son, taking care of my Dad. She takes care of everybody, and I wonder when she’s going to take care of herself. I worry about her. She’s so smart and talented, I just want her to be free. I want her to do something for herself, for her own life. Before Scott came, all those years ago, she was starting to make a plan for her life. And it sounded exciting. She was going to New York, or Italy, or even Portland. She was going to write books, and be an entrepreneur. She had so many hopes and dreams, and plans. But she stopped dreaming and hoping and planning the day Scott got here. Her entire focus switched to him. And now it’s on her Grandfather. Now she wants to be with him. Help him. Help us all. She’s got two jobs, her brother, her Grandpa, and the commuting between it all. I really don’t know how she does it. I’m in awe of her, yet again.

“Helloooo.”
“Hi Mom.”
“Oh, honey, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Um…oh, Mom, I’m just so sad.” Julie is crying, it sounds like she’s been crying for a while, and it’s hard for her to speak. My heart breaks for her, and I’m worried about my Dad too.
“Honey, what HAPPENED? Are you okay? Is Gramps okay?”
“I guess so, I don’t know Mom. It’s not good. He…can’t…he…isn’t able to…” She breaks off in a sob, and I don’t know what she’s saying. It’s frustrating and I’m worried. I don’t know what to say, so I wait. “Mom, it’s just, he had a hard time in the bathroom tonight. He couldn’t wipe his own ass – or that’s how he put it anyway, or screamed it when he came out. Oh, Mom, he’s so ashamed, so embarrassed, so sad and angry and upset. And I can’t make it better. Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry for him, for me, for us all. He’s going too fast, just too fast. And he can barely walk, Mom. He’s so mad. He hates that tumor and I want to cut it off for him, but I can’t. He gets his knife out all the time and asks me to cut it off, and I just want to do it. I can’t stand how unhappy he is, I can’t stand his pain, Mom. Oh, Mom…he’s so upset. I had to clean him like I did for Scott. He didn’t want me to. I told him about doing it for Scott and he finally let me. He was CRYING, Mom, CRYING. I just can’t take it right now. I need my Mom. I needed to talk to you, tell you about it. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to worry you. I don’t want to make you worry. I’m sorry. I just needed to get it out. I just HATE this, WHY HIM? He’s supposed to live forever, Mom, FOREVER. I don’t want to lose him, Mom, I can’t bear it. He’s the only father I’ve ever known and it just hurts so bad. And he was so upset, so embarrassed. I hate that for him. He’s so angry, and in so much pain. He only had a few minutes in between cough attacks today, Mom, it was a really rough day for him, and it had to end like this. I just don’t know what to say anymore, I just don’t know what to do to make him feel better about any of it. I can’t really help him. And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“God, Julie, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. It’s a good thing you’re there for him, especially today. At least you know what to do. If me or my sisters were there we probably would have freaked out a lot worse than you. You did a good job, honey. I’m so proud of you. It’ll be okay, I promise. We’ll figure it out, I promise. Do you want to come home early? I can call somebody else to come take your place, or come over there myself.”
“No, Mom, I don’t want to leave here at all. Until he does. I don’t want to miss a moment of his life ever again. I don’t want to leave him, I don’t want him to feel this way with anybody else. I don’t want him to be humiliated again. I want to stay here, but I know I can’t. And it’s killing me.”
“Honey, you need a break. I understand how you feel, but it’s not possible for you to stay, you know that.”
“I know. I just…I just don’t want to leave him. I love him.”
“I know you do, honey. Try and get some sleep tonight. Let me know how things are in the morning. I’ll have someone come out if you need help. We’ll figure it out, I promise. Just try and get some rest tonight. Tomorrow’s another day. It’ll be okay.”

Even as I say the words, I know it won’t be okay. It’ll never be okay again. Julie is broken, and my Dad is dying. My son is struggling with his life, I am lost in mine. Nothing’s okay, or ever going to be okay again.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty-Five - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-30T23:59:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirty-Five – The Rebellion – In Mom’s Eyes
2003 – I am 54, Scott is 29, Julie is 26

Scott is going through a rebellious phase, I guess. I’ve been through this before, with Julie. But Scott is much older than she was when she rebelled. He’s too old to be acting like this now. It makes me so angry what he’s doing, that sometimes I could literally kill him. He has destroyed my cute little house. He’s brought despicable, crazy, criminals and juveniles into my home. We’ve been stolen from, lied to, and treated like crap. I am fed up and I just want to escape. Most nights I just stay in my room and drink. I just want it all to go away. Julie has been trying to hold things together, but they fight so often now, it’s like they are children again.

Scott has taken to calling us names, telling his friends we are horrible, and lying about what we do to him and how we act or what we say. He paints a terrible picture of us to his “friends”, these scumbag felons, and homeless people that pass through our house every day. They take what they want, they use Scott for EVERYTHING, they are killing us, and he is the mastermind behind it all. Maybe he wants us to hurt as much as he does. He’s always angry, always blaming the world for his condition. Or blaming the family, or blaming me. Or blaming Julie. He eats and eats and eats these days. Those assholes bring him fast food all the time, they know how to get to him. They know, and they use it to get what they want. They don’t care about him, they don’t care about anybody. They are users, and manipulators, and sleezeballs. And Scott can’t see any of it. He’s so naïve about people, about the world. He’s never lived in an apartment by himself, never paid his own utility bills, never had the responsibility of an average adult in the world. Now he blames that on us, on me mainly.

They just took Scott, in an ambulance, to the hospital. I have been drinking all night, so Julie followed them in the car, and I’m staying home. I think this is the best place for me right now. Julie can handle this. She’ll take care of it. I don’t want to see it all happen, I can’t bear to see my son die, and I think that’s what’s going to happen. Julie will call me and let me know what’s going on, probably every five minutes or so. She’ll be fine, she’ll take care of him. I just can’t right now, and even if I was sober, I don’t think I could be there. Once they stabilize him, IF they stabilize him, Julie can come get me. And I’ll go see him then. I just can’t bear it all right now. I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack myself. I’ve been calling my sisters, telling them what’s happening. They know I’m home, and Julie’s at the hospital. They think it’s a good idea we did it that way. They are making a plan, some sort of plan to help, I think. But there’s nothing that’s going to help him, no one can do this. It’s impossible.

Julie calls me to tell me she’s been in the waiting room for over an hour and no one will let her back to see Scott. She’s angry and about to explode. I tell her to calm down, that maybe they had to run some tests or something, that I’m sure everything is okay. She’s anxious and scared, and angry. And I realize I should be there. I really should be there. That’s my SON in there, and I’ve passed the responsibility of him off on my DAUGHTER. What kind of mother am I? A drunk one, that’s it. I’m a drunk, and this probably IS all my fault. I can’t drive down there. I can’t do anything now. And I’m not there for my son, my only son, my first-born. Or my daughter. I’m not there, and it’s a mistake.

I’ve started cleaning the house, trying to keep busy, trying to stop crying and DO something. I’ll wait for Julie to call again, tell me everything’s going to be okay. She’ll call soon I’m sure. But I want the house to be clean when they get home, so I’m scrubbing things in a frenzy, chain-smoking and lighting candles all over the house. One of Scott’s little hoodlums comes by to see him. I yell at him out the door, tell him to get the fuck off my property, that Scott is in the hospital, and that he might die. I tell him it’s probably HIS fault, and that he better get off my property before I call the police. He leaves, and throws a beer bottle at the house. I’m so tired of all of this. I just want my son to be healthy, to be happy, and to be free of all these crazy people he’s picked up lately. I don’t even know where they all came from. I think the word spread around town that Scott’s an easy mark, and they all hopped on the bandwagon to take advantage. They’re like leeches. Scum-sucking leeches, and all they do is hurt us all. Scott thinks he finally has friends. He thinks they love him. He thinks he loves them. He’s going to be so hurt when they all disappear. There’s going to be some fights. There’s going to be a lot of unhappiness around here for a while. That’s IF Scott comes home. IF he makes it through this. God, if I make it through this it’ll be a miracle.

Julie calls me to tell me she’s going in to see Scott finally. It’s been over two hours since they got there. What the hell has been going on? She says she’ll call me with an update as soon as she can, so I keep cleaning. I’ve got to keep busy, keep moving. Because if I stop, I might not make it. This is the hardest thing I’ve experienced in a long, long time. I should be there, I don’t know what I’m doing.

I don’t even know what time it is anymore, but I hear Julie pull into the driveway. I have a dust rag in one hand, a bottle of Windex in the other. Why is she home? I go to the door to ask her this very question, but she is still at the car, opening the passenger door…for Scott. He’s home. They’re both home. I almost think for a minute that I’m imagining it, but within moments, they are both in the house, Scott already laying down in his room, Julie sitting on the couch in the living room, shaking and smoking, smoking and shaking. And sobbing.

“What HAPPENED?”
“They wouldn’t admit him, Mom. They said there’s nothing else they can do for him tonight, and that they needed the bed for more patients. They discharged him. Told us he had Congestive Heart Failure, monitored him for a couple hours, if you can call it that, then told us to leave.”
“Is he okay?”
“No, Mom, he’s NOT okay. The entire time he was in there, when they wouldn’t let me back to see him, he was pissing himself in the bed. He couldn’t help it. They gave him some shot that makes him pee, and he did. A LOT. Then they just left him in there. No one even came to check on him except once. A mean nurse, he said. When I got back there, he was soaked, Mom, soaked. And burning from the urine. He’s got rashes on his legs, Mom, and they were BURNING from his pee. No one would help us. I cleaned him up and changed his bed MYSELF. Mom, I don’t know what to do. He’s not in good shape, he can barely breathe. And no one will help us.”
“Oh, Julie, I’m sorry. I should have been there. It should have been me. I’m so sorry.”
“There’s nothing you could have done either Mom, and you couldn’t have done what I did either. You could never have lifted him up with your back, and it would have just killed you to be there at all. You didn’t need to be there. It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
“Will you get me a glass of wine, Mom? Please? I need a drink.”
“Sure honey, I’ll get you anything you need. Oh, baby, I’m so sorry, I’m just so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too, Mom. I’m sorry too. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty-Four - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-30T23:54:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirty-Four – Fat is Funny – In Mom’s Eyes
2009, Present Day – I am 60, Scott is 35, Julie is 32

At the beauty school today, some of the students were standing outside my office, where the time clock is, laughing. They were laughing so hard, a few of them, that I had to see what they were laughing about. I went to my door, looked at them, and they were all turned around and staring at a woman in the waiting area. She took up most of a bench that normally would hold three people comfortably. She was a ginormous, fat woman. They were making ba-da-boom noises, and comments about how she was going to fit in the stylist’s chair. They thought it was sooo funny. Fat is funny, I guess. But I just turned to them, told them they were all insensitive idiots and went back into my office, closed the door a bit too hard, and sat down at my desk. I didn’t hear anymore laughing after that, just a bit of whispering…little pieces… stupid of us… son… really fat… sorry… Whatever. People are cruel, and hurtful, and stupid. And my son has dealt with all of them.

It has been several years since Scott has traveled far from home. And, as a result, I don’t go many places either. We kind of just hermit up in the house, stay to ourselves. I don’t blame Scott for not wanting to go out into the world. It’s painful for him, hurtful. People are so, so mean, and heartless. They’re just plain stupid most of the time. Don’t they see how good of a man he is? Don’t they see his heart? Don’t they know how smart he is, and funny? Why won’t anyone see him for who he is, not WHAT he is? People are so shallow. Especially around here. The only friend Scott really has any more is a grown, almost elderly man, who is mentally retarded and illiterate. Scott needs someone in his life who challenges his mind, who makes him think, and think positive. Most of the time, his friend is so depressed about his own life that he brings Scott down off any sort of positive roll he might be on. I want Scott to meet some normal people, have some normal friends. But he won’t, because it would mean he’d have to go somewhere in public.

Christmas is coming up again, and the family party is going to be here at the coast this year. Scott won’t go, again. It’s been years since he’s seen most of the family. He has too much anxiety, and too much pain. Too much guilt. He hates himself, and is so introverted that he doesn’t even want to see any of them any more. I don’t really want to see them either, but I’ll go. And like always, I’ll probably end up having a pretty good time, but I’m just not into it this year. I am just as reclusive as my son, I guess. And I don’t want to have to explain, for another year, why Scott isn’t coming. Hear every new person that arrives ask me the same questions, give the same answers. And Julie doesn’t want to do it again either. And Julie’s afraid this will be the last chance Scott has to see all his family in one place. She’s sure he won’t make it another year. And she’s probably right.

Scott’s cousins used to tease him about his weight, all the time they were growing up. They laughed and laughed and laughed at him. He made the biggest splashes in the pool, ate the biggest piece of cake at the party. He was big enough that they’d threaten their friends he’d sit on ‘em if they did anything wrong. They watched him grow and grow and grow. But no one has seen him the size he is now. And though they say they want to see him, I’m not sure they really do. It will disgust some of them. It will make others sad, worried. It will make even more sympathetic to Julie and I. And that’s what we hate the most. Their looks of sympathy. Their words of sorrow. Their “I’m sorry’s”. All it does is make it worse for us. For all of us.
For Scott to go to this party, there would have to be a lot of special arrangements made. We would have to find a chair he could sit in comfortably. A sturdy one, that wouldn’t collapse under him. We’d have to borrow some sort of over-sized wheelchair from somewhere so we could even get him into the party, or up to the room where he’d probably stay the whole time anyway. We’d have to deal with his tantrums, since his anxiety would take over and he would lose his mind with it, turn mean probably, or just cry a lot. We’d have to make a special trip to the Big ‘N’ Tall store to see if there was anything he could wear besides a t-shirt. Anything we could stretch over him, that was decent enough to wear to dinner. And he probably wouldn’t eat anyway, too many nerves, too many eyes watching him. So, he won’t go, and it’s probably better off. There’s a lot of little kids in the family now too. They don’t have as much restraint as most of the adults do where Scott is concerned, and I’m sure they would, at the very least, stare or point or laugh at him, without even realizing it. It’s just too much, all in all, and I don’t blame him for staying home. But it doesn’t make it any easier for anyone else either.

I suppose there were times in my life where I laughed at a fat person, and now sometimes I wonder if I’m being punished for that. I haven’t always been the best person in life, and I’m sure my karma rating isn’t at its best. But, what could I have done to deserve Scott? The pain he suffers every day, and has suffered for years and years, is immeasurable. I have failed him, and I don’t know how to fix it. And I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to live it anymore. Fat is not funny to me anymore, and never will be funny again. Fat has ruined our lives. Fat will take my son from me. Fat will break me.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty-Three - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-30T13:08:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirty-Three – The Fish Farm – In Mom’s Eyes
1997 – I am 48, Scott is 23, Julie is 20

I’ve been taking the kids out to Grandpa Fishie’s house, my Dad’s house, since they were born. Actually, when they were just little babies, I used to take them out there to stay for a few days, so that I could have a break. Raising children alone isn’t easy. I had a life before they came along, I had friends. And now my life is all about them, and it always will be. Both Scott and Julie have very special relationships with my Dad, and also had great relationships with my Mom, when she was alive. I miss my Mom so much. But I’m grateful the kids had the experiences with her that they did. I’m surprised sometimes at how much they remember of her, actually. Julie was only ten years old, and Scott thirteen, when she passed away. But she definitely left her mark on them. Oh, I miss my Mom.

Julie left for the fish farm this morning, wanted to get over there early to see Gramps. And Scott. He’s been living out there for several years now, helping my Dad with the farm, going to school off and on, and working too. He loves it out there, and he loves his Grandpa. There isn't anything they wouldn’t do for each other. Julie has been going out there every month or so, to visit and make Dad his cookies. She loves it, and he loves it too. I swear, if he didn’t have those cookies, he probably wouldn’t eat at all. She makes him dinner, and lunches. She plays the “fish wife” and takes care of the fishermen. They feed the fish together. They try to get the “big birds”. Oh, they’re funny together. They adore each other. It’s so nice to know that Julie and Scott have him, to be a father figure, to be a friend, to teach them things about life only a man can teach. I’m eternally grateful for that.

“Hell-o!”
“Hi Dad.”
“Hello?”
“HI DAD!”
“Oh, hi there. Didn’t hear ya.”
“I guess Julie must have made it out there, huh?”
“Yup, she’s in the kitchen. I guess we’re havin’ dumplings tonight.”
“Well, that sounds good.”
“Yup, I think she might be brewin’ somethin’ else up in there too.”
“I suppose…cookies, maybe?”
“I hope so, getting’ low. Me and the dogs, we have a few each day. Two for the dogs, two for me. Two for the dogs…”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll get you all stocked up.”
“Yup, got the freezer cleaned out for ‘er this mornin’. Lots o’ room in there now.”
“How’s the peckers?”
“Fat.” He chuckles a little bit, then says, “All they do is eat! And shit. And eat some more. Lots o’ fishers today. I think Jelly made about $350 this afternoon. New record this week.”
“Wow! Really? That’s great, Dad.”
“Ye-up. Pretty good. Wanna talk to ‘er? Don’t know what she’s doin’ right now. JELLY! PHONE! YER MA!” He’s holding the phone in the air, waiting for Julie to come get it. He doesn’t say goodbye or anything else to me. He’s not much of a phone guy, really.
“Hello.”
“I guess you made it, huh?”
“Oh, shit, sorry, I forgot to call. Gramps and I got caught up visiting on the porch, it just slipped my mind, sorry.”
“It’s okay, I figured as much. How’s he doin’?”
“Good, Mom, seems good. Wants me to get on the scale, tell him how much I weigh. I teased him about his belly, and he swears he’s lost 20 pounds. Same ol’, same ol’. He’s way excited about cookies though, I can tell. He cleaned out the entire outside freezer this time. I’m gonna have to make a lot this time, get him REALLY stocked up. What a tard, he’s so funny, Mom. God, I love it out here. So peaceful.”
“I heard you were quite the Fish Wife today.”
“Oh, he told you that? Yeah, the big $350! But I’m sure Harv. Jr. will beat me when he gets out here, I guess he’s comin’ out in a few days, gonna fix the hatchery or something, I dunno.”
“Gramps sounds excited about dumplings too…wish I was there…sounds yummy!”
“Gosh, he told you everything already.” She laughs, “He’s a doodle, mama. Too funny.”
“How’s your brother?”
“Oh…fine I guess.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothin’, really.”
“Is he standing right there or something?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“Oh, well, just tell me how he looks. Is he bigger?”
“Um, yeah, quite a bit.”
“Oh. Well, did you talk to him?”
“Not much. I tried. Not a good time I guess.”
“Alright, well, you can tell me more about it when you get back. Just try and have a good time. Be the helper. I’m sure Gramps will appreciate it. He loves his JellyBean.”
“I know, I LOVE that. I love him too, so much. I just love coming out here. I should do it more often, really.”
“You should. We’ll work it out. Anyway, just have a good time. I love you honey, tell your brother I love him too. Call me before you head home, and have fun.”
“I will, Mom, love you too. Have fun without me! Haha, don’t have too big a party though – no messes!”
“Yeah, right, big parties every night. Lots o’ boyfriends too. Think I found a hundred year old one at the store today, no teeth, maybe I’ll invite him over.” We both laugh and laugh, then say our final goodbyes and hang up.

I wonder how bad Scott is. I’m not shocked, but I’m worried for him. I think there might be something wrong in his system, something that makes his body gain weight unnaturally. He did have a lot of problems when he was a baby, all the way up through grade school, really. Maybe it’s something I did when I was pregnant with him. I did drink, and smoke, but we didn’t know you weren’t supposed to do that back then. We just didn’t know. And I didn’t drink or smoke a lot. But maybe that’s it. I don’t know, I just feel there’s something wrong. We need to get him to a doctor and find out what’s happening in his body, before it’s too late to turn it around. I wish there was something more I could do.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty-Two - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-30T11:41:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirty-Two – Unforeseen Circumstances – In Mom’s Eyes
2001 – I am 52, Scott is 27, Julie is 24

Just a few months ago, I was happily living my life alone, for the first time since Scott was born. Both my children were doing their own things, working on something or other, succeeding in life. Or so I thought. Now, Julie has been back for a few months, after a horrendous turn of affairs in her life. I don’t know how she’s managing, really. She’s much stronger than I gave her credit for. And actually, I really needed some help at work, so the fact that she’s back home doesn’t bother me so much. And I’m glad to be here for her. Over the past year, she has tragically lost a man she loved, and for whatever reason, decided to try a relationship with her father again. As history repeats itself, so did the end of that relationship, again. I’m not sure she’ll ever want to try that again, but the poor child has a very forgiving heart, bless her soul, and apparently she’s a glutton for punishment too. I don’t know, I just want her to be happy. But she seems to be making a plan, trying to stay positive. I catch her just crying sometimes, out of the blue. But for the most part, she is motivated to change her life, and do something happy with it.

On the other hand, my son is on his way back home right now, and I fear this won’t be as hopeful a situation as Julie’s. He had some sort of falling out with my brother, and moved out of their house after living there for almost two years. He moved back in with my Dad, and by the sounds of it, gave up all he’d been fighting for, and gained his weight back. I haven’t seen him in several months, I don’t really know what to expect. I’m scared for him, for all of us. And I don’t want to go through this again. I’m glad Julie is here, because at least she seems to kind of keep us stable. We all love each other very much, but with everything that we’ve been through in our lives, there’s some tension once in a while. And we fight. At least, that’s what used to happen. Julie and I have gotten along pretty well over the last few months. She’s been busy at work, fixing all that’s been broken there. It’s so nice to have someone smart there too, we joke about it all the time. Being surrounded by so many stupid people all the time can really wear a person down. But Julie and I can joke, and laugh, and we have so many inside jokes too, it actually makes work kind of fun most days.

I’m nervous about seeing Scott, but mostly about seeing what shape he’s in mentally. I know there’s something wrong in his brain, or chemicals. He just doesn’t think about things right, he never has. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a very intelligent person, but somewhere in his brain, logic gets lost a lot. And emotion overcomes him. He’s got a bit of a temper, especially since he’s been taking so many pain pills. And he’s generally just unhappy again. I don’t know what to do for him, but I know he can’t stay at my Dad’s anymore. Besides Scott needing a change of scenery, my Dad is fed up too. He can’t afford Scott, with the ever-growing grocery bill, and the ever-changing moods, he’s just had it. And he’s so concerned about Scott too…doesn’t know what to do anymore. I don’t want him under all that stress. Scott is my responsibility. He’s my son, and I’ll take care of him, whatever the problem is. Julie and I will handle it together.

I see Scott pull into the driveway, and yell to Julie that he’s here. We are both nervous, but want to greet him with happy faces and welcoming hearts. We’ve talked about it a lot, actually. We know he’s not doing well, and we both want to make sure he knows we’ll get through it together. We’ll find a way, and we are here for him. When we see him, I think both our jaws drop – without warning or control. Jesus, Scott is huge! What the hell has happened? I didn’t expect this, Julie didn’t expect this, and I don’t even think Scott expected this. It’s downright shocking, unbelievable. He comes in the house, goes straight to his room, and lays down. I don’t know what to say, or do. I don’t know what to think. He’s in trouble, big trouble. And I have no clue what’s going to happen this time around. How did this happen? How did he get back to this point so fast? What has made him this unhappy? How are we going to fix it? A wave of hopelessness fills me so entirely that I can’t even stand up anymore. I go to my room, sit down, and cry. Whatever life I had, whatever life Julie had, whatever life Scott had, is over. This is all we will do for a long time. There’s no hope for a better tomorrow. This is too big, he is too big. This is beyond our control, and I’m scared.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty-One - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-30T10:54:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirty-One – Found a Dad, Lost a Dad – In Mom’s Eyes
1989 – I am 40, Scott is 15, Julie is 12

I’m waiting for the kids at the airport. They’re coming back from Ed’s, Julie’s dad’s house in Philadelphia. They are upset, and hurt, and it’s all my fault. I can’t believe I actually thought he had changed. I don’t know why I was so stupid to think that the kids should meet him, get to know him. I should have listened to my Dad. He told me they didn’t need him, none of us needed a man like that in our lives. He was right. And I should have listened. I’m so sorry I brought him into their lives. And, God, poor Scott. Finally a chance to have a dad, albeit an adopted one, and this happens. And Julie, she wants a dad, her dad, so badly. I should have just told them he died. I should never have let him in their lives at all. God, I’m stupid. I just need to see their faces, see what damage has been done. I’m so sorry for what has happened to them. I can’t believe I made such a mistake. I can’t believe I allowed this.

The airport is busy, people everywhere. I’m waiting for them to come off the plane. I need to see their faces, see that they are okay. God, it seems like forever. Where are they? Please tell me nothing happened. Where are they?

I see Julie first, carrying her little purple suitcase. She loves it. Scott is walking beside her, his arm around her shoulders, protecting her from everyone. They don’t see me yet. Their faces are tired, scared, worried. Their faces are sad, angry. I get to them and their faces change in the bat-of-an-eye. Big smiles, bug hugs, relief. Julie starts crying. I start crying. Scott tries not to, but he starts crying. I can’t let go of them. I don’t ever want to let go of them again.

“Are you two okay?”
“We’re fine.” Scott is trying to be tough.
“Well, let’s get going. I missed you guys sooooo much! I don’t ever want you to leave again! Are you sure you’re okay? You had a tough time this time, huh?”
“We don’t EVER want to go back there, Mom. We don’t have to go back there, ever, do we?” Julie is scared and angry, and the look on her face is horrible. God, I’m sorry I did this to her. God, I’m sorry.
“No, honey, you don’t ever have to go back. It’s okay, you’re safe. We’re going home. You’re with me now, it’s going to be okay. I’m sorry, guys, I’m really sorry.”
“Well, it’s not YOUR fault, Mom! You didn’t know he was going to be like that! You didn’t do it. Don’t cry, Mom. It’s not your fault. He’s crazy, that’s all. But we don’t ever want to go back. We hate him.”
“You don’t ever have to go back, I promise. Let’s get to the car, you can tell me about it on the way home. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

The three of us walk to the car, my baby blue T-bird. Scott doesn’t even argue, lets Julie ride in the front. This is a first. I’m worried about him, he hasn’t said two words, and his face hasn’t changed from its original state of sadness, anger, and worry. I want to take it away, turn back time, never have this trip happen. I want him to feel safe, loved. Julie is holding back, silent. I know the story is coming. She’ll tell me everything soon, but I’m afraid to hear it. And I feel like she’s afraid to tell it. There’s something about her that’s different. Something has changed in her that I don’t recognize. She’s nervous. And I don’t like it. What could he have done? How did he put this fear and trepidation into my children in just two week’s time? Why did I ever call him? God, I’m stupid.

“Okay, do you want to talk about it?” I’ve gotten us out of the airport traffic, and we are on the interstate, heading home. The kids have both been silent. Julie is picking at her fingernails. Scott is wringing the sleeves of his jacket. Silent. These are not my children. Not the children I took to the airport two weeks ago.
“Um, Mom, if I tell you some really bad stuff, are you gonna get mad at me?” Julie is so nervous. “No, honey, I won’t get mad. What happened?”
“But, Mom, there’s some bad words. And I have to tell you about it, because it’s important. But I don’t want you to get mad.” I have to hold back a laugh. She’s worried about saying bad words in front of me. That’s what’s got her nervous. Oh, silly child. I hope that’s the worst thing I have to hear.
“No, honey, I won’t get mad. I promise. It’s okay. I promise.” Somehow, I keep a straight face for her, because she is dead serious. And she’s still scared. She looks in my eyes, sees my approval, and explodes.
“Mom, he’s a slave-driver. All we did was work in his shop, painting it, waiting on customers, cleaning everything. We had to call Robyn, “mom”, but we didn’t mean it. I’m sorry about that. We didn’t mean it, really. She’s not our mom, but he MADE US do it. He’s so scary, Mom. He’s creepy. He’s crazy. All we did was work. At his shop, at the house. He wouldn’t take us hardly anywhere. All we did was work the WHOLE time, mom. And he’s creepy. He gives you a hug and it doesn’t feel right. There’s something wrong with it. He’s weird, Mom. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he’s MEAN and CRAZY. When we called you the other day, we had a big fight with him the night before that. This is where the bad words come in. I’m sorry in advance, but I have to say them. Scott was doing the dishes, and I was supposed to clear the table, and wash it off. So I did, TWICE, Mom. I thought I did a good job, and I was tired, so I went upstairs to rest. He came up after me a few minutes later, made me come back downstairs. He had found a little tiny smudge on the table and written “clean me” in it with a toothpick. CLEAN ME, Mom, with a TOOTHPICK! I’d had it, Mom, I just couldn’t take it anymore, and he was scary, and I just wanted to come home. I told him no, threw the dishrag at him, and ran upstairs. Scott came up there too. I was really upset, Mom, crying and stuff, I couldn’t even catch my breath. He’s just so psycho, I thought he was going to kill me. He came in our room, Mom, he came in and he was REALLY mad at me. Scott told him to leave, and he pushed him into the wall. He PUSHED HIM DOWN, Mom, and came for me. He grabbed me by my wrist and started dragging me out of the room. I was so scared Mom, I didn’t know what to do. I thought he was going to kill me. I bit him and scratched him and kicked him, and he let me go. There was blood in my mouth, Mom, BLOOD. I screamed at him, and said bad words, lots of bad words.” Julie takes a breath, finally, looks over at me, and says, “I told him to leave me the FUCK alone. I said the F-word a few times, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, honey. Really, it’s okay. What happened after that?”
“He left our room. Scott and I stayed in our room. Scott was hurt, his shoulder and his head are bruised. He pushed him HARD, Mom, and I thought he was gonna KILL us. Why is he so mean? What did we ever do to him? Why doesn’t he love us like a real dad? Mom? I’m sorry I messed it all up. I’m sorry we don’t have a dad anymore because of me. I’m sorry I messed it all up. Scott says he isn’t his real dad anyway, so he doesn’t care, but I don’t believe him. Sorry, Scott, I don’t really believe you. I’m sorry I messed it up for you. I know you wanted a dad too. I’m so sorry.” And then Julie dissolves into a puddle of tears, shaking and gasping, and sobbing. She thinks this is her fault. Oh God, what have I done to my children?
“Julie, this is not your fault. It’s my fault. I should have never called him. I should have never brought him into your lives. And as God is my witness, I swear I’ll kill him if I ever see his face again. I’m so sorry, to both of you, for putting you through all this. I’m so, so sorry. I’m proud of you both for doing what you had to do. I will never let you get hurt by him again. I promise.”
“Mom, he said really bad stuff about you and Grandma and Grandpa, and all our family. He said you were all major alcoholics. Said Gramps started it all, that he was the worst, besides you. He said we’ll grow up all messed up because of you, because you drink too much. I hate him! He doesn’t know a THING about you! He doesn’t know how you tuck us in every night. He doesn’t know how much we laugh, and how much fun we have. And he doesn’t know how much we LOVE each other! And, we’ll NEVER love him like that! He’s just jealous, he’s an asshole. I hate him, we BOTH hate him. I’m sorry he said those things, Mom, but we don’t believe him. We didn’t listen to ANY of it I don’t know what his problem is, but he’s got a lot of problems, actually. He’s creepy, Mom, and the way he hugs you, is, well, there’s something wrong with it, Mom, it’s just not right. It’s creepy.” Julie reaches in her bag to get some gum, which makes me glad because I’m ready for her to stop telling me the story. I don’t know if I can handle much more, and still be able to drive. I’m so angry, so upset, so sorry for their pain. I’m sick to my stomach over it. I just can’t believe that I let this all happen. Julie pulls something else out of her bag, she is rigid, irate, in a state of shock and disbelief. “Ohmygod, Scott, he PUT THEM IN MY BAG! I can’t believe he PUT THEM IN MY BAG! WHO. DOES. HE. THINK. HE. IS? I’m sorry, Mom, he gave us these…these books and stuff on being the child of an alcoholic. I threw them away. But he must have got them back out of the trash, and he PUT THEM IN MY BAG. Wow. He’s scary, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“Honey, there’s nothing to be sorry about.” I am so angry, I can barely breathe. Who DOES he think he is??? He’s been trying to turn my own children against me! I’m going to kill him, I swear to God, I’m going to kill him. What if they believe him? What if they hate me for it? What the hell am I supposed to do? I can’t believe this.

We rode along, all of us crying quietly for several miles. I think Julie has lost it. She’s just holding those damn pamphlets, and crying, staring out the window. Scott has his head down, sorry, I’m sure, for all that has happened. They think it’s their fault. They are so wrong. It’s all my fault and I’m so angry, so sorry, so tired.

“Here’s what I think, Mom.” Julie turns to me, and Scott perks up in the back, scoots forward to hear her better. There’s a fiery little twinkle in her eye. There she is. My girl. She rolls down her window, and page by page, tears up those booklets and throws them out. She says “asshole” with one page, and “fucker” with another. She says “crazy” with one, and “creepy” and “sick” and “mean” and “psycho”. And then she says “good riddance” for the last one. “I love my big alcoholic family, so there! And I love you, Mom. Forever. You’re all I need.”

And I know we’re going to be okay. Somehow, we’ll all get through this…together.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-30T09:26:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirty – Coming Home – In Mom’s Eyes
1999 – I am 50, Scott is 25, Julie is 22

Both of my children are out of the house and doing well. It’s the first time in a long time that I can say that. I don’t know how long Julie is going to last at Club Med, things seem to be pretty bad for her there, but you never know. And Scott is doing so great at Gary and Anita’s. He’s lost over a hundred pounds already. There’s something else, too. He’s excited about life again. He’s positive, and hopeful, and happy. I don’t even remember a time when he felt this good about himself, ever. It makes me so proud and happy for him. And I feel free.

For the first time in forever, I am doing what I want to do, and enjoying the little things in life. I moved into a cute little house, no more apartments, thank God. I sometimes go to the book store and just sit, and read, and visit with Sandy, the owner, for hours. Because I can. I eat what I want, when I want. But, I have been eating better than I used to. I don’t drink very often these days. I don’t feel like I need to. But when I want to, I do, and there’s no one around to make me feel bad about it. But, I don’t drink very often anyway, and I feel better. I’ve started taking vitamins, and taking walks. My heart is free of burden, of worry, for the most part. My children are making it on their own. And I’m happy.

I’ve been out to visit my Dad a lot lately too. There’s just something about that place, and him, that makes me feel whole, comforted. When I was younger, all I wanted was to get out of that tiny little backwoods town, as far as I could go. But now, I love it. It is calm, serene, and it is where I feel most at-home. Dad loves to hear stories about Julie’s adventures, and I show him pictures she has sent. He can’t even imagine the places she goes, and what she’s doing, but he’s so proud of her nonetheless. But what gets to him the most is hearing about Scott and all his progress. It almost brings him to tears, and sometimes does. He’s so happy Scott is finally getting better. He’s so proud. He’s been worried for years, and he loves Scott like he was his own son. I hope, for his sake, for all our sakes, that Scott stays on track and makes it to the end of this okay. I don’t have any reason to think he won’t. Things seem different this time, and I have every faith he will succeed. And, I’m hopeful.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty-Nine - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-29T22:46:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twenty-Nine – Home from the Hospital – In Mom’s Eyes
2004 – I am 55, Scott is 30, Julie is 27

This morning, the doctor told us all that Scott was going to be released today. We knew it was coming, but I think we all hoped he would stay a while longer. I’m terrified of what’s to come for Julie. But I can’t do what she’s about to take on, I just can’t handle it. This morning it was all laid out by the doctor.

“So, at home, someone is going to have to help you bathe, Scott. At least until your leg swelling goes down enough for you to do it yourself.”
“I’ll do it.” Julie pipes up immediately. Thank God. Because I can’t do it. Physically or emotionally, I just can’t do it. The doctor then directs most of the rest of his instructions to Julie, as if neither Scott or I are still in the room.
“After urination and bowel movements, he needs to be thoroughly cleaned, and re-bandaged. You’ll need to apply the cream lightly to his rashes, and keep those areas dry and covered. But let them breathe a little in-between cleanings too.” Julie nods. “You’ll need to closely monitor his medications, make sure he’s taking the antibiotic twice a day, his blood pressure meds in the morning, and his thyroid pill at night. He’ll need to drink more than average amounts of fluid. Make sure he sticks to this regimen on his pain pills as well. Too many, and he could become dehydrated. Did the nutritionist give you a meal plan?”
“Uh, yeah, we went over some of that. She’s given us some good ideas, and I think he has an appointment next week to see her too.” Julie’s face is getting paler by the moment. She’s afraid, unsure, and lost in a sea of instructions.
“Do you understand what all needs to be done for Scott now?”
“It’s pretty straight-forward I guess.” Julie looks at Scott and gives him a reassuring smile. The doctor seems to notice that he and I are still in the room.
“Well, so, is everyone on the same page? Do you have any questions?” He looks at each of us, his head tilted down, peering over the edge of his glasses, holding the discharge papers. We all nod. Scott signs the papers, and the doctor leaves. Now it’s time, all of a sudden, to go home. A nurse wheels in an oversized wheel chair to get Scott downstairs in. Julie just stares out the window for a while and none of us say a word. We know we have to go, but we’re not sure how this is going to turn out. And we’re not really ready for it.

After getting home, all of us were exhausted. Scott went and laid down. I went to my room, and Julie just sat in the living room for a while, then made an early dinner. We all ate, for something to do, I think. But I can guarantee you that none of us had much of an appetite. We’re all waiting for the first bath. None of us want it to happen. Scott is humiliated. Julie is scared. And I just plain can’t even fathom that my youngest child is about to bathe my 30-year-old son. And I am guilt-ridden.
I hear Scott go to the bathroom, I hear Julie running water for the “experience”. I hear her singing too. She’s so nervous. I hear Scott sniveling. He’s crying again. Tears are running down my own face, but I won’t make a sound. I can barely breathe, I’m so anxious and sad and my heart hurts for them both, for all of us. I wish I was stronger.
I can’t hear exactly what Julie is saying, but I can tell it’s something to try and soothe Scott’s pain. I can tell she’s trying to keep it together and make him feel better all at the same time. I am in awe of her. I don’t even know how she got this strong. I don’t know how she’s doing it. But she is. And before too long, they are done. Julie has turned out Scott’s bedroom light, walked down the hall, and sat down on the couch. I think she lit a candle, or maybe a cigarette. I have to see her face. I need to see Scott’s face too. My babies have just been through something that I couldn’t help with, and I’m so sorry for that. But I need to see their faces, know they survived it, know they’ll be okay.

I peek in on Scott, turn his light on again. He winces, covers his face, his eyes, from the light. I sit down next to him, rub his temple, stroke his arm, and ask if he’s okay. He says he’s fine, he’ll be fine, just tired, ready to sleep. I kiss him on the cheek and leave him, turn out the light. He’ll be okay, I think, eventually.

I walk down the hall to the living room. Julie’s head is in her hands, a cigarette between her fingers - wavering too close to her hair, a candle lit on the table, and a tremble in her shoulders.

“Are you ok?”
“Fine.”
“Really? You don’t seem fine.” Julie shrugs at this, lifts her head, opens her palms to the ceiling, takes a drag from her cigarette, and blows it out in a long, smooth stream. Her whole body seems to deflate with that exhale, and the tears expose her truth. She is exhausted, drained, horrified, sympathetic, and sad. You can see it all cross her face, one at a time, like pages in a magazine, or a slow-motion replay. I want to take it all away for her. I want to make it all better, but I can’t. I can’t. And I’m sorry.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty-Eight - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-29T20:51:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twenty-Eight – Addiction – In Mom’s Eyes
1993 – I am 44, Scott is 19, Julie is 16

Julie and I are fighting a lot these days. Scott has permanently moved out to my Dad’s. He says it’s so he can go to school, but I think he just wants to be away from us. I don’t blame him. Julie is doing God-knows-what, and I have been drinking a lot too. I know I shouldn’t drink as much as I do, but I just can’t help it. It’s been a struggle for a long time, and I’m so stressed out right now, that all I want to do is escape.

I don’t even know what Julie is up to. She’s been hanging out with a bunch of new kids. I don’t even know where she found them. Some of them are way older than her, and it worries me. She’s too young to hang around 21-year-olds, and some even older than that. I know she’s doing drugs, I just hope she doesn’t get in trouble. I don’t want her to do the things she’s doing, but I’m afraid if I push her too hard, she’ll go further into it. And she started smoking. She was stealing my cigarettes for a while, and I confronted her. She thought it was a big joke. I don’t want her to smoke, I REALLY don’t want her to smoke. But, she does. I don’t know how much, or really what else she’s doing, but it all makes me nervous. So, I drink. I drink to forget. I drink to escape. I drink because it makes me feel good. And some days, I drink because if I don’t, I feel like I’m going to die. I know I have a problem. But, it’s my problem, and everybody needs to just stay out of it.

We are on our way out to my sister’s house, near my Dad’s, for the Christmas family pre-party. At least Julie can’t get in too much trouble out there. I have a beer between my legs during most of the drive, drinking the whole way there. But it’s not anything new. When you get into that neck of the woods, it really doesn’t matter. There are no police, everything’s a back road, and nobody cares. Except Julie. She’s embarrassed by me. She thinks I’ve ruined her life, and Scott’s. She told me so a few weeks ago, during a big fight. She thinks I don’t remember because I was drinking. But I remember most things that happen when I’m drinking. And she said some awful things. She was really trying to hurt me, and she did. I know I’ve said some terrible things to her too, over the years. It torments me to think about what I’ve said to her when I’m drinking. It kills me inside. I hate it, and I know I’m a bad person for it. I don’t mean what I say when I drink the hard stuff. I don’t even KNOW what I’m saying most of the time. But I remember it the next day, and I hate myself for it. I don’t blame Julie for screaming at me, for finally fighting back. I’m just a little scared that she’ll really fight one day. She’s got a lot of anger these days, where that came from I really don’t know. But I haven’t been the best mother a person can be, I know that. And I think, she must be mad at me for our life. I don’t blame her. I blame myself.

I’m looking forward to seeing Scott, although I know he’s not happy with either one of us. And I know he’s gaining weight. I probably won’t see him until tomorrow anyway, because tonight we have the party, and I know he won’t come. He’s embarrassed by me too. And he doesn’t like to be around me or Julie much these days. I worry about him because whenever I talk to him, he’s always tired, always bitter. And he’s always talking about food. I’m not sure what’s going on with him, or why he sounds so depressed all the time. Maybe he’s just angry with me, or Julie, or both of us. Maybe he doesn’t like school anymore. I know he hates his job, but it seems like there’s something more going on. He doesn’t talk to either one of us much.

He’s been taking a lot of trips into town, my Dad says. And I wonder what that means, what he’s doing. But when I ask him, he just says sometimes he needs to get away from the farm for a bit. I understand that. I grew up out there, I know how secluded it is, how lonely sometimes. I know how much work he does, and how helpful he is with Dad. I’m glad he’s there, but I miss him too. I’m proud of him for going to college, though I know it’s been a struggle for him so far. He was never very good at school, Julie and I always helped him through, finished projects and wrote essays for him. I’m not sure that was the best thing to do for him, but I just couldn’t bear to see him struggling so much.

We pull into MaryBeth’s driveway, it’s full of cars, there are Christmas lights on everything, and music playing, people laughing, everyone is drinking. I’m ready for a stiff one. Julie and I walk into the party, greet people, say hello, and someone puts a drink in my hand within a minute. I’m grateful. Julie disappears. About a half an hour later, Julie finds me again, she’s got a beer in her hand, and I can tell it’s not her first. I tell her it’s not a good idea, and she scoffs at me, rolls her eyes and takes a swig, tells me she’s going to go up and see Scott, then head down the road with her cousin to another party. At this point I don’t care anymore. I’m feeling light and happy, and surrounded by friends. As long as she brings my car back before going to the party, I don’t care what she does. She really can’t get into too much trouble out here. So, I let her go. Someone asks me about Scott, I tell them he’s been working hard, then we all lose ourselves in the alcohol, the party, the people, and the holiday. My kids’ll be okay. They’re good kids.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty-Seven - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-29T20:49:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twenty-Seven – A New Life – In Mom’s Eyes
2009, Present Day – I am 60, Scott is 35, Julie is 32

Talking to Julie these days is keeping me sane. She cracks me up with all of her Pumpkin News. The “Pumpkin Queen of Las Vegas”, she says. Too silly, but really, so uplifting. She’s making something happen in her life, something positive, and I’ve latched on to her calls like a sort of lifeline to happiness. At least one of my children is prospering, making it on her own. Scott isn’t though, so it’s a bittersweet victory. It is hard, day in and day out, living this life with him. I deal with crap and stupidity at work, then come home and feel instantly hopeless. No hope for his life, no hope for mine. All I want to do most days is lose myself in something. Forget or ignore the reality of this situation. But it’s impossible, and it’s eating me up inside. I am guilty of letting my son die, day after day, letting his life slip away. And I just can’t DO anything to change it.

Several months ago, I quit smoking. After 40 years of the disgusting habit, I finally did it. I wanted to be free of it, once and for all. Wanted to prepare myself to live longer, and experience more in life. I want to move, get out of this town. Julie and I have talked a lot about me moving out there to Vegas, starting a different life. She’s quite an inspiration, and I want to be closer to her too. I don’t care if I’m close to the rest of the family, I just want to be near both my children, and be able to start anew, just like Julie did. But I’m fooling myself. I know I can’t go anywhere or do anything unless Scott gets better, or he dies.

I don’t know if I’ll even want to live after Scott dies. I honestly don’t know what my reaction will be, but I’ve been trying to prepare for it. After so many years of false hope, I think I’ve finally given up on the idea of him living a long and prosperous life. I don’t want to give up, I just don’t know what else to do. He talks all the time about moving to Vegas, how excited he is at the prospect of that. At first, it gave me hope. It made me think that maybe he would get serious this time. But it’s been over a year and a half since Julie moved, and nothing has changed. At least, nothing has changed for the better. He’s actually gotten worse, which always happens when Julie moves away. I don’t know why that happens, it just always does. Julie has said she would come back home and take care of Scott again, but we can’t let her do that. This is the first time in all her life that she seems truly happy where she is, and with what she’s doing, and that she’s doing it on her own. We, or I, can’t take that away from her. Can’t ask her to do that. Though some days, I wish I could.

I’m getting old, and I feel it. I want to do something for myself, and have a life while I still have a chance. But every time I start to feel that way, or think that, I think about Scott. He’s nearly half my age, and what kind of life does HE have? I feel selfish, but hopeless. I want him to be better, but I want a life too. I don’t know what to do, just what I want. And some days, I’m not even sure if I know much of that.

But I’m holding on to, and living vicariously through, Julie’s good news and positive attitude. It’s the only thing that keeps me going. It’s the only good thing any of us have. And I’m so proud of her, so sorry for Scott, and so ashamed of myself. All at once.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty-Six - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-29T20:10:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twenty-Six – The Hospital – In Mom’s Eyes
2004 – I am 55, Scott is 30, Julie is 27

This is the second time Scott has ended up in the hospital. Julie is with him there, and I’m sure she’ll make sure everything is okay. I’m going down to the hospital in a few minutes too, but told Julie I have to take care of a few things at work first. But I can’t think, and I’ve been on the phone all morning with my sisters, telling them what’s going on, crying, trying to gather myself together so that I won’t be a mess at the hospital. Julie called a few minutes ago, told me they’re going to put a catheter in Scott, so he won’t pee the bed like last time. She’s livid already. Dr. Dick-Head Frazier is Scott’s doctor, and we all hate him. But Julie seems to have things under control at the moment, and Scott is okay. His blood pressure is bad, but not like last time, not like when they just let him sit there, soiled and burning and terrified because no one would help him. God, I hate that hospital.

I feel like I’m failing him again. I should have seen the signs, should have been paying more attention. He’s been hiding out from Julie and I for a few days now. I didn’t even really notice, except that he didn’t really come out for dinner. He would say he wasn’t hungry or that he ate something earlier, and I just believed him. I’m glad Julie is here, because otherwise I don’t think I could do this by myself. I can’t believe he’s back in the hospital, and I think we may lose him this time. I don’t know what’s going to happen and I’m absolutely terrified to find out. I think if my son dies, I will need to be institutionalized. I don’t think I can take it. And that’s why I’m not at the hospital yet. I just want Julie to call me and tell me it’s all going to be okay. But I know it’s not. And I know I have to go down there, help her, give her a break, be there for Scott. And I will, as soon as I can stop crying, stop shaking, start breathing again. He’ll be okay, he’ll be okay. I’m sure he’ll be okay this time. He has to.

When I get to the hospital, they say only one of us can be with Scott at a time, so they bring me back and then tell Julie the same thing. She’s sitting on a stool next to Scott’s bed. Her head is lowered, hair hanging over her face, defeated, tired, something’s wrong. When she hears me coming, she lifts her face. It’s a mess, she’s been crying too. What happened? Julie doesn’t break like this, not in public, not in tears. Sometimes in anger, but not in tears. Oh my God, they’ve told her he’s going to die. Oh my God, something has happened.

“Do you want to stay? Or do you want a little break? The nurse says only one of us can be back here.” The nurse is still standing near us, but not too close. Julie shoots her a look even I’ve never seen in her eyes before, and the nurse quietly slips away, pulls the curtain closed. “What happened? What’s going on?”
“Scott? Are you okay for now?” Julie has kind of ignored me, is watching Scott again. He’s got his eyes closed, but tears are running out anyway. She stands up, takes both her hands and puts them on his cheeks, wipes the tears away. She leans in close, whispers in his ear, he nods, she whispers again, he nods again, and then she says to me, “Let’s let him rest for a minute. He’s okay. We need to talk about some stuff.”
“What happened in there? Last I heard, you told me they were about to put a catheter in, and that everything was going to be fine.” We’re both out in the waiting room now, there are sick people scattered around, watching us, listening to our every word.
“Mom, when I was outside calling you, they gave Scott a diuretic shot, just like I told them not to. Dr. Frazier ordered it, and totally ignored everything I said. After filling up two huge jugs of piss, helping Scott fill them, I kinda freaked out. The other doctor finally came, after Scott had filled another one, with my help, and he put the catheter in Scott himself. Thank God for that, at least. But Mom, not five minutes later, a nurse came by with discharge paperwork, signed by Dr. Fucking Frazier! They want to send him home, Mom. They want him to die. I just had another kinda big meltdown in the middle of the emergency room. I burned the paperwork up, right there at the nurse’s station. I think I might get arrested, I don’t know. But I’m tired, Mom, I don’t know what’s going to happen now. I hope I didn’t mess it up, I hope they don’t kick him, or all of us out. He needs help, Mom, he just needs help, and they WON’T HELP HIM! I don’t know what to do, or if I should just leave, or what? I don’t want to leave, I want to be with him. We’re okay together, and he knows I’ll kill for him. He knows what I’ll do to get him better, and I think he’s okay with that. But I don’t want to stress him out more. His heart can’t take it, I don’t think. I don’t know what to do.”

The registration lady has come over to ask us to use the “Quiet Room” so that we don’t disturb the other patients in the waiting room. When she looks at Julie, she backs up slowly, and doesn’t say another word. I’m so proud of my daughter and so worried for my son. I don’t know what to do either, but I know she needs a break. And I need to be with Scott.

“Why don’t you just take a little walk, get some air, or go get something to eat for a few minutes. I know you want to be with him, but you need a little breather. I’ll go in and make sure nothing else happens, find out if they’re going to admit him, or what the story is. You just need a little break. I love you, and I’m proud of you. I’m glad it was you in there, Julie, because I probably would have killed somebody. But for now, I think things are under control, and I’ll damn well make sure of it. I promise.”
“I don’t want to be gone long. I want to be with him. He needs me. I need to see him, so I know for myself he’s still breathing, still here.”
“I know, honey, I know, it’ll be fine, just take a little walk or something, get some air. Then if you want to trade me spots, and come back in, I’ll wait out here.”
“Okay, Mom, okay. Make sure that doctor doesn’t come back, Mom. I’ll kill him. I don’t want him anywhere near my brother. I’ll kill him.”
“I promise. Now go. It’ll be okay, I’ll be with him. Just have the nurse buzz you in when you get back, and I’ll trade you places if we have to.”
“Okay, Mom, okay.

And with that, she was out the door, walking it off, and taking a break. She needed it, and I needed to see my son, alone. When I get back to him, he’s not crying anymore, the light is dimmed in his little room, and I sit down next to him, hold his hand, stroke his hair. I ask him if he’s okay, and he says he’s better now. He says Julie really went off, kicked some ass, got things moving. He says she freaked him out a little, he didn’t know that was in her, but he’s grateful for it. He asks where she went. He wants her back, but he’s tired too, and just wants to sleep. He starts to cry again, but not a lot, he’s scared. I’m scared too, and I don’t know what’s going to happen either. I’m sitting next to my son, my first-born, sorry that I’ve failed him, sorry that he’s in so much pain, so afraid. Wishing I could do something, wishing I could turn back time.

Julie comes back just ten minutes later, and the nurses don’t even mention the one-person-at-a-time rule again. They just close the curtain on us. Julie curls up on the end of the bed, hugging Scott’s legs. I keep his hand in mine, and stroke Julie’s hair while she rests. These are my children. This is my life. And somehow, I just want to make it all better, for all of us.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty-Five - In Mom's Eyes

2009-11-29T19:10:00.000-08:00

“Well, I’m not going to accept any money from my sisters. After this last attack from them, I’m just over it. And I don’t want to even TALK to them, let alone OWE them anything ever again.”
“But Mom, what if it’s the only thing that’ll save Scott?”
“We’ll just have to find something else.”
“I’m just worried, for both of you. I’m over here, trying to find a solution, but both of you are rejecting the only thing I can come up with. I just don’t understand.”
“Julie, there are no solutions. I’ve just accepted that this is how I’m going to live the rest of my life, ‘til it’s over. There just isn’t a solution, and there never will be one. It’s just what it is, and I don’t want to think about it anymore.”
“So, neither of you think that, in order to save Scott’s life, we should just suck it up and accept whatever help we can???”
“I don’t know anymore, Julie. I just don’t know. I’m tired of holding the phone to my ear. It’s hurting my neck, and I’m tired.”
“Okay, Mom, I just, well, I’m not going to stop searching for a solution. I just can’t.”
“I don’t want you to. I’m just tired. I’m sorry, try not to worry too much. I’m just tired. I’ll call ya tomorrow, k, honey?”
“Yeah, I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too.”

I don’t want to lose my son. So much so, that I don’t even want to think of the possibility of it, even though it stares me in the face every day. I am failing him. I don’t know how to help him anymore. I feel like I’ve tried everything, save quitting my job and staying home full time to care for him. But then where would we get the money to live? And work is my only reprieve. And I hate it there too. Julie, still optimistic somehow, is the only hope we have left. I don’t even know where to turn anymore, and I’m just so damn tired. All I ever wanted was for my children to be happy in life. Now I’m 60 years old, have nothing to show for my own life, and have a son that is going to die. We all need a miracle, and we need it yesterday.

Chapter Twenty-Five – Missing Dads – In Mom’s Eyes
1985 – I am 36, Scott is 11, Julie is 8

I come home from work and Julie is asleep on the couch in the living room. I hear Scott listening to the radio in his room. They must’ve been fighting again. God, they fight a lot. I don’t understand it. And it kills me. Why can’t they just get along? I know they love each other, but nearly every moment they are together, they are fighting. What have I done wrong? When did I teach them all that anger? I don’t feel like an angry person myself, but they must’ve gotten it somewhere.

I know Scott is still angry with me for moving us all to Bend from Salem, and away from all his friends. I think things would have been better if we had moved to Hawaii like I originally planned. I don’t know, I just don’t know. Maybe it’s a good thing that job fell through. Hawaii is so far away from the family. I don’t know if I could do this all on my own. And Julie, she’s not generally and angry child, but she’s got a temper, and when Scott pushes her buttons, which he does well, watch out! Wow, that little girl can fight. Everybody loves her, and always wants her around. She gets a lot of attention all the time, and she’s really very smart. Things come easy for her. Scott’s remarkably jealous, I think. Things have never come as easy for him. And he’s not the most social person either. I don’t know if I’m doing this right. How do you raise a boy to be a man, when you’re a woman? I take him out to my Dad’s a lot, I want him to learn what it is to be a good man from my Dad. And I think he will. My Dad is the best man I’ve ever known, and Scott just adores him. And he really loves Scott, how hard he works, how hard he tries. Hopefully it’ll be enough. I was too tired to stop at the store on the way home, so tonight I’m making some makeshift spaghetti. Or goulash, whatever you want to call it. I feel so poor. I am so poor.

It would really help to have some child-support from that bastard of a father these children have. But I’ll never ask him for it. I don’t ever want him in their lives, ever. He’s the worst kind of man. Worse than even Scott’s biological father, who left right at the mention of my pregnancy and never looked back. But Ed, Julie’s father, he’s a monster. Oooh, it gives me chills just to think of his name. He’s sick, and I’d rather kill him than see him with my children. Julie’s started to ask about him more lately. I don’t say much. I don’t want to. I don’t even want to think about him, let alone speak his name, or tell my daughter anything about him. It wasn’t long ago that my sister, wretch that she is, told her shit-head little son about Scott having a different father than Julie’s. I wanted to tell them myself, when the time was right. But that little prick just up and told them anyway. Evil child. Since then, Scott has been acting rather strange. He’s taken to stabbing things, everything, with knives or forks or sticks. He stabs the floor, the loaf of bread, his mattress, a wayward sock from the dryer. And now he’s burning things too. I don’t think he’s a dangerous child, just an angry one. I think he’ll grow out of it before long, probably just getting out some aggression over being left behind by not one, but two fathers. I can’t even imagine how that must feel, and I feel like it’s all my fault.

“Hi, Momma.” Julie has quietly appeared at my side, awake now, but still subdued and coming out of her sleep. She’s a mess of tangles and she looks so sweet and innocent.
“Did you have a little nap?”
“I guess so, what’s for dinner? Do you need any help?”
“No, not really. Why’s Scott in his room? What happened today?”
“We had a fight.” Naturally, they had a fight. Always a fight. Is it ever going to end?
“You two just HAVE to stop all this fighting.” It breaks my heart, and I start to get choked up. I don’t want to cry in front of Julie, make a big deal of it, but I’m so tired, and it’s hard to hold it back. But somehow, I do, at least for the moment.
“I’m sorry, Mom. We didn’t mean it. It’s just dumb stuff anyway. Sorry.” I can tell she feels miserable, probably wishing she wouldn’t even have told me about it. I wonder for a minute what the fight was about this time. But it doesn’t matter, really.

Julie goes to Scott’s room to get him for dinner, and I hear them at it again. Julie just wants him to come out, she must’ve been the worst one in the fight today, she’s the most apologetic now. Something bigger must’ve happened than just a torn-off Barbie head, or a bad beat on the Nintendo. I’m so tired, hopefully they’ll just eat and go to bed. I love them both so much, but I need a break. I need to sleep, someday.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty-Four - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-27T15:57:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twenty-Four – No Time – In Scott’s Eyes
2004 – Mom is 55, I am 30, Julie is 27

It’s been a few months since I got out of the hospital. I’m finally able to move around better, and do some stuff around the house. I’ve been trying to avoid most of the losers I was hanging out with, and Mom and Julie have scared away the rest. I’m really trying to focus on getting better, and having a life. Grandpa is dying. I want to prove to him that I’ll be okay. He got diagnosed with cancer just as I was having my hospital experience, pretty much. I can’t believe this is happening right now. There’s no time left for me to show him I did it, I lost the weight. He’ll be long gone before I ever get to that point, and it crushes me to know that.

Gramps has been the only father I’ve ever known, and Julie’s too, really. After her disappointment with her real dad, she latched on to Gramps even more than before. And she was already really close with him. They bonded over that though, he was there for her. He never really approved of us meeting her father. Never really wanted it to happen. When he called that Christmas, Gramps was pissed off. He told Mom she was crazy for contacting him again. Told her she was making a big mistake. Told her that us kids didn’t need that kind of man in our lives. And he was right, as usual. He’s always had a good sense of people’s character.

I can’t believe he’s dying. I just have to see it myself, but that’s really the last thing I want to do. Julie’s been going over there to take care of him at least three days a week since he got sick. She’s been working a lot too, I don’t know how she does it. Between me, and work, and Gramps, she’s got to be near the breaking point. I just don’t know how she does it. She’s much stronger than I ever gave her credit for, that’s for sure. And I can’t tell you how close we’ve become through my trauma, and all she’s done for me, all she’s forgiven. I wonder if she’s ever gonna be free, be able to do something for herself, and stop taking care of everyone else. More than ever, I want that for her. And now I have more than enough reasons to do what I need to do to get better.

“Scott…” Mom is calling me from the living room. She’s just been on the phone, but I don’t know who she was talking to. I was out in the garage, lifting weights and listening to Aretha. But I can hear in her voice that something’s wrong.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” I’ve made my way out to the living room to see my Mom crying, and shaking, and still absently clutching the phone. “Who were you talking to?”
“That was Julie.” She’s crying, and crying, and crying.
“What happened, is Gramps okay?”
“Well, not really, and either is Julie.”
“Mom, what happened?”
“Not much, really, just Julie had to clean him up tonight. He was in the bathroom and couldn’t do it himself. I guess he made it to his room, and Julie went to help him, knew something was wrong, you know how she is.”
“Oh, God, is she okay?”
“Yeah, she’ll be alright, I just wish I had been there. I wish it was me instead. She’s had enough of that lately, ya know, she doesn’t need this right now.”
“When’s she coming home?”
“I don’t know, she wants to stay. We have to figure out what to do now, he needs special care I think, I don’t know what to do. I just want to rock her, and make it go away for her. I wish I was there instead. My Dad is dying and I’m not there to help him. He can’t even wipe his own ass any more, Julie said that’s what he screamed when he came out of the bathroom. He must be so ashamed, so embarrassed, so defeated. I need my Dad. I need my daughter. I’m just so sorry for them both.”
“God, Mom, I didn’t know he was getting that bad. How long til…?”
“I don’t know, anytime I guess, maybe a couple months, at the most, I don’t know, we’ll just have to see, I don’t know.”

We both went back to our rooms not too much later. I imagined Julie, fighting with Gramps to be able to clean him up. He’s such a proud man, I know it must’ve been tough, on both of them. I can’t believe I’m going to lose him. I can’t even think about it. It’s not real, it just can’t be real. He’s everything to me. He’s taught me so much, been there for me through everything. He’s the most important person in my life, and I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. I don’t want to fail him, or anyone anymore. I don’t want to fail myself. Poor Julie, God this must be hard for her. Just a couple months ago, she was wiping my ass, now Gramps’ too. Poor kid. How can she possibly not break? What is she made of? How are any of us going to make it through this? Gramps is the only person keeping our entire family together. What’s gonna happen to us all?

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty-Three - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-27T15:19:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twenty-Three – The Rebellion – In Scott’s Eyes
2003 – Mom is 54, I am 29, Julie is 26

Oh, God, I’m in the hospital. My heart is beating out of my chest, and I think I’m going to die. I’m so embarrassed. The fire department had to come to help get me into the ambulance. Nine grown men. Nine. Jesus, what’s wrong with me?! How did I get this bad? I’m so scared, I just want to live, I don’t want to die, really I don’t. My heart monitor is going crazy with beeps, I feel like my heart’s gonna explode. I’m so scared. The nurses got me in here, I got in the bed, and they hooked me up to a bunch of stuff. There’s a cuff on my arm, taking my blood pressure every few minutes, and it hurts. There’s some pads and wires stuck to my chest, I don’t know what they are for. Where’s my sister? I’m so scared. What’s going to happen to me? Am I going to die right here, today, in this emergency room bed? God, I don’t feel good, I can feel my heart beat in every fiber of my body, and it’s fast. Oh, God, what have I done to myself?

They are giving me a shot of diuretic so that I can pee off some of the water I’ve retained. So that my heart won’t fail. They say I have congestive heart failure. What is that? I don’t know what’s happening to me, except now I have to pee. Oh my god, I have to pee. They left me a urine jar, but I can’t reach! Oh, no, I can’t reach! Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh my God, I can’t hold it. I’ve just peed my bed. I’m so embarrassed. What do I do now? I push the nurse button, but no one is coming. I push it again. Oh, it hurts so bad. It stings, oh it hurts. Where’s Julie? Where’s my sister? Where’s the goddamn nurse? I’m crying now, I’m so upset, so ashamed, so soiled. Oh my God, I have to pee again. No, not again, please! Oh, well, I can’t help it, I have no choice. I’ve tried to reach the bottle down there, and I just CAN’T! Oh my God, this is so humiliating! What am I gonna do?

“Can somebody help me, please????” I am yelling for a nurse, since my button must be broken. No one has come and I’ve pushed it a thousand times. Oh, please, somebody come help me.
“Do you need something?” Finally, a nurse.
“I can’t reach with the jar. I’m wet. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.” I start to bawl and the nurse just looks at me like I’m a big burden, then finds a way to remove the wet sheets underneath me. She stuffs a new blanket under me, leaves, and comes back with a bucket.
“Maybe you can use this instead. It’s a bigger target.”
“I’ll try. I’m sorry. What’s happening to me? Do you know if my sister’s here? Can you check?”
“We’re doing some tests, the doctor’s got to evaluate you and find out more about what’s going on. It won’t be long, I’m sure. I’ll check for your sister.”
“Thank you. I think my call button is broken. Can you check back in a little bit, please. I can’t seem to stop peeing, and I don’t think that bucket is going to work, but I’ll try.” I’m still crying, sobbing really, and she just looks at me like I’m crazy.
“The button’s not broken, we’re just busy. I’ll check back in a bit. Try to use the jar, or the bucket.”
“Okay, and you’re going to check for Julie, right???” As I ask her this, she is already gone from my little curtained-off room, and she doesn’t look back.

The pee is stinging my legs, my inner thighs. Oh, it hurts. I tried to lean off the bed and use the bucket, but pee just went all over my leg, and some onto the floor. Oh, it hurts. Where is Julie? Please, somebody help me. I need my sister. The nurse who took the sheets off last time didn’t clean me up at all. My pee is just sitting on my skin, burning me up. Owwww, God, it hurts. I’ve got to calm down somehow, my chest hurts. I think I’m going to have a heart attack. No one has been in here since that nurse left. No one. I don’t hear anything else going on out there. But I can’t see anything because the curtain is shut. I need help, but no one is coming. I’m just gonna lay here and die. I just know it. Oh, where is my sister?

I don’t know what I’ve been doing lately. I guess Julie was right, I’ve just been in a rebellious phase. What an idiot. I used to yell at her all the time when she was rebelling, told her what an ass she was. I didn’t understand why she had to act that way. But I realize what it feels like to want to be something different. To want to fit in with any crowd. To need to be accepted. These losers I have been hanging out with made me feel like I belong somewhere. I thought they loved me, or at least liked me. But now I don’t know. I’ve been horrible to Mom and Julie lately, just plain horrible. I’m a liar and a disgusting person. I’ve been treating Mom and Julie like they are animals lately. But they’re the only ones who really love me. God, I’ve been horrible to them, what’s wrong with me? Maybe that’s why Julie isn’t here yet. Maybe she won’t come at all. Oh my God, what have I done. I feel the heart monitor beeping faster, and I’m sure this is it. I’m just gonna close my eyes and die.

But instead, I close my eyes and cry. Between the tears running down my face, and the piss running down my legs, I’m a big, fat, wet mess. Oh, God, please just take me away. Just let me die. I’m ready for it. I can’t handle this anymore. I just don’t want to live anymore. Oh, God, I was just kidding, I don’t want to die. Just please help me. I don’t want to die. I’m so scared. All I want is my sister. Where is Julie? Oh, God, Julie hates me. And I don’t blame her. Why would she love me anymore? I’ve made her life, and Mom’s life, hell – pure hell. I’m such a bad person, no wonder all this is happening. Why have I been such an asshole? Is it too late, really, to make up for it? Maybe it is. Maybe I fucked up too much this time. Maybe I’ve lost them both. I can’t believe how painful pee can be. I think my skin is literally melting off my body right now. It sure feels like it anyway. I deserve it. I deserve to suffer. I deserve to die.

Oh my God, Julie’s here. Is she really here? Oh my God, I’m so happy to see my sister. I can’t believe it’s real. She doesn’t hate me, I can tell. The look in her eyes when she sees me is pure concern. And pain. Oh, God, I’m in so much pain, and I’m so scared. But my sister’s here and I love her.

“Oh my God, Scott, what’s going on?”
“Julie, I’m scared. I didn’t think you were coming. What happened?”
“I’ve been out in the waiting room for two hours, Scott, trying to get in here. I don’t know what their problem is, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? You look horrible, Jesus, you’re heart is beating out of your chest, I can feel it on your skin. Are you okay? What’s been going on back here?”
“I…Julie….I...don’t know. I need help.”
“Well, I can see that. Are you in pain? You look terrible, you’re all red. Jesus, your blood pressure is insane.”
“Julie…they gave me a shot. It makes me have to pee. I can’t control it.” I look down, then away, I can’t believe this is happening. I’m so ashamed. Julie understands right away what I’m trying to say. She lifts up the soiled sheet on top of me, sees what’s beneath it, and freaks out.
“Jesus, God, Scott. Jesus, Mary, mother of God. Christ, Scott, I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it. Are you in pain?”
“Yes, it’s burning, Julie. It’s burning me so bad. It hurts, I can’t take it anymore. I’m so sorry.” I can’t even talk anymore, I’m sobbing uncontrollably, shaking, shivering in shock.

Julie lifts up my legs somehow, slides the soaked blanket off the bed, goes to the sink, brings back some soapy napkins, cleans me up. It hurts so bad, but it’s a relief. She blows on my legs, cools them down. She goes out of my room and comes back with a couple new sheets and blankets. She lifts up my legs, positions a sheet under me. She spreads a sheet over me, then a warm blanket, tucks me in, rubs my feet, tells me it’ll be okay. She tells me if I have to pee, she’ll help. She hugs me, we cry. She wipes my tears away, and rests for a minute. Then she jumps away from the bed like a wild banchee and tears out of my room, leaving the curtain open so I can see what she’s about to do. God, I love my sister. I’m so glad she’s on my side. Those nurses are going to get exactly what they deserve, and more. She’s mad, and she’s on a mission, and she’s good at that. If I ever get out of here, I promise I’ll never hurt her again. I’ll never be mean to her again. She really does love me, and I want to live, if only to show her I can.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty-Two - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-27T13:43:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twenty-Two, Fat is Funny – In Scott’s Eyes
2009 – Present Day – Mom is 60, I am 35, Julie is 32

Everybody thinks fat is funny. I laugh at fat people too. But not as much as I used to, that’s for sure. Mostly I just feel sorry for them. Like I feel sorry for myself. I know what they go through, being overweight in this world. But I get mad sometimes, at all the people who are just a little bit fat, and they go and get the gastric bypass, and they’re instantly skinny. I feel like too many people use that surgery as an easy way out. For people like me, it’s a more necessary option, but for someone who is only 50 or 60 pounds overweight, it just seems lazy.

I feel like a recluse quite often these days. I rarely ever go out in public anymore. It’s just too hard. It hurts physically, but the other part is worse than that. People look at me like I’m a leper. Like they might catch fat if they get too close. Like it’s contagious. I wish I could just walk through a store and nobody looks at me, I’m normal. But it never happens. First of all, I can’t WALK through the store at all. I have to ride a cripple cart. There’s no way I could make it around without one. And there’s only a few of them around I can even fit in anymore. So, people don’t just look, they stare. Sometimes they even follow me down an aisle, maybe to see what I’m getting, maybe because they’ve just never seen someone as big as me. Whatever the reason, it hurts. I feel like a spectacle. Like a freak at a carnival. I try to ignore it, but you can’t ignore something like that. Every way you turn your head, there’s another person staring, laughing, pointing, dropping something other than just their jaw.

No one ever talks to me, or just says “hello”. They mainly say things to the people next to them, things like “God, he’s fat!” or “Wow!” or “Look at THAT!” or my favorite, “Jesus Christ! What’s HE doing in a GROCERY store?!?!” Assholes. They don’t stare or make fun of old people, or ugly people, or other fat people. Just me. I guess the other fat people look skinny when I’m around. Good for them. At least I give ‘em a break, if I can’t get one myself. So, I don’t go out very often. Julie is always telling me that I should try and go out somewhere for recreation, to meet new people. That, when they get to know me, they’ll treat me differently and it’ll make me feel better. She just doesn’t understand the anxiety I have, and how bad it is for me out there. I know she’s seen it, I know she knows it happens, but she just doesn’t get how painful it is, I don’t think. I’m sure she’s right, though. If people actually got to know me, instead of judge me from the outside, I’d probably have more friends, more things to do. But it just feels like an impossible task, and makes me nervous and tired just thinking about it. Besides that, it is really too painful for me, physically. My pain has gotten so bad, it takes my breath away after only a few steps now. My knees have no cartilage left, my back is screwed up in every place, and the whole of my body just hurts constantly. I wouldn’t even be able to move if I didn’t have pain pills. And I hate those too, but at least they keep me mobile, or as mobile as possible anyway.

What I do most days now, is lay in bed, in-between short chores, and watch t.v. There are a lot of motivating shows on now about losing weight, but there are more shows where fat is still funny. Sometimes I still catch myself laughing along, but it’s because I temporarily forget that I’m fatter than that. I’m fatter than ALL of that. The only other people I’ve seen on t.v. that are as fat as me, have been on TLC. “The Half-Ton Teenager”, “The 1000 Pound Dad”, there are a few of them. Most of them die, or fail at losing any significant weight. It’s sad, and I think about myself and what’s gonna happen to me. I don’t feel good at all, physically, or mentally most of the time, and I wonder all the time if I might not wake up one day soon. If my heart will just give out. I wonder what’s going to happen to Mom and Julie, how they’re going to react. I wonder where they’ll have a funeral, and sometimes I can even hear what people will whisper. “This didn’t have to happen”, “Why did he let himself go this bad”, “It’s probably better off”, “Now his mom and sister can get on with their lives”, “There’s nothing more any of us could do, was there?” I hate that this is what people will say, instead of saying things about what I have accomplished, or who I am as a person. Julie will probably speak about me like that, instead of the bad stuff. But only Julie. Everyone will cry, I’m sure, but mostly for Mom and Julie, not because I’m dead.

There’s really not much that’s funny about being fat. Not being able to breathe isn’t funny. Not being able to walk isn’t funny. Being laughed at, stared at, pointed at, isn’t funny. Losing faith in everything isn’t funny. Wishing you were dead isn’t funny. Loneliness isn’t funny. Seclusion isn’t funny. Food isn’t funny. Fat just isn’t funny, no matter how you look at it. But don’t tell the rest of the world that, because maybe they might actually have to find something that really is funny, and stop bringing attention to everything but themselves, and their own flaws. Now, that’s funny. But not really funny “ha, ha”.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty-One - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-27T11:54:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twenty-One – The Fish Farm – In Scott’s Eyes
1997 – Mom is 48, I am 23, Julie is 20

I see Julie pull in, here to visit Gramps, make him cookies I suppose. I’m out back chopping wood, again. It’s a never-ending process. I don’t know why we can’t just use the fricking furnace. I don’t really want to see Julie yet, or more so, I don’t want her to see me. I’ve gotten pretty big since last time I saw her, and I just don’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes. I don’t want to hear the comments she’ll probably make. I don’t know how this all has happened. I don’t know how I’ve gotten so big. I work really hard, do a lot of physical stuff all day, most days. I know I eat a lot, I’m addicted to food, but why am I gaining so much weight? It’s just not fair. Other people eat a lot too, but seem to never gain a pound. My cousin Mike, for instance, he works a lot too, and eats a lot, but he’s all cut and trim. I don’t get it. There’s something wrong with me, I just know it.

Gramps is calling for me, Julie must have asked where I am. He’s taken to calling me “Skinny” now, which is not funny. I hate it, actually. But I guess it’s his way of not calling me fat. I guess that’s better somehow, I don’t know. Anyway, I’m not gonna answer him, I’ll just let the two of them catch up for a while. Jesus, I hate chopping wood. It hurts. My back is all screwed up, and my knees are hurting a lot lately. I know it’s because of this weight. I have to sit down a lot now, and it pisses me off. I just wish I was normal-sized. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I just hurt all the time. I think I’m gonna quit for the day. Just gotta get some wood in, and then I’ll be done. Julie will make us something yummy for dinner, she always does. God! Why do I always have to think about FOOD! Why is that the ONLY thing that ever gives me happiness? Forget it, I’m just not even gonna eat tonight. I’ve got to get over this. I’ve got to stop thinking about food every second. And eating it. Ohhhh, I hate this. My life sucks. And my back hurts, and the damn dogs are in my way coming in the door with the wood. And I’m sweating, and Julie is in the kitchen already, and I just want to crawl in a hole, I can’t even look at her right now.

"Hey Scooter, how are ya?" Julie’s all peppy, and annoying.
"Fine, MOVE DOG!" The dogs are always in the way. Dogs are more revered than people in this neck of the woods. "Shit! Dammit!" I’m grunting and sweating and cursing as I lug firewood in the house with an old wheelbarrow. God, I just wanna die.
"Want some help?"
"No! I'm fine." I snap at her and am instantly mad at myself. Why am I taking it out on her? She’s done nothing wrong. She’s just being Julie, which is a good thing. But why does she always get to be the good one?
"Okeeey." She knows I’m in a mood. I hope she doesn’t take it personally. I’ll visit with her in a second, when I’ve rested a bit. When I calm down. I need some water, god, I’m so damn thirsty. But after unloading the wood, I’m just too tired to get it. I make it to the couch in the back room, and plop my fat ass down, wipe the sweat off my face with my shirt, and pant like a frickin’ dog. Everything is so hard to do lately. I hate it.
"Here, have some water." As if she read my mind, Julie hands me a glass of water and sits down next to me. I guess I’m gonna have to look at her now. See the disappointment in her eyes. Face her thoughts. "Workin' hard today, huh?"
"Yeah, always." She’s looking at me, but just right in my eyes. She doesn’t see my fat! She doesn’t see my fat! Wow, her eyes look happy to see me. I don’t see any disappointment or shame. It’s just not there. Wow.
"What do you want for dinner tonight? Thought I might make chicken dumplings for Gramps. Sound good?"
"Mmmmmmm, yeah, nummies." God, dumplings sound good. Food sounds good. I’m starving. My sister’s here, and she doesn’t hate me, and she’s gonna cook me dumplings. I love life sometimes.
"You're a dork, and I hate when you make those sounds."
"Why? They're my nummy sounds."
"Yeah, that's why."
"Whatever." Well, there it is. The disappointment, after all. Not in her eyes, but in her words. I guess it’s just my life now. One big ball of shame. I’m tired. I’m hungry. And I’m sick of my life.

Julie heads back to the kitchen, and I stay on the couch for a while. She sings and chops things, and puts things in a pot to cook. She mixes and pours, and puts things in a bowl to bake. Making dumplings, and cookies, all at once. She’s doing all things that make Gramps happy. And she loves it. But it bothers me sometimes, that she can just come out here every once-in-a-while, make him a couple dinners and dozens of cookies, and he’s over the moon about it. He talks about her visits for weeks, until the next one. I work all day, every day, for him, and he never even says ‘thank you’. He rarely ever tells me I did a good job, or anything else. But that’s just the way he is. And I still love him. I wish I could make him proud of me. I know he loves me, but I wish he liked me more. He can’t stand to see me the way I am. And I can’t stand to see his disappointment. I just wish things were different.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twenty - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-24T14:12:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twenty - Unforseen Circumstances - In Scott's Eyes
2001 - Mom is 52, I am 27, Julie is 24

Well, I've royally fucked everything up, again. I'm on my way to Newport to move back in with Mom and Julie. What a loser. Poor Mom, she finally got rid of us both, and now we're both back. When's she ever gonna be able to live HER life without the burden of Julie and I? This sucks, this all sucks. I am fat. So fat I can barely drive my Jeep anymore. The steering wheel pushes into my stomach so far that I have a constant bruise from it. I hate being this fat. I guess I'm crazy. I guess there's something really wrong with me. I mean, who loses over 200 pounds, then gains it all back in less than 6 months? Who DOES that? God, I hate myself. And I hate living at Gramps’ now too. It's so secluded, it's so depressing, it's so lonely. That's why I've been eating so much. For comfort, I guess. All I've done is eat, without even thinking most of the time. But when I do think about it, sometimes it makes me sick to think about what I eat and how MUCH of it. I'm a fat pig. I hate myself. I should just drive off a cliff right now. End it all. I don't want to be anybody's burden anymore. I'm so tired.

I'm afraid of what Mom and Julie are going to say when they see me. Afraid of what they'll think. Last time they both saw me, I had gained a little bit of weight back, but not like now. I am surprised myself, at how I look, how big I am. I try to avoid mirrors. I haven't weighed myself since I left Gary and Anita's house. I don't even want to know. I know I'm bigger than I've ever been. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why this happened, and why this is my life. I hate it. I really feel bad about leaving Gary and Anita's. I didn't want to admit it, but it's really because of my own pride and stubbornness. All Gary did was ask me to pay a few expenses. I should have just done it, then I wouldn't be in this position. I wouldn't be moving to Newport. I wouldn't be so fucking fat. But my feelings were hurt. A few months before I left, I had an accident on an extension ladder. The thing wasn't latched right, and when I got to the top, it gave out, sending me about 20 feet to the ground in less than a second. I went through physical therapy for a few months, but my knees are shot. I'm in so much pain all the time, and it doesn't help that I'm a big fat pig. Every pound of weight I gain makes my pain that much worse. I'm in a fog all the time, pain pills - can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. Anyway, when Gary asked me to pay some rent, or expenses, it just pissed me off. He was barely paying me anything for the work I do for him anyway. Then I wasn't even able to work for a few months, and all of a sudden, when I'm the brokest, he wants me to give him money. It just hurt my feelings, mostly the way he put it, made me feel like I was just a big ol' burden. But I work too, I cook sometimes, I clean the house or do the laundry. I help out. But he just made me feel like I wasn't doing ANYTHING and that I was just mooching off them. It hurt my feelings, and I lashed out, and then moved out. I wish it would've never happened. I wish I didn't have such a bad temper sometimes. I wish I could go back. But I can never go back. I'm so ashamed. Especially now, that I've undone all that Gary, Anita, and I did together. What they did for me was life-changing, it was a chance I'll never get again. I think it's why I eat so much, to forget about my shame. Somehow I'm gonna have to find a way to do this on my own. Or just kill myself, and be done with it. This option seems like the better one at the moment.

I told Gramps I was moving back with Mom so I could get healthy and be in a more active environment. I promised him I would work on it. I think he was somewhat relieved to have me gone. I know he is very concerned about me, but the way he shows it isn't really very nice. He gets angry with me now all the time. And the way he looks at me makes me feel like a piece of shit. I just can't handle it anymore. I don't want to be his disappointment. I think that's why I eat so much, to give myself approval, since I know he doesn't approve of my life. I just feel like my life has spiraled out of control. I tried to go back to school for a few months, but quit like a loser. I went back to work at Target for a few months, but quit that too. Hate that place anyway. I've been working on the farm, trying to keep things up since no one did much while I was at Gary and Anita's. But it's too much work for one person, and I'm tired of it. I don't have any money, all I think about is food, all I do is eat, and I think I eat so much so that I can have control over SOMETHING.

I'm almost to Newport, but I decide to stop at Dairy Queen and get something to eat. I order three double bacon cheeseburgers and two corndogs and a large Coke. The lady at the window looks at me, looks at the bag of food, and I think she almost decides not to give it to me. I know what she's thinking. I can hear her thoughts - "wow, look at him, does he really need all this food!". I grab the bag and drive off, start shoving a burger in my mouth. There is too much food, but by the time I get to Newport, 6 miles away, it's all gone. God I'm a pig. And I think I'm still hungry. But how is that possible? I must eat so much to fill a void, to make the emptiness go away. It must be a really big void.

I’m tired. Just so tired. And I don’t want to be here, in this town, in this place in my so-called life. I hate myself. I’m in pain, and I need a nap. When I see Mom and Julie, they are visibly shocked. I don’t blame them. I’m shocked too. But all I wanna do is lie down. So I do.

Where I Belong?

2009-11-21T08:10:00.000-08:00

My cat is curled up on my bed, snoring. I wish I could sleep like my cat. I wish I could sleep, period. It seems as if most nights I sleep for about 4-5 hours, get up, fuel myself with coffee, and think about when I can possibly fit in a nap, which never happens.

Lately, besides writing my NaNoWriMo novel and trying to build my pumpkin bread business, I've had a lot of things going on. I've been babysitting my neighbors' son, he's 8 years old. He's a really good kid, actually, and I'm glad to have him around most days. I'm teaching him about business, and philanthropy. He's making jewelry to sell in my Etsy shop online, and half the proceeds are going to St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital. Like I said, he's a pretty good kid.

My friend, one of my old poker players from home - Toby, was in town about a week ago. He stayed at my place for a few days - and what a riot that was! Toby has a lot of energy and is funny as shit. He's about my age, has got fiery red hair, and grew up with about 10 siblings, so he's got a really great sense of humor. And he LOVES Vegas. He really does it right when he's here. Inevitably, I drop him off somewhere at around 9:00pm, and he calls me around noon the next day, totally wasted and lost, and asks me to come find him and bring him home. So I do. And I love it. He's hilarious when he's that wasted, pure entertainment.

Toby's two favorite sayings this trip:

"Giggety" - sometimes "Giggety-Goo" For him, this means "cool" I think. Or "awesome". Or something like that.....I think.

"Indeed" - this is literally every other word out of his mouth. Me- "Toby, we need to get a burger." Toby- "Indeed". Me- "Let's have a beer" Toby- "Indeed". Me- "Don't you have any other words to say besides 'indeed'?" Toby- "Indeed". You get the picture.

The first night he stayed at my place, we stayed up all night and drank, and played online poker, until we both fell asleep sitting up at about 5am. We fought like crazy people while playing poker online - and god, it was fun! We would be full-on just yelling at each other about how stupid our play was, and then start cracking up and shadow-boxing. Toby's like another brother. And almost nothing ever bothers him.

After I picked him up from downtown one day, we stopped at "In-N-Out" to get a burger, and the line was so long, we went inside. I don't even know how he was walking at that point. We sat and waited for our food, and watched the burger-makers and fry-cutters and order-takers do their work.

"They're like bees in a hive. They move so fast." Toby is astounded.
"It's busy. Lotta burgers to make, I guess."
"I've NEVER been inside an In-N-Out before, wow." Toby is having a revelation.
"Pretty exciting."
"I worked in fast food for two summers, and I think everyone in the world should have to do that, before they can get a real job. Ya know, so they know how bad it can be. And always strive for something better." Toby is reflective.
"Not a bad philosophy."
"I don't think I could wear the hats though. They're pretty gay." Toby is serious.
"I don't know, I think they're kinda sexy." I smile. "and the big huge safety pins they use to pin their aprons on, now THOSE are hot!"
"Wow! I didn't even SEE the safety pins!" Toby is excited.
"Yeah, makes 'em kinda 'grunge', ya know. A little edgy."
"Yeah, the safety pins really make the outfit." Toby is laughing.
"I'm about to chew my arm off, I'm starving, aren't you hungry?"
"Yeah, I think so, I don't know, probably. Why did you come pick me up? A big drunken mess. Why would you DO that? I can't believe you came and found me." Toby is rambling.
"I told you, I picked you up because I wanted you to buy me lunch. And I figured you'd owe me if I picked you up. I was hungry, that's all." I laugh and he laughs back.
"I think I'm gonna just shut up and put my money where my mouth is." Toby is reciting the same song that's been stuck in his head since he got here, but it fits, and we both start laughing hysterically.

Needless to say, it was great to have a bit of home around for a few days. I miss my friends there. I miss playing, and dealing poker there. And I miss just having someone to call when I want to go hang out. Vegas is a strange place, with strange people. On the outside, they look normal, but in reality, they are all reclusive, degenerate gamblers. Or just plain hermits. And as I type this, I have just declined a Thanksgiving invitation so that I can stay at home and cook for myself. Maybe this is where I belong, after all.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Nineteen - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-20T14:59:00.000-08:00

Chapter Nineteen - Found a Dad, Lost a Dad - In Scott's Eyes
1989 - Mom is 40, I am 15, Julie is 12
　
Last time we came here, to Ed's, was a year ago. It was a lot of fun, but there was something wierd about it too. He's supposed to be our dad, but where the hell has he been all these years, and why does he want to know us now? He's not even my real dad anyway. He's Julie's dad, and he only adopted me when I was about three years old, when my Mom married him, and Julie was born. Then he left two years later anyway. What a prick. Neither Julie or I can stand him anymore. Since we've been here, all we've done is work, work, work. He told us we were going to go back to the water park again this year, told us we'd go to Atlantic City too. But now all he wants us to do is work, and says he doesn't have enough money to take us back there. Plus, he's been forcing both of us to call our step-mom "Mom", instead of Robyn. Julie and I can't stand this. At all. But we do it because he gets so mad otherwise. And he guilt-trips us like we're the most evil people on earth. And then he starts talking trash about Mom. I just can't take it anymore, and I know Julie is about to explode. I can tell. It's like when we fight, and I egg her on, tease her and push her buttons, until she snaps. And oooooooooh, watch out after that! I actually can't believe she's held it in this long, but it won't be much longer before she goes off. And he's not gonna like it. I wonder if he'll kill us. Bury us somewhere or dump us where we went crab fishing last time we were here. Maybe he'll make bowling balls out of us, so he can throw us around even after we're dead. I hate his bowling shop. He's not even a REAL pro, like he says. Julie bowled better than he did yesterday, and though he said he was proud of her, there was steam coming out of his ears. She almost bowled a perfect game, 288, better than he's ever done I think. I'm sure it was a fluke, but I'm afraid he's gonna sneak in our room one night and cut her arm off or something, just so she can never beat him again. He's crazy and I just want to go home. Both of us just want to go home.
　
I'm doing the dishes, which I hate, and Julie just finished cleaning the table off, which she hates too. She didn't really say much, just tossed the dish towel on the counter and went upstairs. I feel something coming. I feel it. We don't mind doing chores, we do a lot of those at home all the time. It's not about that. It's the WAY he makes us do them, how he demands it, inspects it, and then expects us to love him for it, forces us to hug him and tell him "thank you" for making us do it. It's not only wierd, it's well,......psycho. He freaks me out. And Julie too, but she's fighting it with all she has. She REALLY wants to love him, and have him love her. She REALLY wants to have a dad. I wanted that too, but now I'm too old for that. I don't NEED a dad like she does, and after being here, I don't even want one anymore. If this is what having a dad means, then screw it. Mom's okay with me. She's never this crazy, even when she does drink a lot. I don't care what he says. He's crazier than a shit-house rat, as Gramps would say.
　
He comes in the kitchen and walks a few laps around the dining table, inspecting. He asks me if Julie wiped the table down. I tell him she did it twice, because she did. He bends down, inspects the table's surface as if he has a magnifying glass, but he doesn't. He runs his hand over the entire surface of the table, inch by inch. And there, in the middle, toward the edge of the table, he stops abruptly. His back gets all straight, air puffs up his chest, he heaves out a big sigh, and turns to me.
　
"She cleaned it TWICE, huh?" I'm staring down at the dishes, I don't want to look up. I'm scared, scared for Julie. And for me. What if he thinks I'm lying, which I'm not. What's he gonna do?
"Uh...yeah, twice. I watched her."
"Well, there's a big grease spot here still. WHY do you think that IS?" Jesus Christ, he's scary.
"Uh...I don't know, I guess she missed it. I'll wipe it down again. I'll fix it." I grab the dish towel and walk to the table with it.
"NO! Julie's gonna do this, and do it RIGHT." I can see the steam coming from his head, his face is all red, he's speaking through clenched teeth. But I'm not gonna let him hurt Julie. "Stay HERE." I'm paralyzed by his craziness. He pulls the toothpick from his mouth that he's been chewing on, does something to the table with it, and goes upstairs to our room, where Julie is. I don't know whether to follow him, or stay like he says. I can't move. But I hear Julie's voice heading down the stairs, and start to relax a little. At least I can hear her, and now I can see her. She looks agitated, but she's alive, whew! "Do you see THAT?"
"What?" Julie says, "I don't see anything." He is pointing at the table. He tells her to look closer. She looks closer, She bends down, turns her head to the side, and sees what he's pointing at. The smudgy, greasy spot on the table - about 3 inches wide, has "clean me" written in it.
"Are you serious? You made me come down here for THAT? REALLY?" Uh, oh,....here goes Julie. This is it.
"You need to do your chores, and do them correctly. Do it over."
"No." He picks up a dishrag, grabs her hand, and forces her to take it. I stopped doing the dishes am holding my breath and a dirty butter knife, and ready to kill him. I'm ready for anything. Julie looks at me, then back to her dad. "NO." She throws the rag down on the table, turns and runs toward the stairs. "CLEAN IT YOURSELF", she screams back at him.
"Jesus, Julie, you run fast!" I got into our room just as Julie was slamming the door behind her. She opened the door again, as far as it would go and slammed it shut as loud as she could. I guess she needed to put the exclamation point on the end of her sentence, just a little bit louder.
"I'm not gonna clean it again, Scott, I'm not gonna do ANYTHING for him anymore, I hate him, he's a slave-driver, I hate him, who does he think he is, why does he think he can treat us this way, let's go home, Scott, please, let's just go home." She can't even breathe, She's crying so hard and cussing, and breathing like she's gonna have a heart attack. I didn't even know she KNEW all these cuss words. "He's a fucking asshole, Scott, I can't believe he's my dad, I don't want to be here, what if he won't let us go home, what if we have to stay here and be his slaves forever, Scott, he doesn't love us, he doesn't love anyone, I'm so sorry Scott, you're gonna get in trouble too because of this, I'm so sorry, I hate him, please don't let him near me, I'll rip his fucking head off, he's so mean, who thinks it's okay to be mean like that, what a fucker, I fucking hate him, I can't believe this, how are we gonna call Mom, the phone is downstairs, fuck, fuck, fuck, Scott, I'm sorry I'm saying so many bad words, but fuck, Scott, I can't handle it, I just can't handle it."
"Try to calm down, Julie, you're gonna make yourself sick. I'll take care of it. I won't let him near you. I promise. It'll be okay, I promise." Just then our door flew open, and a very big man with a very red face was standing in our room with a dishrag in his hands. And he was coming for Julie.
"DON'T YOU MOVE ANOTHER INCH! GET OUT OF OUR ROOM! NOW!!!" If there is ever a time in my life I'll stand up for anything, it's now.
"Scott, get out of my way, this is between me and your sister." The calm in his voice was eerie, terrifying.
"I'm not going anywhere, and either is she. Leave." He pushed me out of the way, and against the wall, hard. I was shocked, and I hit my head and shoulder on the wall. It made me lose my balance, and I was trying to get up, but in an instant, he had Julie by the arm, up off the bed, dragging her out of the room. I was failing her! He was gonna kill her! But then my scrappy little sister bent down her head and bit him as hard as she could on the arm, started kicking and flailing and screaming. I've never been so proud of her as right this very moment.
"DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING TOUCH ME AGAIN! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU BASTARD! LEAVE. ME. THE. FUCK. ALONE. OR I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" And now, I have another moment of pride for her, even better than the last.
　
To both our surprise, he left the room, rubbing his arm and breathing like a dragon, red, bloodshot eyes and defeat at the hands of a twelve-year-old. Two days later we flew home. When Mom was driving us home from the airport, we told her everything. Even the cuss words. She was proud of us both. Julie found two pamphlets and a book on alcoholism that he must've snuck in her bag before we left. She showed them to Mom and told her all the things he said about her, about our family. Mom tried not to, but started to cry. We all started to cry. Mom told us she was sorry for ever asking him to call us at Christmas. I didn't know she asked him to do that. I thought he just called, because he wanted to, because he loved us. But, as it turns out, she had to search him out, find him, and call him. She hoped it wouldn't turn out this way. She was sorry. We rode along in tears for a few miles.
　
"Here's what I think, Mom." Julie turned to Mom, and I sat up in the back, leaned forward to see what she was doing. She rolled down the window, and page by page, tore up that book, and those pamphlets, and threw them out. "I love my big alcoholic family, so there! And I love you, Mom. Forever. You're all I need."
"I love you too, honey." Mom's tears were still coming down, but she was smiling now, at least. I reached around the seat and rubbed Julie's shoulder a little.
"You're a bad-ass, Julie."

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Eighteen - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-19T14:08:00.000-08:00

Chapter Eighteen - Coming Home - In Scott's Eyes
1999 - Mom is 50, I am 25, Julie is 22
　
I just got off the phone with Julie. She's in Florida, working at Club Med. She hates it, but I think it would be a fun experience, although it does sound pretty rough at times. I called her tonight to tell her I have lost 102 pounds so far here at Gary and Anita's house in Bend. I feel fantastic! When I first moved here, I weighed 532 pounds, and now only 430! Only 31 more pounds and I'll be under 400 for the first time in years! I'm so motivated to do it, to finally get in shape and move on with my life.
　
Working with Gary and the boys has been a lot of fun. It feels good to really work again. At first I couldn't do much of anything, just kinda sit around and hand tools and stuff to the guys so they could do the real work. But now, I'm doing almost everything, except climbing on top of the house, or under it. Setting up mobile homes is a rough business sometimes. There's a lot of dirty work involved, but I love it. It's my kind of work. And it feels great to be around a bunch of guys too. Growing up with two women, I've always yearned for more male-bonding, I suppose. And spending all day with Gary, Bobby, and the two Mikes is awesome. They're all big idiots, they make fun of me all the time, but I make fun of them back. We hang out together after work sometimes, and it's been a really long time since I've been able to do that.
　
When we get home, Anita usually makes us some sort of healthy dinner, and we talk about everything. She's a really easy person to talk to. And after hangin' with the boys all day, it is nice to have a good conversation with a woman. She has a lot of insights about life, and is really encouraging too. I really love being here. I don't know how I'll ever thank them for everything. They're saving my life, and teaching me how to save myself too. I joined a gym not too long ago, and I love it. My trainer isn't charging me extra because I'm such a big project, and he wants the notariety of being the one who makes a fat man thin. Fine by me, I get free training, and he's a really good guy. He's a pastor at a church too, and I've decided to try church again as a result. It's a really fun place for me, I've always enjoyed church. Mom and Julie really aren't the church-going type, but this is for me, and I like it. There's something just so comforting about it. And I feel like it helps me stay motivated. I actually started reading the Bible too, it's something I've never done before. It is very interesting to me. I'm not one of those people who would ever quote a scripture, but the information of learning the Bible is what I like. It's kind of like a study for me. Like a school project. I am thinking about going back to school and finishing some day pretty soon. At least now it seems like a reachable goal.
　
But for now, it's time for me to get on my bike, turn up my music, and pedal til my legs fall off. Gary and I get up at 4:30 every morning, which is way too early, but I'm used to it now. I exercise some more, and he makes us a little breakfast, then we head out for a hard day's work. I'll pray tonight that we have a good day tomorrow, that it doesn't rain again. I'll pray that I'll lose 15 more pounds this week. I'll pray for Julie, and the tough times she's having at Club Med. And I'll pray that I'll be thin and healthy soon, that this journey will lead me home, back to myself, back to life.

NaNoWriMo, Chapter Seventeen, Scott's Story - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-19T11:19:00.000-08:00

Chapter Seventeen - Home From the Hospital - In Scott's Eyes
2004 - Mom is 55, I am 30, Julie is 27
　
I am alive. But everything still hurts, and I'm on a ton of different medicines, and a very strict diet. It's still very difficult to maneuver my body. These damn pads, huge swollen lumps between my legs, can barely walk. After being in the hospital for nine days, I'm glad to be home, but I probably needed to stay a bit longer. The doctor told us that Julie will have to help bathe me, make sure my skin infection is cleaned up, at least three times a day. I'm so humiliated. I don't want her to have to do that. Mentally, I'm at the lowest point of my entire life. I kinda just wish I would have died in the hospital. But Julie is trying to stay positive and make me feel better, so I'm trying. But my life sucks. It's not what you'd even call a life, really. I weigh over 600 pounds, I can't wipe my own ass, I can't do ANYTHING, and I'm hurting the people I love, every day. I still can't believe I've let myself get this bad.
　
In the hospital, a lot of people came to visit me. A social worker, a bunch of doctors, a couple therapists, even a chaplain. My old gym trainer, Shannon, came by one day too. I really love her, but didn't want her to see me this way. She's got a brother in my situation, and it's painful for her, and I know she's disappointed in me. Everyone's disappointed in me. I'm disappointed in me. My main doctor told me that I don't have much longer to live, if I "keep this up". It's not like I TRY to be ginormously fat. It's not my goal. I just don't know how to fix it. Well, that's a lie. I know how to fix it. I know exactly what kind of food, and how much of it, I'm supposed to eat. I know what kind of exercise, and how much of it, I'm supposed to do. I just can't. I don't know how to make it happen and stay on track. I want someone to help me, keep me motivated, keep me strong.
　
I'm supposed to do this silly self-esteem shit every day. Look in a mirror and tell myself I love me. Tell myself I'm awesome. Laugh at myself, smile at myself, and like it. The laughing part is easy. Though it's not a funny laugh, and it comes from the inside and tells me what a joke I am. I'm sick of being a joke to the world, a deformity on the face of humanity. I hate myself this way. I can't remember a time where I actually loved myself, physically or otherwise. I'm so tired and all I want to do is sleep, but I can't turn off my brain, my hatred, my sadness.
　
We got home from the hospital early this afternoon. I came to my bed and laid down first thing. Julie or Mom had cleaned my room, put new sheets on my bed, dusted everything, got me new pillows, and a new comforter, like it's my birthday. It was a nice thing to do, but makes me feel worse. More things they're doing for ME, because I can't do them for myself. Julie cooked us an early dinner. Though I don't really have much of an appetite right now, it was still good - teriyaki chicken with lemon-dill rice, and asparagus. She had to bring mine to my room, I can't sit up fully right now, so I laid in bed and ate. She and Mom stayed in the livingroom and ate. I feel so alone, so ashamed. I don't think anyone could possibly understand how totally isolated and utterly digusted I feel. Sooner or later, I'm gonna have to go to the bathroom. And then Julie will have to clean me up. I wonder if I can just will myself to stop the digestion process for a few weeks until I can clean myself up instead. God, I don't want to do this, to BE this. I HATE myself. And contrary to all my efforts, I HAVE to go to the bathroom now.
　
I'm laying sideways on my bed and Julie is in the bathroom, filling tubs with soapy water, and rinsing water. She has positioned a towel under me somehow. I don't know how she's going to do this. I don't know how I'M going to do this. I've started to cry, again, and I can't help it. I'm just so sorry. I hate that Julie has to be in this position. I hate that I'm the one putting her in it. I hate my life. She's singing something in the bathroom, she's nervous I think. I'm sure this isn't something she's ever wanted to do, and I'm so sorry she has to do it. She comes in, takes a deep breath, and sets the two tubs on the floor. After looking at me, and the task at hand, she decides she should probably wear gloves, and I don't blame her. What I can see of my staph infection is not pretty, and I'm sure my trip to the bathroom hasn't made it better. At least I can't see what she is doing, for that I am thankful. The fact that she's doing it is terrible enough, let alone if I'd have to watch. She sees that I'm crying and tells me to stop. But I can't. I just can't.
　
"What CD did you get in the mail today? Do I know any of the songs?" God bless her, she's trying her little heart out to make this all okay.
"It's jazz, a really soulful CD. You've never heard of it."
"Sing me a song from it." Is she serious? I know she's nervous now, trying her hardest to get through this, just like I am. For the life of me I can't remember even one song on that CD, and I've been listening to it all afternoon. God, I love my sister. She is so amazing. She's trying to be so gentle with me, and lord knows, she hasn't a clue what she's doing. But she's doing it anyway, for me. Oh, I remember a song now!
"I'M SOOOOOO DEVOTED,...........TO MY GIRL!!" I don't think Julie thought I was actually gonna sing something, I didn't think I was either, but it came out - and loudly. And I just realized she's cleaning my butt, and she jumps, and some water spills on the floor,
"JESUS! You're a freak, Scooter." We both start to giggle, I can feel the tears on my cheeks drying up. She moves my leg up to clean the pads, and it hurts, and I cuss, and she jumps. "I'm sorry, I'm almost done. Just hang in there." And just like that, the tears are back, flowing down my cheeks, into my ear.
"I'm sorry. Can you hurry? I can't stand to be in this position anymore." How fitting. I realize as I say it that it means so much more than just laying on my side. I can't stand to be a fat man anymore. I can't stand to have someone take care of me like this. I can't stand the stares, the laughs, the pain. I can't stand myself.
　
Julie finishes up and dries me off, covers me with a clean sheet. I roll over and close my eyes. I can't look at her. I don't want to see what's in her eyes. I'm afraid it'll be disappointment on a whole other level. I'm afraid it'll be disgust. I'm afraid it'll be hatred. I can't look at her. I don't want to see what's in her eyes. She goes to clean herself up, and I just hope she stays gone, forgets somehow what just happened, what she had to do. But she comes back. I still can't look at her. She curls up on the bed behind me, props her chin on my shoulder, reaches up and wipes the tears off my face. And as quickly as they're gone, there's more to replace them.
　
"It'll be okay, I promise. We'll get through it, just you wait and see." She's looking at my face, still wiping tears away.
"It's not okay. I'm so sorry." I can't look at her.
"Sorry for what?"
"You know what." I can't look at her.
"Go to sleep." She gets off the bed and tucks me in. Kisses me on the cheek and strokes my temple, tugs on my ear. "Get some sleep, it'll be better tomorrow." I open my eyes and look straight at her, right into her eyes. I don't see disappointment. I don't see disgust. I don't see hatred. I look at her and all I see is love. Compassion. Her heart. And I'm glad I looked.
"Good night, Julie, I love you."
"Good night, I love you too."

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Sixteen - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-17T11:37:00.000-08:00

Chapter Sixteen - Addiction - In Scott's Eyes
1993 - Mom is 44, I am 19, Julie is 16
　
I am tired. I hate the holidays. Julie is a druggie idiot, and Mom is a drunk. Gramps just told me I need to bring in some wood, and I don't want to. These days, he looks at me in disgust, always inspects what I eat, and has been angry with me over the grocery bill. I can't stop eating. It's the only thing that makes me feel happy. I love food. And I'm pretty sure it loves me back. I eat all the time. I think about eating all the time. I eat because I'm hungry. I eat because I'm sad. I eat when I'm angry. I eat when I'm bored. I eat because something looks good. I eat because it tastes good. I feel so comforted by food, it's kinda strange. But at least I don't do drugs like Julie, or drink like Mom. Food is not such a bad thing in comparison.
　
I just got home from work. I hate Target. Those people all suck, and the customers look at me funny, and the kids laugh at me. It's hard work, restocking and doing inventory. I sweat a lot. Today was a bad day. On the way to work I stopped at Burger King, got six burgers, a large fry, and a Coke. I guess it didn't agree with me because I got the shits. I was right in the middle of stocking the linens when it hit me. I ran to the bathroom, sweating, didn't think I would make it. And I guess I didn't. When I got home to change, there was shit all over the back of my pants. I didn't even know it was there. And I worked for a couple hours after that stomach attack. No wonder people were staring and laughing at me. Why didn't anyone tell me? I'm so embarassed and humiliated. But I've been gaining a lot of weight lately, and it's harder to reach back there. I thought I took care of it, but I guess I didn't. Maybe I need to go on a diet. Or at least stop eating fast food, especially before work. I can't believe I shit my pants. I feel like a disgusting pig.
　
Julie is pulling in the driveway, she'll probably want me to come down to the family pre-party up the road. I'm not going. I don't want the family to see how fat I am. Not yet. I don't even want to see them at the real Christmas party. But I guess I can't really get around that, since they'll all be up here at Gramps house. Maybe Target will call me in to work, so I can skip out on it. Julie has been doing all sorts of stupid shit lately. I don't know what her problem is. She's on drugs, partying all the time. And fighting with Mom a lot. But Mom's been drinking a lot too. I don't understand why they act so stupid. I don't even like to be around them anymore.
　
"Hey Scooter."
"Hey."
"Aren't ya glad to see your sister?"
"Yeah."
"Shit, well, don't get too excited." She's already got a beer in her hand, and it's obvious it's not her first one. But she seems like she's in a good mood, anyway. Maybe they're not fighting today. But I don't really care, to tell you the truth. I'm tired, and I just want something to eat.
"I'm tired, just got off work. Not too excited about anything."
"You comin' to the party?"
"No."
"Why? Don't you wanna act a fool with me and all your lovely cousins?"
"No." I find some chicken in the fridge. Yum, cold chicken.
"How's school been?"
"Fine. Glad we're on break. It's hard. I think I'm gonna change my major." I slice a piece of chocolate cake. Yum, cake.
"How's workin' at good ol' Tar-gay?"
"It sucks. Busy. Lots of tards shopping for Christmas." I don't tell her I shit my pants at work today. I don't tell her I hate my life. I find some top ramens in the pantry and put 'em in a pot to cook. Yum, ramens.
"Well, you really should come tonight. It'll be fun. I think the Gaines' are having a party too, some of us are gonna go down there for a bit, get away from the old folks. You should come."
"No, I don't wanna be around all you drunks." She gives me a hug, but I don't really hug her back. I'm tired. I don't really like her very much these days, and I don't want her this close to me for very long. Somehow, she might be able to tell that I shit my pants today. That I lose control of my bowels more often than I'd like to admit.
"How come you're so hungry?"
"I haven't eaten all day." She looks at me like she knows I'm lying, one eyebrow raised in question. I look away and stir the ramens. Four packages of ramens. God, it looks like a lot. But I'm starving. Maybe I won't eat it all.
　
　

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Fifteen - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-17T11:36:00.000-08:00

Chapter Fifteen - A New Life - In Scott's Eyes
2009 - Mom is 60, I am 35, Julie is 32
　
Julie called me today to tell me some more Pumpkin News. I'm so proud and excited for her that she is finally doing something she loves and selling her pumpkin bread. I can't wait to get to Vegas too, start living my life, and get out of this crappy little town. I hate it here. It's cold. It's windy. It's rainy. And grey. There's nobody here I like, except Lillian. I want to get away from everybody else. I'm tired of stupid people, and depressed people. And I've always wanted to live in a big city. I've spent too many years in tiny little towns, I want to explore things, and see things, and DO things. You can't run a business here - and be really successful anyway. Just too limited, and too poor.
　
I have been trying to fight my S.A.D.D. disorder. But it's been tough. This time of year really gets me down. Julie asked me again if I've called this motivational speaker guy she wants me to call. I haven't. She found this fat farm, this ranch, she wants me to go to in Texas. But I don't want to go. I know I can do this on my own. I just have to stick to a plan, and really stick to it. But it doesn't seem like I get any help or motivation around here. Mom is always in pain and depressed from work, and me, I suppose. It's hard to stick to a plan when she brings all sorts of different foods in the house, and doesn't participate in any program with me. I need her help. I need someone to be in it with me. I'm bringing my punching-guy in today, so that it'll be easier to get some exercise in. I really need a stationary bike. I was feeling super motivated to get moving on my weight-loss and get on track so that Mom and I could move to Vegas with Julie. But I'm so tired this week, and irritated. My pain pills make me forgetful and lethargic. And my body still hurts. It hurts to stand, or sit, or walk. The only position I seem to be comfortable in these days is laying down on my side. I'm sick of laying in bed though. It seems like some days, it's all I do, and I wonder when it'll be all I CAN do, and that thought freaks me out. It makes me wanna get up and exercise. But usually I don't.
　
I wish I could do what Julie has done. I talk to Mom about it all the time, but lately it seems like she's not listening, or doesn't want to hear it. I suppose she's lost faith in anything I say anymore. But I know it's gonna happen. I know we can do it. I'm really looking forward to moving to Vegas, but it seems like our departure date keeps getting pushed farther and farther away. I know it's my fault. I can't seem to stay on a diet plan, or exercise routine consistently. I really want to, it's just so hard to do it alone. But I want to get to Vegas so bad. Every day that I don't make an effort to lose weight so that I can get there faster makes me depressed. I hate myself sometimes. I'm tired of this struggle. I just want to be able to move whenever I want, without having to worry about how I'm gonna ride in a car, or if I can fit on a plane, which is not even an option. I want to just pick up and go. But there's just too much in the way. I have to figure out the health care, I have to lose enough weight to be able to walk up Julie's stairs. I have to lose enough weight to fit in a car comfortably. I have to research the business opportunities for me there. I have to find out if my Social Security benefits and Medicare will transfer, set up a prescription transfer, figure out what to do with my store here in Newport, lose enough weight to be able to lift a box.
　
I'm tired. I think I'll lay down for a while.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Fourteen - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-14T19:56:00.000-08:00

Chapter Fourteen - The Hospital - In Scott's Eyes
2004 - Mom is 55, I am 30, Julie is 27
　
This is the first time I've ever been admitted to the hospital. I'm glad for Julie, because this time, I really needed help, and they were going to send me home before she threw her fit. I think I almost died, and it still may not be far off. I have been in here a few days now, and though I hate it, I know I need it. I can't believe I've gotten to this point in my life. I can't believe I've let myself get this big. I can't believe I haven't died already. I kind of wish I had. It's hard to sleep here, the nurses have to check my monitors every couple of hours, there's always somebody coming in and out of my room. They take my blood a lot for tests. And I hate the catheter, though it's necessary. God, this sucks. I wish my heart would just fail so Mom and Julie wouldn't have the burden of me anymore. I don't think there's any way I'm ever going to be able to make it through this.
　
The doctor told me this morning that my heart is extremely enlarged. And that it will never go back to normal. That I have given myself a life-expectancy of about 40 years by being this fat. That's only ten more years. What's the point? It'll take me at least two of that to lose the weight. And then what? He said I will add years back as I get healthier, but living this lifestyle, I don't have much longer. I love how he says "lifestyle" as if I choose to weigh almost 700 pounds. Like it's how I want to be. Nobody chooses this. Sure, I chose what I ate, but weight like this creeps up on you. You don't eat a bunch of ice cream, go to sleep, and wake up 700 pounds. It takes time, and circumstances, and yes, a lot of food. It has just gotten out of control and quite honestly, I don't know how to go back.
　
I am in a category all my own. I'm not obese. I'm not morbidly obese. I am super-morbidly obese. This is actually a real term. And that's what I am. Super. I hate my life and I want to die. I am in too much pain, and I just want it all to end. I'm tired of being fat. I'm tired of people laughing at me, or taking advantage of me. I'm tired of hurting everyone I love. I don't know how to fix it, but I wish I did. The only thing I can think of is to just go to sleep and never wake up. But they won't give me enough pain pills at a time here in the hospital to accomplish that. I hate crying, but it seems it's all I do some days, like today. Julie called earlier to check on me, said she wanted to come by. I told her I was having a bad day and to stay away. I think she's tired of me. I'm tired of me too. I can't imagine if she were here instead of me, how I'd take it. She's a strong woman, and I love her so much. She's so talented and smart and funny. She always brings me out of a funk with some silly little saying or funny face. I wish she would have come by anyway. I need her.
　
"Hey Scoot, you up?" She's here. I'm stunned. It's after visiting hours, and I wonder if she's just in my imagination. "Uh, earth to the Scooteroo Pooteroo........where are you, Nerdly?! Ya on some major drugs, or what?" Nope, not imagining it, she really is here.
"Hey Jubie, no not on too many drugs right now. I was just thinkin' boutcha, that's all, and it's after hours, so I didn't think they let anyone in at this time. Ya just shocked me a little."
"They let ME in here, don'tcha remember the emergency room? I don't think they want a lawsuit, so they pretty much do what I ask now. Assholes."
"Uh, yeah, I remember the emergency room."
"What?....What does that mean?"
"Nothin', just that you kicked some ass, that's all."
"Sure as shit, those bitches won't get in my way again! Ha! I'm such a bad-ass."
"Yeah, right, you're somethin' anyway."
"Whatever, dorkus, how're ya feelin'? Still sad?"
"Ohhhh, you know, yeah. Just pretty down."
"Well, cheer up, Charlie. I'm here now. Let's party."
"Uh, I don't think it's much of a party in here right now."
"Why not? You get free food, hot nurses, t.v. all day, what more could you ask for?" I smile, then she smiles. It feels good.
"Well, I do have a couple little cuties that come in to change my I.V. stuff. They're my new girlfriends, but the night ladies aren't as nice."
"That's good. Maybe you'll leave here with a little chippie on your arm, ya never know..."
"Yeah, right."
"Anyway, what gotcha so sad today? Something happen?"
"No, not really." I look away from her, can feel the tears coming again.
"Awww, Scoot, don't get upset, it'll be okay."
"No, it won't. I'm gonna die. I should just die now. I've fucked up your lives too much already. It's not fair. I can't do it."
"God, brother, don't talk like that. It's gonna be okay. I promise." She has come up on the bed and is laying across my chest, trying to hug me. I put my arms around her as much as I can and hold on. I need her strength. I need her love. I need her to believe in me, because I don't. But I don't want to disappoint her anymore. I don't want to hurt her anymore. I don't know what to do. I'm just tired. "You're just tired, Scoot. You need to rest. There's been a lot going on the past few days, and I think all those people are done visiting for a couple days, so you can recharge and get focused, k?"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'm just sorry. I didn't ever want it to be like this. I'm so sorry." I'm bawling like a big baby and I can't stop.
"Ya big BOOB! Quit crying, cowboy up, and get 'er done!" Julie laughs like she's drunk and it breaks me out of my sob.
"You are an idiot!" I am laughing now, so hard I sound like a tittering little girl, which sends Julie into full-blown side-splits, which makes me laugh so hard I start snorting, which makes something happen to one of the machines and it starts beeping really loud. A nurse comes in to check on me, only to see my sister and I, both in my bed, laughing so hard I'm glad I have a catheter in, red-faced and snorting and coughing and she's trying to pinch my nipples and I'm trying to wet-willy her ears, and we're so stupid it hurts.
　
Julie hung out for a while after the nurse left, and we talked about a few things, but not a lot. She seems to always know what I can take, and what I can't. Sometimes it feels like she's my big sister, not the other way around. I hope someday I can find a way to turn it back, become her rock again, pay her back for all she does. At least, all of a sudden, I feel like there could be a someday. I'm beginning to have some hope. I think maybe we can do this.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirteen - In Scott's Eyes

2009-11-14T19:49:00.000-08:00

“I’m workin’ on some stuff, Jules, really, it’s not like I sit or lay around ALL day. It’s just when you call I guess.” Julie is crying over me, again. She thinks I’m gonna die any minute. And the truth is, I might. I don’t feel good at all these days, and I am in bed a lot. She’s concerned that I’m going to become bed-ridden any minute. I’m determined not to let that happen, but it’s the pain that I can’t stand. I just have so much pain.
“Scott, I just don’t see how you’re EVER gonna get better on your own. You need help, and I don’t know how to find it. I don’t want to lose you, you’re my big brother. I just feel so helpless and hopeless. And I worry about you every day. Every single day I imagine you finally not being able to get out of bed, and then I imagine your funeral. And I just don’t know what to do. I just want you to be better, feel better, GET better, and stay that way. I’m just so worried that we’re gonna lose you.”
“Well, I’m sorry that you worry so much, I wish I was better too. But I’m workin’ on some stuff, it’s not all bad, and I’m motivated more than ever to get the weight down so we can move to Vegas with you. I did some weights this week, not every day, I won’t lie, but a few times. And I do get out of bed, I promise. Please don’t worry so much. I’m tryin’ to get something going here.”
“It’s just hard to keep hope, Scott, but…I will. I always have hope that something will change, and somehow you’ll get better.”
“Well, good, there’s reason for hope, Jellybug. I’ll be okay, before too long. I have to. Or there won’t be any time left. I know I don’t have time left, Julie. So, I’m workin’ on some stuff, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you, try not to stress out too much, ‘k?
“I love you too, Scoot.”

I really don’t know if I can do this. I know I need help. I think the possibility of dying is right around the corner, and I’m not sure if I’ll make it much longer. But I won’t tell Julie or Mom that, really. I think I just hinted at it a little too much to Julie. But I don’t want to scare them. But I’m about to give up.

Chapter Thirteen - Missing Dads - In Scott's Eyes
1985 - Mom is 36, I am 11, Julie is 8
　
I'm in my room because I hate my sister. She's evil and mean, but everybody thinks she's so sweet. It pisses me off. I wish I never had to see her again. She's a tattle-tale and a jerk. She's always everybody's "little helper", what a kiss-ass. And she's so smart it's not fair. Why did I have to have a bad 1st Grade teacher and almost get held back? Why doesn't that stuff ever happen to HER? She's such an angel. Nothing bad EVER happens to HER, and everything comes so easy to her. It's just not fair. And I hate her. She's getting bigger now, so it's not as easy to beat her up as it used to be, and she punches really hard for a girl. Plus, she cries a lot and gets me in trouble. I'M always the one that gets in trouble, not her. I know you're not supposed to hit girls, but she's not just any girl. And she makes me so mad!
　
I wonder why both my dads didn't want to be my dad. Maybe I'm rotten, like Julie says. Maybe I'll never have a dad. I really wish I had one sometimes because living with two girls sucks. I wonder what it would be like to have a brother, instead of Julie. I bet it would be way funner. I'd teach him how to burn stuff, show him my stamp collection, but he couldn't touch it. I'd have somebody to talk to, somebody who'd understand stuff. I'd have a friend. I only have a couple friends at school because everyone there sucks too. I wish we were back in Salem, so I could see my real friends again. I miss them so much. I don't know why we had to move to Bend, I hate this place. And now we're way out in the middle of nowhere, on a gravel road with wolf-people for neighbors. I snuck over there once to see the wolves, up close, because they make the strangest sounds at night. They sound like women crying. It's really scary, and I don't like it. The wolves were tied up to a post, there were about ten of them. They were laying around and licking their paws. They looked just like regular dogs, except WAY bigger. Their fur was all silvery, white and grey and black. They were beautiful. I wondered if the owners would give me one for a pet since we just lived across the road. But the noises they make at night make me think it's not so safe to have a wolf as a pet. I never told Julie I went to see them, she would've told Mom, and I would've gotten in trouble, again. This is my secret, my own thing, no one else can touch it.
　
Julie is calling me for dinner and I'm starving, but I don't want to see her, or Mom, so I'm gonna stay in my room and forget about dinner tonight. I have two Snickers bars and some Nutter Butters I've hidden away. I'll just survive on that. I'll just ignore Julie until she goes away.
The smell of spaghetti and the sound of Julie's annoying voice makes me change my mind. I am too hungry to survive on Snickers, and I know Julie won't stop bugging me 'til I come out anyway. But I'm not gonna look at her. And I'm not gonna talk to her. I'm just gonna eat and come back to my room, go to bed. After we eat, everyone goes to their rooms. I tell Mom "good night, I love you", but not to Julie. I've never done this before, but I'm tired of her shit and I want to punish her. Plus, I'm not sure if I even love her anymore. I pretty much hate her right now. She bugs me to say it to her, says it to me. I ignore her. And I think she's given up when I hear my door creak open. I hate when she comes in my room without knocking. She says she's sorry, and though that's nice and I feel like she means it, I'm still mad at her. I still don't think it's fair that she has everything and I have nothing. I don't hate her anymore, but I don't like her either. I say "good night", but not "I love you". I think I have to love her because she's my sister, but I don't have to say it. So, I don't.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Twelve - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-12T12:44:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twelve - No Time
2004 - Mom is 55, Scott is 30, I am 27
　
It is October, and Scott is doing a little better since the hospital. He is now able to get around better, can finally bathe himself, and do some light household chores. It's a good thing because I can't be at home right now. I am at Grandpa's house, taking care of him for a few days. In June he was diagnosed with cancer of everything. Tumors in his lungs, tumors in his side, tumors all over the place. He's only got a little time left, no one knows exactly. But it's not long. He's in a lot of pain, and doesn't like the morphine pills. He doesn't eat much, even cookies. He is almost to the point where he won't be able to walk anymore. He's fighting it, but everytime he wobbles to his feet, I get nervous. He wants so much to be able to move around, do things. Until now, there hasn't been a day in his life that he wasn't up at the break of day, working, puttering around, feeding fish, building something, fixing something. The immobility alone wll do him in. And he's sad. And I think a little angry too. He hates, hates, hates the tumor on his hip. It has grown to about the size of a grapefruit since June. It is bruised and ugly. He wants me to cut it out. I think I probably could, but as much as I want it gone too, I better not.
　
For years, he's been the only father Scott has ever known. The only father I have really ever known too. Scott lived out here with him off and on for over a decade, and they're closer to each other than anyone else in the family. When Scott got really big, Grandpa had no qualms about showing his disappointment. I don't think he was disappointed in Scott himself, just the opportunities he has missed, and the life he has lost because of his weight. More than anything, I think Grandpa felt for him, wanted him to succeed, wanted him healthy and happy. But Gramps doesn't really communicate with emotion. Like most men, it's difficult for him to convey heartfelt sentiment meaningfully and appropriately. So, he picks on Scott instead. Calls him "Skinny", inspects his meals and rolls his eyes at the portions, inquires about the number of times he eats in a day, gripes about the grocery bill. Scott has promised him many times over the years, as he's promised us all, that he would work on it. That he would get better. Now there's no time left to keep that promise.
　
It is cold and pouring rain. The fish are pecking at the water in vain as the raindrops splash down. Grandpa and I are just sitting together in the living room, watching the greyness fade in and out, I'm silently saying my I'm sorry's, and I love you's. I hope he can feel it, can tell how much I love him, how much he means to me. I'm not ready for him to leave. I need him.
　
"Whatcha doin'?" Gramps is raising up his chair and preparing to stand up.
"Gotta go to the bathroom." He's grunting and breathing hard, coughing and struggling. I know better than to ask if he needs help. He gets so mad, wants to do it himself. He pulls the walker he hates in front of him, steadies himself, and finally makes it to his feet, albeit a very shaky stance. He moves along through the living room, in front of me, around the corner and to the bathroom. One slow, wobbly step at a time, he finally makes it. It takes everything inside me to stay in my seat. I want to pick him up and carry him there. I want to help him, but I won't.
　
After a while in the bathroom, Grandpa comes out, irritated and angry. He goes straight to his room. When I ask him what's wrong he shouts, "Can't fucking wipe my own ass anymore!!" He's not a big cusser, never has been, so I'm a little shocked he dropped an f-bomb, but I understand why, and it breaks me. I go to the bathroom, get two washcloths and a hand towel. I wet the washcloths with hot water, one with soap, one without. I bring them to his room and sit on the edge of his bed. He's sort-of half laying on his side, and half propped up on his elbow, gasping and steaming and tired.
　
"Well, let's get you cleaned up so you can get comfortable and get some rest." No answer. "Gramps?" No answer. "It's okay, really. I'm used to this kinda thing, really." No answer. "Okay, let's just hang out for a minute, catch your breath, there's no big hurry."
"I'm fine, just leave it."
"No, Gramps, we can't do that. And you'll feel so much better once it's over, I promise."
"Just leave it!" Tears have started to crawl down his temples, into his hair. He's humiliated. He's in pain. He hates dying. He's embarassed. I wipe away his tears with the palm of my hand, and he lets me.
"Gramps...now listen, please. This is no big deal for me. Quit making a fuss about it. I'm not going to let you lay here all night in your own poop. We'll clean you up, it'll be over before you know it, and we'll move on. Okay?" No answer. No movement. "Gramps, I don't know if you know this or not, but since Scott got out of the hospital, this is what I've been doing for him. I've gotten pretty good at it, actually. And it doesn't gross me out or make me feel funny. I love him, that's what he needed, and I did it. It's as simple as that. I love you, it's what you need right now, and I'll do it. You'd do it for me if I needed you to, so...let's just get on with it."

He reaches over and grabs my hand so suddenly I almost jump off the bed. He holds on for a while. He cries. He squeezes, and he takes as big a breath as he can muster. And then he rolls to the side, I clean him up, wipe his tears away, kiss his forehead, and tuck him in.
　
"Grandpa, I love you, get some rest, it'll be okay. Goodnight." I turn to leave the room, not expecting a word in return. He's been through a lot, a lot he's not used to. I hate that he's hurting. I need to get out of his room before I dissolve into a puddle of my own tears right here on the floor. But my hand is on the door when I hear him whisper something.
　
"Jelly?" I can barely hear him, so I go back to his bed and lean in close, my ear in front of his face.
"Gramps? You ok? What is it?"
"I'm sorry." I'm about to rebut this silly statement, but before I can say anything, he lifts his head up and kisses my cheek.
"Don't be. Get some rest, it'll be better in the morning." I can barely speak. My heart is exploding. I kiss him on the cheek, kiss his hand, then leave him. Two feet from his bedroom door I start running. Through the house, out the door, outside, outside, away, far away, where he can't hear me, outside, outside, now, now, now. I stop at some grass about 50 feet from the house, and crumble into a puddle. A puddle of water, a puddle of tears, a puddle of mud, a puddle of heartache. Why him? Why me? Why us? And then I can't even think anymore. I can't feel the icy rain pelt my skin, I can't hear anything but my own heartbeat. All I can see is his face, wrecked with tears and anguish and embarassment.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Eleven - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T13:12:00.000-08:00

Chapter Eleven - The Rebellion
2003 - Mom is 54, Scott is 29, I am 26
　
I am at the hospital, waiting to see Scott. They won't let me back there until they've had time to "evaluate" him. It's been over an hour and I don't understand what's going on. Scott has just been "camping" with some new friends of his. And when he got home, he was nearly dead. I swear he has gained at least 50 pounds in the last 3 days, while camping. He can't breathe, his heart is beating out of his chest, and I'm scared he's gonna die. I have nothing to do in the waiting room but think, pace and think. And so I'm thinking about the last 2 years of our lives, and how utterly horrible they've been. Scott has decided to rebel, now that he's too old to do such a thing. I had my rebellious phase when I was a teenager, when most people decide to rebel. Scott never did. He was responsible, always working or taking care of Gramps and the fish farm. Always going to school, always being good. He said he never understood why I had to act like I did, doing drugs, and hanging out with unsavory people, stealing, and cussing, and sleeping around. I guess now he knows.
　
For the past two years, every low-life, creepy, felon and homeless person in Newport, Oregon has been through our house. People have lived in our garage - in-between stints in jail, have stolen things from us, have taken advantage of my brother, and my Mom and I. They say he's an easy mark. They say we're bitches. They don't know the half of it. Scott's "camping" trip consisted of he and a few of his "friends" taking an old beat-up camper to some campground out in Siletz, about 20 miles away, and deep in the woods. It's obvious these people don't care a whit about my brother. They brought a ton of food, all things bad-for-you, and just let him eat, eat, eat. They make fun of him, they feed his desire to "screw the man". They fill his mind with horrible thoughts about me and my mother. They try to turn him against us, and it works. Lately, he hates us. He yells at us, he tells us we're bad people, and he tells his friends we do horrible things to him. It breaks my heart. I want these people out of his life, out of our lives, forever. I am tired. I am hopeless. I am scared. And I think Scott has really gone crazy. I think something has switched off, or on, in his brain, and I don't think he's ever coming back.
　
I used to think people that were depressed or crazy could, if they really wanted to, just turn it off and be normal. I didn't believe in a chemical imbalance, or antidepressants. I thought it was a CHOICE. I thought people could choose exactly which way they acted, if they tried hard enough. Scott proved me wrong. Scott changed my mind. Some people need medication to function normally. Some people never do, with or without medication. Some people don't have a choice, or can't make it on their own. I don't know how to fix Scott. I'm not a professional. And sometimes I get so angry at him for what he's doing to us, that I just wish he'd have a heart attack and die, so that we all could get some rest. But, today, we're very near that possibility, and now I regret ever thinking it. Now, my stomach is churning with those words I've eaten, and I feel like I'm gonna be sick. If my brother were to die, I could not handle it. If I had no more Scott to talk to, laugh with, be with, I would crumble. Though we have had many disagreements over our lives, Scott has always been the one I turned to for support. Scott has always listened and been there for me, in whatever capacity he was capable of.
　
I interrupt my own reverie to check in with the registration lady again, ask if I can see Scott yet. She'll check, she says. And she does, I guess. A few minutes pass and she comes back to the front to tell me he's still being evaluated, so I'll just have to wait. I look at the clock, it's been over two hours since we got here. I'm not going to wait any longer, I tell her, and demand she opens the door to the emergency room so I can see my brother, NOW. I tell her to get whatever doctor or nurse or whoever to let me see my brother, NOW. She glares at me something horrible, then goes in the back again, after throwing her pen down on the counter, and shooting me a "YOU BITCH" look. She comes back out, sees me standing at the emergency room door with my hand on the knob already, and pushes the buzzer. She is telling me something that I don't care to hear, something about visiting, and evaluation, but I'm not paying her one bit of attention. I can finally see Scott. I am nervous, scared, and exhausted, but adrenalin is moving my legs and brain quite fast until I see him. He's crying. He's all red. His eyes are darting around the room like he's on drugs. My heart explodes with fear, with compassion, with anger, then with pain. His pain. Our pain. And then I understand what is happening, as Scott tells me why he's crying, what's been happening in here for two hours.

NaNoWriMo, Update

2009-11-11T11:38:00.000-08:00

Hi all,

I have just posted the first 10 chapters of my NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) novel, chapter by chapter, here on my blog...below.

NaNoWriMo is a month-long adventurous writing spree where the participants try and write 50,000 words in 30 days, creating a novel.

I am writing my brother's story, partially because I need to get it out of my system, but mostly because I want someone to help him somehow. Keep your fingers crossed that Oprah takes notice! Most of this story is based on real-life, but there are a lot of fictional elements too, as I can't remember everything, I'm getting old. :)

Anyway, from now on I'll be posting the chapters as I write them, instead of a big bunch like these last ones. If you feel like checking me and my story out on NaNoWriMo, and keeping track of my word count, there is a box on the left side somewhere here that you can click on and will take you right to my site.

Thanks to all for your support and encouragement - I've got a LONG way to go still, but I think I'm gonna make it!

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Ten - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:37:00.000-08:00

Chapter Ten - Fat is Funny
2009, Present Day - Mom is 60, Scott is 35, I am 32
　
A couple of weeks ago, I got an email about a funny Halloween pumpkin. It turned out that it was a picture of a big, fat woman, naked, with a huge pumpkin painted on her ass. Fat is funny. What I don't understand fully is why people send ME these emails. I'm fat. And I don't mean that in a self-destructive way, but I am overweight, and I'm fully aware of it. And I don't particularly mind it at the moment. I don't want to be fat forever, but I do know I could be way worse off in the fatness arena. Someday, when I don't feel so tired, and when I'm damn good and ready, I'll lose the weight I want to lose. And I'll do it my way, and in my time.
　
But the thing is, the person who sent me this latest email, knows about my brother. He knows the story, and how much agony it is causing me. He's one of the only people in Vegas who I've told. His name is Ron. I met him in my poker room. He's a truck driver who lived in Vegas for a really long time and used to serve on the Metro Police force here. He's a big, tall man with a giant heart. But he's also waivering a little on the "dirty old man" scale as far as his interest in me. I would love to be just friends, so that's what we are, but I know he harbors other feelings, and it makes me uncomfortable. Anyway, he sends me funny, or sweet, or interesting emails all the time from the road, and most of the time I like them. But this one, with the fat-ass pumpkin lady, irritated me. Maybe I'm just cut from a different cloth, but isn't it rude to send this kind of email to a fat woman with a REALLY fat brother? It's the kind of thing where, for instance, if I had a retarded brother, I don't think anyone would send me funny retarded-people emails. It's just too sensitive. There is a bit of a double-standard here though, because if I chose to send out a funny retarded-people email, being that I had a retarded brother, that would be okay. If you're in the situation, you have every right to cope with it how you please, whether that be laughing, crying, or throwing things. But other people should think twice about sending those emails, as it is highly probable someone could, and should, take offense. But fat is funny I guess.
　
It has been several years since my brother has travelled more than 15 miles from his home. It has been several months since he entered a grocery store, or a bank, or a restaurant. The way people look at him is so painful for him, he'd rather just stay in. They blatantly stare, point, and laugh. Their faces contort in disgust. They pull their children closer to them. And the teenagers, filled with cockiness and empty of tact, just walk right up to him sometimes and tell him he's fat. Like he doesn't know. Little children point and say "wow". Older people stop in their tracks to watch him pass. Almost never does anyone ask his name, or say "hello, how are you today". No one ever looks in his eyes. It's like he's some sort of monster. Or like he's deformed. But he's just fat. And I think people are scared of that. Scared that they, too, could turn out that way. I actually saw a woman once who, after seeing my brother in the store, took all the cookies and butter and bread out of her cart, right in the condiments aisle, put it all on the floor, and said loudly, "I'm gonna make me a salad instead...I don't wanna become THAT".
　
So, Scott stays at home most of the time, and I don't blame him. His addiction is one that's worse than any other I've encountered, ever. And I've encountered, and participated in, a lot of addictions. Every other addiction can be treated and walked away from. An alcoholic never has to drink another drop if he doesn't want to, a coke addict never has to snort another line. But every day, three times a day, my brother has to stare his addiction in the eye, participate in it, and overcome it, in order to survive. All people must eat to live. But no one needs beer or meth to live. It's not fair, really, but a lot of things in life aren't fair, I suppose. But often times I wish Scott was an alcoholic, or meth addict, a sex addict, or a shopoholic, addicted to video games, or a prescription drug junkie. Anything but food.
　
I wish my brother was a normal-sized person for several reasons. But mostly, because I want him to feel comfortable going places. He has stayed away from our family reunions and events for years. He misses out on so many experiences because he's fat. He can't sit in normal chairs at a restaurant, in a bar, at a concert, on a plane. He can't sit for very long anyway, because of the pain it causes him to be in that position. He can't stand for very long either because his knees no longer have cartilidge in them. Most people Scott's size are actually bed-ridden. I am thankful every day that he hasn't gotten to that point fully, but it isn't far away. He does spend most of his time in bed these days, sleeping or watching t.v., or reading, or listening to music. But he CAN get up, and he does. But mostly to get something to eat.
　
When I look at my brother, the first thing I see is not fat. I see his eyes, his face, his smile, his heart. I see his pain. I see his hopes. I see HIM. Today, Scott is a very compassionate person. He's giving, loving, and smart. He's a businessman, a music lover, a reader, an intellectual. He cares so much about Mom and I, and his few friends. Scott is an amazing person. He wants to be an inspiration to other people, especially kids, who are overweight, when he, at last, loses his fat. The sad thing is, no one sees Scott for who he is, because all they see is a big, huge, ginormous, fat man. They think he must be lazy, they think he must eat ten pizzas a day, they think he is dirty and sloppy, and probably smelly, though no one ever gets close enough to check. They're missing out on his smile. They're missing his hugs. They're missing his love. They're missing his brilliant mind. Because he's fat. No person, for any reason, has ever felt the kind of humiliation and utter discrimination that Scott has endured.
　
For me, getting fat-emails, or having someone point out a fat person walking by, just for the laugh of it, is disheartening. All I think is, "my brother's bigger than that". And then I go inside my own head and recount our past, our struggles. And inside my head, I go to another place. Scott's funeral. I think about how many people it will take to carry his casket. Then I remember he wants to be cremated. I wonder if there is an oven big enough, or if they will have to chop him up first. I wonder what will happen to my Mom, how she will take it. I wonder what will happen to me. I wonder if I'll make it, or if this will truly be the end of me too. I wonder how many regrets I will have, and how much guilt. I wonder what else I can do to save Scott, and I come up empty-handed. Good thing no one else is in my head, because fat is funny, and I don't think anyone could handle what it is I wonder about.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Nine - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:36:00.000-08:00

Chapter Nine - The Fish Farm
1997 - Mom is 48, Scott is 23, I am 20
　
"Hi Gramps! How are ya?"
"Ohhh, fair-to-middlin' I guess."
"You have any cookies left?"
"Aww, I think there's still a bag or two out in the freezer, but gettin' low."
"Well, that's what I'm here for, to stock you up. How's the peckers?"
"Fat."
"Well, that's good, got lots of fishers lately?"
"Yeah, been pretty busy, need a fish-wife this weekend, got lots a tacos comin' out."
"Well, that's what I'm here for, to be the fish-wife. Where's my brother?"
"Oh, I think he's up in the orchard somewhere, I don't know, probably fartin' around somewhere. SKINNY! SKINNY! Jellybean's here! Yeah, I guess he's not in the house. Probably out back somewhere."
"I'll find him later, no worries."
　
Grandpa and I sit on the porch for a while and watch for "big birds". Blue herons, king-fishers, fish-hawks. We talk about what needs fixed and what's working. We sit in silence for a bit and just listen to the serenity that surrounds us. Listening to my Grandpa is always interesting. I used to berate him for calling his Mexican customers "tacos", but it really is a term of endearment for him. My Grandma used to call them that, and never out of any sort of predjudiced or hateful attitude. And Grandpa loves his Mexican customers. They are his best, and most frequent customers, the most polite and respectful, and they have huge picnics where they make fish tacos, and grilled steak and chicken, among other things. They always bring him, and anyone else on the porch, a big plate of yumminess. The birds are his biggest enemies. They eat his fish by the hundreds on a daily basis. Stealing profit, and flying around mocking him with their squawks and calls and chatters. He calls his fish "peckers", partly because when he feeds them, they seem to peck at the top of the water for their food like a bird would peck at the ground for his. He also uses that word because he thinks it's funny, being that it also means wieners. He cares for those fish almost like they were his children, feeds them methodically, cleans the leaves out of the screens in the ponds so they always have fresh water flowing through. From the moment day breaks, til after the sun goes to bed, he's the guru of fish, the captain of Rainbow Trout. It still amazes me, how so many people come out here, to fish, to visit, to picnic, to bring their sons and grandsons. Word-of-mouth is all this little fish farm ever needed. Larsen's U-Catch-Em has been someone's home-away-from-home for decades. And no one ever forgets. Way out in the middle of nowhere, literally, nestled between a couple of mountains, and at the end of a long, winding gravel road, you'll find the most serene, beautiful, forest-oasis you ever saw. Most people fish with hand-made bamboo poles, crafted by Grandpa, me and Scott. They use whole kernel corn as bait. And I love it here.
　
I think my obsession with nick-naming people came from my Grandpa. To him, I am Jellybean, my cousin Mike is the Village Idiot, my aunt Karen is Tuh-Tuh, my aunt MaryBeth is Bessie, my uncle Gary is Short, my aunt Anita (half-Mexican) is Taco, my uncle Harvey Jr. is Denny (for Dennis the Menace), and my brother is Skinny, for obvious reasons. My brother has lived here for about six years now. Right after high school he moved out here. Partly to go to college, partly to get away from me and Mom. And partly, I think, because this place is so beautiful, everyone wants to live here. But in reality, you have to be very comfortable in your own skin, your own mind, to be able to live in a place like this. Social separation, total isolation at times, and a lot of rain can wear a person down, no matter how green the grass or serene the setting. And it's plain to see that Scott isn't very comfortable in his own skin, or mind, for that matter.
　
"Hey Scooter, how are ya?" Scott comes in the kitchen door, grunting and sweating.
"Fine, MOVE DOG!" The dogs are always in the way. Dogs are more revered than people in this neck of the woods. "Shit! Dammit!" More grunting and sweating and cursing as Scott lugs firewood in the house with an old wheelbarrow.
"Want some help?"
"No! I'm fine."
"Okeeey." I'll wait til he's calmed down, sat down, and not sweating so much.
　
Scott is big, really big. I've noticed him steadily gaining weight for years now. You can't talk to him about it. He just gets WAY defensive and mad, or cries a lot, which is worse I think. It's hard to understand because he works here on the farm all the time - and works hard. He chops things, hauls things, moves things, mows things, weedeats, builds things, and takes things apart. And he works at Target too, on his feet all day, stocking things, lifting things, moving things. It's hard to understand.
　
"Here, have some water." I hand him a glass of water and sit down next to him. "Workin' hard today, huh?"
"Yeah, always."
"What do you want for dinner tonight? Thought I might make chicken dumplings for Gramps. Sound good?"
"Mmmmmmm, yeah, nummies." This perks him up a bit.
"You're a dork, and I hate when you make those sounds."
"Why? They're my nummy sounds."
"Yeah, that's why."
"Whatever."
　
There's a definite food obsession where Scott's concerned. I've never seen someone get so excited over a meal. I've never seen someone eat so much, so fast, so happily. There's a focus that comes over his face, like when a meth addict is chopping out a line. Like I used to do. Nothing can tear you away from such a task, you enter a different place, a purposeful place, a silent tunnel where nothing else matters. And you eat, or you snort, or you shoot, or you swallow. And you are satisfied, if only for a moment or two.
　
　

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Eight - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:35:00.000-08:00

Chapter Eight - Unforseen Circumstances
2001 - Mom is 52, Scott is 27, I am 24
　
It is October, and Scott is on his way home, moving back in with me and Mom. Just three months ago, I moved back here too. Due to unforseen circumstances, this is where I've ended up, again, but I'm making a plan. I'll be out of here soon, and on my own again, living life and making something important happen.
　
The unforseen circumstances happened something like this... I was living in Eugene with my friend Christine, and going to college again at the University of Oregon. I was working here and there, waiting tables and bartending at a country club, doing manicures and pedicures in a salon. Life was pretty good. Christine and I lived in this little house on Hilyard Avenue, right across from Amazon Park. Our neighbors were really cool, all big pot-smokers, our age and also college students. We shared a ginormous back yard and often hung out there, making turkey dogs or having taco parties. Eugene was beautiful, and we were out of Newport - nothing could be better. It was the year 2000, an election year, and the Olympics were on too, so Christine and I finally hooked up the old t.v. I brought and had been using for a nightstand up 'til then. We didn't have cable, and didn't want it. I think there were 5 channels that came in with an antenna. That November, just before George Bush got elected, something even more terrible than that happened. Andy killed himself.
　
Andy was a man I loved who I had a relationship with on and off for over 2 years. We were in an "off" mode when he died, which didn't make it any better. I was utterly devastated and broken. I had a hard time going to school anymore, going to work anymore, or doing, really, anything anymore, except smoking pot. In my poetry class, it's all I wrote about. At work, I would just start crying, sometimes while pouring a drink or bringing a side of rice to a table. My pedicure clients all knew the story. Everyone tip-toed around me like I was a crazy person, and I guess I was.
　
The spring of 2001 came, I dropped all my classes, and got fired from my waitressing job. I was down, really down, and decided one day that I wanted to find my dad again. I hadn't seen or talked to him in nearly 9 nears by that point. Through my step-mom (who was divorced from him now) I had learned that they'd had another child, a little girl, Rebecca, who I'd never met. I had met the two older ones, Chrysti and Michael when they were about 3 and 5 years old. Now, Rebecca was 7, Michael was 11, and Chrysti was 13. So, one day I called information to find his number. I didn't even know where he lived at that point, but our last name is very unique, so it didn't take long to find it. Without hesitation, I dialed his number. An answering machine is what I got, so I left a message that went something like this, "Hello, this is Julie. I, uh, well, just wanted to see if I could find you again, wanted to talk. Um, so, call me if you want to. Bye." I forgot to leave my number. So, I called back and left it on the machine. And he called me back. I was afraid of that. I don't know what I was thinking, really. I guess I just hoped this time it would be different, maybe he'd changed.
　
Much to my surprise, he HAD changed! He was very apologetic for the things he did in the past. He was extremely positive about the future, and he was overly excited to be speaking with me again. We talked about cooking, about poker, about bowling and books and cars. We were finally reconciling our differences and getting to know each other. It felt amazing! I really did have a dad after all. And he really did love me and want me. After a couple of months talking and emailing back and forth, he asked me to come live with him - to spend some real time together and work on our relationship. At first, I was terrified of the idea, still remembering the last visit when I was 12. But things seemed so different now, many years had passed, I had grown up, and maybe he had too. So, without a job, or any other prospects, I finally agreed, with conditions. I would come out there for a month, see if I could find work, and test the waters living with him, since I wasn't keen on the idea of living with ANY parent, let alone one I didn't really know. He told me he would help me find work at a casino, he told me he would help me with my bills for a while, he told me we would work everything out together. So, I gave Christine 30 days notice, sold everything I owned in a garage sale, and flew to New Jersey.
　
I was there 7 days before I came home. Everything he had said was a lie. He wanted me there to take care of the kids, to pay HIS bills. His idea of helping me find work was giving me the "help-wanted ads" and dropping me off in Atlantic City for the day, after criticizing my interview outfit and tearing me down mentally. We got in a huge argument, reminiscent of the one when I was 12, he threw the phone at me, and I used it to call my step-mom to come get me. The next day she took me to the airport. And now I'm here, in Newport, again. Living with my Mom, and preparing for Scott's arrival back home too.
　
Most recently, Scott has been out at my Grandpa's house, for about the last 6 months. After staying with Gary and Anita for 21 months, and losing 237 pounds, he moved back to Grandpa's house, way out in the middle of nowhere, with no gym, no church, nothing healthy, and it seems a lot of depression. They had some sort of falling out, but Scott won't tell me exactly what happened. Something about Gary asking him for rent, I'm not sure. Scott told me he has gained some of the weight back, but I haven't seen him yet, so I don't really know what that means.
　
"Your brother's here!" Mom sees Scott pull up in his Jeep, and we both go out to meet him. "Oh..." She sees what I see. A very large Scott. We both try not to stare, because that's mean, but we are shocked to the core. In 6 months, Scott has gained all the weight back that it took him 21 months to lose, and then some. He is all red in the face, exhausted, and hungry. He comes in the house and asks which room is his now. We tell him and he goes there, lays down, and sleeps. Mom and I don't even know what to do, or say. It's even hard to look at each other, for fear, I think, that if we speak about it, it'll be real. And it's just unbelievable, it just can't be real. Not after everything we've been through. Not after everything he did to get better. Not after seeing him 6 months ago, under 300 pounds for the first time since high school. Now he weighs twice that, at least. How did this happen? Unforseen circumstances.
　
And on this day, I am making a conscious choice to stay in Newport. To try and help Scott, and Mom, through this. To find a way to make him better once and for all. That THIS is the important thing I will do with my life. That HE is my new plan.
　

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Seven - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:33:00.000-08:00

Chapter Seven - Found a Dad, Lost a Dad
1989 - Mom is 40, Scott is 15, I am 12
　
A year and a half ago, my dad called me on Christmas Eve. It's the first time I had ever talked to him. I was 10 years old then. I was so happy, but wondering why he waited so long. We were at Grandpa's house for Christmas, like every year. My Mom said someone was on the phone for me. I didn't believe her because nobody ever calls me, especially there. She covered the phone with her hand and said "It's your dad, Julie. He wants to talk to you. Do you want to talk to him?" I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure he really existed. I didn't think he loved me, or wanted me, if he did exist.
　
"Hello."
"Hello Julie, this is your father." Really? I wondered. He didn't feel like a father just because he said it out loud. But how was I supposed to know what a father felt like?
"Okay."
"I love you very much, Julie. How are you?"
"Fine."
"How's your Christmas this year?"
"Where have you been and why are you calling me now, on Christmas?" This is not what I had planned to say, if I ever I did meet my dad, but it just came out.
"That's a fair question, but I don't think we have a lot of time to talk about it right now."
"Why not?"
"Well, it's Christmas, and I'm sure you have a lot of people there to spend time with, right?"
"Um, yeah."
"I just wanted to tell you that I love you and I've missed you very much. I'm so happy to be talking to you now. You are my little princess, do you remember that?"
"I don't remember anything. I was only 2 when you left. Do you remember THAT?"
"Yes, Julie, I remember that. Like I said, we'll have to talk about all that stuff later, when we have more time."
"Okay. Here's my Mom, she wants to talk to you again." I had to go find her. I put the phone down on the floor, walked slowly into the livingroom, and sat on the couch next to Scott. "Mom, he's still on the phone, will you talk to him now?"
　
That was the first time I ever talked to him. Scott put his arm around me on the couch, and I leaned into his shoulder and cried. He held me for a long time, until I fell asleep. And even then, he wouldn't move. Eventually, my Mom woke me up and led us both to our beds. I told her I had a dream that my dad called me. She said it wasn't a dream.
　
Now, Scott and I are visiting him in Pennsylvania, for the second time. Last year we came for a week right before my birthday. It was great. We went to a water park, played games, and he taught us how to bowl. He works in a bowling alley, owns a bowling pro-shop with balls and shoes and gloves and stuff. He taught us how to play cribbage. Scott didn't really like it, so my dad and I would stay up late and play for hours together. It was a fantastic visit, so I was really excited to come back this year. Scott wasn't so excited, but I didn't know why. Until now. Scott's much older and wiser than me, and somehow he just knew what was coming I think. I had been dazzled, blinded by fun stuff and presents last time. I didn't see what Scott saw. Until now.
　
There has been no fun stuff this time, no games. Scott and I have been put to work painting my dad's shop. We clean up the house every night. We have abundant chores, more than we ever have at home. My step-mom, Robyn, is pregnant, and besides waiting on her and doing EVERYTHING else, we are also forced to say "I love you, mom" to her every night before we go to bed. My dad has not stopped talking about how horrible our family is back home. How much of a big alcoholic, abuse factory they are. He has given me books about alcoholism to give to my mom. He has trash-talked my Grandma and Grandpa. He has turned mean and scary. And I hate him. Tonight, it was my turn to clean the dinner table, and Scott's turn to do the dishes, so I cleaned up quick and came upstairs to our room. I just want to go home. I need my Mom. I am laying under the slippery pink comforter my dad got for my bed the first time we came. He got Scott one with zebra stripes on it. It is freezing in here, as usual, and I'm exhausted. There's still paint in my hair, and under my fingernails from working at the shop today. I just want to go home. My dad knocks and comes in our room.
　
"Julie."
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
"Laying here. I'm cold. I don't feel good."
"I need you to come downstairs. I have something to show you."
"Right now?"
"Yes, right now." I roll my eyes and get out of bed. I follow him down the stairs and into the dining room. "Do you see THAT?"
"What?" I say, "I don't see anything." He is pointing at the table. He tells me to look closer. I look closer, I bend down, turn my head to the side, and see what he's pointing at. There's a smudgy, greasy spot on the table I missed - it's about 3 inches wide. In the grease he has written "clean me" so small he must've used a toothpick.
"Are you serious? You made me come down here for THAT? REALLY?"
"You need to do your chores, and do them correctly. Do it over."
"No." He picks up a dishrag, grabs my hand, and forces me to take it. Scott has stopped doing the dishes and is holding his breath, I think. He is watching us like he's ready to pounce. Ready for anything. I can feel his energy, I look at him, look back to my dad. "NO." I throw the rag down on the table, turn and run toward the stairs. "CLEAN IT YOURSELF", I scream back at him.
　
"Jesus, Julie, you run fast!" Scott was right on my heels, and came into our room just as I was slamming the door behind me. I opened the door as far as it would go and slammed it shut as loud as I could.
"I'm not gonna clean it again, Scott, I'm not gonna do ANYTHING for him anymore, I hate him, he's a slave-driver, I hate him, who does he think he is, why does he think he can treat us this way, let's go home, Scott, please, let's just go home." I can't even breathe, I'm crying so hard and spewing these words out faster than I can even think them up. I have a pretty limited cuss-word vocabulary, but I know "fuck" is the worst, and I'm ready to use them all. "He's a fucking asshole, Scott, I can't believe he's my dad, I don't want to be here, what if he won't let us go home, what if we have to stay here and be his slaves forever, Scott, he doesn't love us, he doesn't love anyone, I'm so sorry Scott, you're gonna get in trouble too because of this, I'm so sorry, I hate him, please don't let him near me, I'll rip his fucking head off, he's so mean, who thinks it's okay to be mean like that, what a fucker, I fucking hate him, I can't believe this, how are we gonna call Mom, the phone is downstairs, fuck, fuck, fuck, Scott, I'm sorry I'm saying so many bad words, but fuck, Scott, I can't handle it, I just can't handle it."
"Try to calm down, Julie, you're gonna make yourself sick. I'll take care of it. I won't let him near you. I promise. It'll be okay, I promise." Just then our door flew open, and a very big man with a very red face was standing in our room with a dishrag in his hands. And he was coming for me.
　
"DON'T YOU MOVE ANOTHER INCH! GET OUT OF OUR ROOM! NOW!!!" Scott had jumped up, and between us, and was ready to kill for me.
"Scott, get out of my way, this is between me and your sister." The calm in his voice was eerie, terrifying.
"I'm not going anywhere, and either is she. Leave." He pushed Scott out of the way, and against the wall, hard. In an instant, he had me by the arm, up off the bed, dragging me out of the room. I bent down my head and bit him as hard as I could on the arm, started kicking and flailing and screaming. I tasted blood in my mouth, sour and hot. Tears and snot were all mixed up on my face, everything a blur.
"DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING TOUCH ME AGAIN! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU BASTARD! LEAVE. ME. THE. FUCK. ALONE. OR I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" I have never said even one single cuss word in the presence of an adult, let alone straight to one. I am standing now, head and shoulders tall, waiting to be beaten or killed or worse. I simply don't care anymore, I've had it.
　
He left the room. Two days later we flew home. When Mom was driving us home from the airport, we told her everything. Even the cuss words. She was proud of us both. I looked in my backpack for the BubbleYum I got at the airport, and what I found were two pamphlets and a book on alcoholism that my dad must've snuck in my bag before we left. I showed them to my Mom and told her all the things he said about her, about our family. She tried not to, but started to cry. We all started to cry. She told us she was sorry for ever asking him to call us at Christmas. I didn't know she asked him to do that. I thought he just called, because he wanted to, because he loved us. But, as it turns out, she had to search him out, find him, and call him. She hoped it wouldn't turn out this way. She was sorry. We rode along in tears for a few miles. I looked at the pamphlets and book, still absently in my hands, and some of the fire came back.
　
"Here's what I think, Mom." She turned to me, and my brother sat up in the back, leaned forward to see what I was doing. I rolled down the window, and page by page, I tore up that book, and those pamphlets, and threw them out. "I love my big alcoholic family, so there! And I love you, Mom. Forever. You're all I need."

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Six - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:32:00.000-08:00

Chapter Six - Coming Home
1999 - Mom is 50, Scott is 25, I am 22
　
I am working at ClubMed in Port St. Lucie, Florida. I hate it here. It is too hot, too sticky. The humidity is unlike anything I've ever experienced before in my life. I work in the Baby Club, taking care of little ones - as young as 4 months, and up to 3 years old. Most of them are okay, but their parents are beasts. Before coming here, I had been living with my Mom in Newport for a few years. I had left college in Ashland, and had flopped around between jobs for a while. Right before I left for Florida, Scott came back home to live too. He was bigger than I'd ever seen him, had quit school, and was in a terrible state of mind. He hated everyone and everything. He hated all of the family. He hated himself. He hated me. He weighed over 500 pounds, and ate like I've never seen anyone eat. This was the first time I'd seen him in a while, and I was amazed at the pure enormity of his being. How could he let himself get this way? How could he have that little control? Why was he so mad at everyone? What had happened?
　
After I came here to Florida, my aunt Anita and uncle Gary in Bend had offered for Scott to come live with them. Gary would put Scott to work, Anita would help him with diet and exercise, and they would both help him lose the weight and get better. Scott went to live with them. He called me once in a while to give me progress updates.
　
"Hey Scooter!"
"Hi Jellybug, what's a-happenin' at good ol' ClubMed?"
"Same ol' shit, "Cranky Kids and the Parents Who Abandon Them", some of these people are really horrendous. They shouldn't even be allowed to reproduce. They just drop 'em off and go lay by the pool all day. Or drink in the bar. We had to go find this mother three times today because her little girl wouldn't stop crying, crying so hard she was throwing up EVERYWHERE. On the toys, on the floor, in the pool, in the hall, in her crib, on the toys some more. We've been sanitizing things all day."
"So, did the mother pick her up?"
"No, she got the father, they both came to the pool where we were, with all the kids. They're French assholes. They shook and slapped that little girl, she's only 2 years old, and screamed at her in French, literally threw her in the pool and forced her to stay in there, shivering, bawling, choking, and throwing up. All she wanted was to be with them. She was scared. And she didn't understand anything we were saying in English. Mark, this kid I work with, speaks French, and went and rescued her. He pulled her out of the pool, wrapped her in a towel, and screamed something at the both of them. The father came at him like he was gonna hit Mark. Mark stood his ground, handed off this man's daughter to one of the other Baby Club girls and confronted this much bigger man. I was so proud of him. He got a written warning. I hate this fucking place. Sick fucking French owners. They let these assholes do anything to these kids, all for a few thousand dollars a week. I hate this place. So, how are YOU doing?" Scott laughs. I love the sound of his laugh, it's a cross between a little girl's laugh and a big burly man's laugh, squeaky and robust.
"Wellll, I'm doing pretty good. Just got done riding my bike - 30 minutes tonight! I'm gettin' up there. Could only do about 3 minutes when I first started, so it's getting better."
"That's great! How's working with Gary?"
"Oh, you know, hard. But I like it though. The boys are hilarious, we're joking around all the time. I'm able to do more and more every day, so that's good. Anita fixed us a really good dinner tonight - asparagus and rice and teriyaki chicken."
"Wow, your own personal chef, huh? Must be nice. How many pounds have you lost?"
"Well, that's why I called you...I finally reached the hundred mark! I've lost 102 pounds as of this morning!"
"God, Scott, that's AWESOME! Wow! I'm soooo proud of you! Keep it up, brother, and soon we'll be swatting the girls away with a stick!"
"Yeah, right, whatever. But, yeah, I'm really proud of myself too. Anita is taking me to sign up at this cool gym this weekend. And I started going to church again. I like it. It's comforting. And the guy who runs the gym is the pastor there."
"Sounds like you've got it all figured out, huh? Well, that just makes my day. I'm so happy to hear all this news, so happy you are feeling better, getting better. You rock, little brother."
"Julie, I'm your BIG brother."
"I know, I know, it just sounds better in a sentence, that's all." In truth, it seems like he's my little brother for as much as I've taken care of him over the years, it FEELS like I'm older. So, sometimes I forget.

We get off the phone and I head to bed. In a couple months I will leave this place, a little ahead of schedule due to some unforseen and tragic circumstances. I will go back home, again. I will make a new plan, and try to overcome my life. I hope Scott stays on the right path, and he's becoming an inspiration to me more and more every day.
　
　

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Five - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:31:00.000-08:00

Chapter Five - Home from the Hospital
2004 - Mom is 55, Scott is 30, I am 27
　
After nine days in the hospital, Scott has come home. We are all scared, but hopeful. Scott still has limited mobility because his staph infection is not totally under control, and he is still retaining a lot of water. He's got these "pads", we call them, his inner thighs have extra swollen balloon-like protrusions that are preventing him from walking very far, as his legs can't come together fully. But he can walk, a little bit. But he can't sit up really. He can't bathe himself. He can't cook his own meals or do any household chores. It'll be several weeks before he can do normal things again, the doctors say. Every time Scott goes to the bathroom, he needs to be cleaned, and his wounds slathered with cream, and bandages reset. Without any discussion, this has become a new part of my care-giving repertoire.
　
I think this is maybe punishment for something horrible I did when I was going to school in Ashland several years ago. I had been looking for an extra job, as my debt was piling up, and my student loans weren't cutting it. I answered an ad posted by a quadriplegic man, he needed help with cooking, cleaning, and other stuff. I went to meet with him. His house reeked like sickness and dirty toilets. It was dark, and dingy, and apparent why he was looking for some help. Whoever had done this job before was not very good at it. I wanted to help him so, so bad. I felt for him. He told me he'd had a hard time keeping help, that there were a lot of responsibilities that he just couldn't manage. And then he dropped the bomb - he said he needed help getting on and off the toilet when he wasn't wearing his pee and poop bags, and with bathing. I told him I would help, though I didn't really know how to transfer patients, or what to do at all. I told him I'd give it a try, that I'd be there for him. I left with a promise to come by on Wednesday, like we planned. I never went back. I drove away, knowing I would never go back. I didn't even call him to apologize until Wednesday morning, too late for him to find someone else to help. I imagined him sitting in his chair, staring out the window, looking for me to show up anyway. I imagined his disappointment, his anger, his hoplessness. I hated myself. I've never forgiven myself.
　
So, here we are now, getting ready to bathe Scott for the first time, making amends for a shameful past. Scott is crying, humiliated. I tell him to stop, it'll be over before we know it, it's gotta be done. I ask him to tell me about the new CD he got in the mail today, who is it, do I know any of the songs? He tells me it is some jazzy, soulful CD that I've never heard of. I ask him to sing me a song from it. He pauses for a long time, then while I'm soaping up his butt he belts out a verse quite loudly. It makes me jump and spill some of the soapy water onto the floor. Jesus, I say, you're a freak. We both burst into giggles until something I'm doing hurts him and he yelps. I say I'm sorry, I'm almost done. He says he can't stand to be in this position anymore, and I wonder if he means the position he is laying in, or the position of his life. He starts crying again. I dry him off, slather him up, and cover him with a clean sheet. He rolls over a little bit. I go take off the gloves, wash my hands and arms, and come back to him. I lay down behind him on his bed, prop my chin up on his arm, reach up and wipe his tears away.
　
"It'll be okay, I promise. We'll get through it, just you wait and see."
"It's not okay. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"You know what."
"Go to sleep." I get off the bed and tuck him in. Kiss him on the cheek and stroke his temple, tug on his ear. "Get some sleep, it'll be better tomorrow."
"Good night, Julie, I love you."
"Good night, I love you too."

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Four - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:29:00.000-08:00

Chapter Four - Addiction
1993 - Mom is 44, Scott is 19, I am 16

Scott is living with Grandpa now, working on the farm, working at Target, attending OSU for Fisheries and Wildlife, and apparently eating a lot. Mom is drinking a lot. I am doing meth and pot and acid and coke and drinking a lot of alcohol. I am tired of being good. I am tired of everyone's expectations. I am tired of having a drunk mother. I am tired of having a self-righteous fat brother. I don't want good grades, I don't want preppy friends, I don't want to do anything except what I want to do. I want to go away. I want to find someone who accepts me for who I am and doesn't put me on a "goodie-two-shoes" pedestal. I don't want to be everybody's "helper" anymore. Let 'em all help themselves for once. I am a thief, I am a liar, I am a slut. I am no good. But I prefer it that way.
　
"Why don't you just stop acting like an idiot and straighten up?" Scott is reprimanding me.
"You don't even know what you're talking about, so leave me alone. I just like to party, have fun. Do anything to get out of this house, away from HER."
"She's bad, huh?"
"You could say that...we had another fight last night. I doubt she remembers it. It was a "Christian Brothers Brandy" night. I hate it when she hits the hard stuff. There's no turning back after that. You know the story...she loves me, she hates me, she throws things at me, she cries. I'm sick of it. I fought back."
"You did WHAT?"
"I fought back."
"What did you do?!" He's amazed. It's the first time I've ever said this.
"I told her I didn't care what she thought of me, that I, too, wish I was never born - just like she does, and that I hated her. That she was a drunken slob who has done nothing but ruin our lives. That she's the reason I do bad things. That she's to blame. That I wish she would die."
"Why would you say things like that? You're going to kill her." He's getting mad at me now.
"I didn't really mean it, just couldn't control myself. She won't remember any of it anyway. She never does. At least she never seems to remember what SHE says."
"You shouldn't treat her that way. You're causing her to drink in the first place, then you blame it on HER? You're an idiot."
"Shut up, Scott. Who are you to talk? Oh, yeah, you're her FAVORITE child. You're the one she cuddles while she's hurling shoes at me and telling me she wishes she would've had an abortion. You're her little afflicted baby boy who never does anything wrong, such a fucking angel. You don't know ANYTHING!"
"Yep, yer right, I AM her favorite. Always have been."
"Thanks, asshole."
"Don't call me nam-" I hang up the phone. I'm tired of his shit. I'm tired of this life, this struggle. I take a bong hit, fall back in my bed, and smoke a cigarette.
　
A few weeks later, it is Christmas break, and Mom and I drive out to Grandpa's for the family party. It always lasts a few days, kicked off by my aunt's pre-party, just down the road from my Grandpa's house. This is a real backwoods place, out in the middle of nowhere in the valley of Oregon. It's beautiful and serene and I love it here. But I'm not looking forward to seeing the family, or my mom's drunkenness. At least EVERYONE gets shit-faced, so my mom doesn't stand out as much. We arrive and find the alcohol in abundant supply - true to form. As the night goes on, I end up going with my other "black sheep" cousin Mike to another party down the street. All us kids, and the neighbor kids, are drinking or snorting crank and coke, and smoking pot. Merry Christmas.
　
Scott has stayed up at Grandpa's house because he doesn't want to be around all the drunks. I went up to see him before the party really got started. He looked bigger. He looked tired. He was standing in the kitchen, looking for something to eat. I gave him a hug and told him to come party with us, but he wouldn't do it. He grabbed a piece of cold chicken out of the fridge and ate it. I asked him how school was lately. He sliced a piece of chocolate cake and ate it. I asked him how working at Target's been treating him. He rolled his eyes, told me it sucked, and put some top ramen in a pot to cook. I took a chug of my Coors Light and asked him why he's so hungry. He said he hadn't eaten all day, and by the looks of him, I know he's lying.

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Three - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:28:00.000-08:00

Chapter Three - My New Life
2009, Present Day - Mom is 60, Scott is 35, I am 32
　
I moved to Las Vegas a year and seven months ago. About a year before that, I had moved to New York, West Babylon on Long Island, to be precise. I was at a point in my life where I wanted to find my place, away from Oregon, away from my Mom and Scott. It's not that I didn't love them or want to be close to them, but I needed to be far away for a little while. I needed to see if I could make something important out of my life. I failed miserably. I came home from New York in September 2007, but not without a plan. Normally, this kind of failure would send me into a downward spiral for a while, depressed and hopeless. But rather the opposite happened. I was motivated more than ever to get my ass to Vegas and start my life, and succeed. After about 6 months, I achieved that goal. I had earned about $7000 in that 6 months, and had made a plan, a budget, and a big wish to the universe. And nothing was gonna stop me.

Though a lot has happened for me since I moved here, in the last month my world has exploded with opportunity. I am officially the "Pumpkin Queen of Las Vegas", self-proclaimed anyway. I have started selling my "Aunt Helen's Pumpkin Bread" in two (soon to be three) stores online. One is Etsy.com, one is my very own website I made - jewelofthelion.intuitwebsites.com, and the third will be on 1000markets.com as soon as I get my shit together. I have started blogging, am writing a novel, this novel, for NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month, and my social networking skills are growing every day.
　
Today I got an email from a woman who's dad I sent some pumpkin muffins to. The woman's daughter, Faye, actually ordered the muffins for her grandpa. When I got the order, I was instantly excited because I used to bake for my own grandpa and it was one of my favorite things to do. I got to bake for a grandpa again! I never thought it would happen.
　
This woman's email reduced me to tears. It said, "Hi, Julie. I wanted to let you know that Ira Shafer's pumpkin muffins arrived today. The package and its contents were all in excellent condition. The muffins are moist and tasty, and I'd recommend them to anyone. As Dad says, they're "substantial". Dad appreciated the cute packaging and enjoyed your notes almost as much as he liked the muffins. He read them aloud about four times. At 99, he's not clued in about the internet, and what etsy has become "and so forth". Thanks to you too, Faye, for your thoughtfulness. GD wondered where you get your money, and figures that Max gives it to you. Max Reeder, Peggy's dad, now deceased. He noted that you've given him a lot of attention these last years."
　
In a moment I was transported to my Grandpa's kitchen, baking literally hundreds of oatmeal cookies to store in the freezer until my next visit. Grandpa would take a bag of cookies out of the freezer almost on a daily basis, and he and "the dogs" would eat most all of them in a day. There were 18 cookies in each bag. It was my duty to keep his sweet-tooth appeased. And I loved it.
　
Since his passing, I have baked only once a year. Aunt Helen's Pumpkin Bread. It has made me happy and sad, It has made me remember, and hurt. I haven't baked an oatmeal cookie in over 5 years. I just can't, still. But pumpkin bread is different. I have shared it with so many friends and family that a different feeling has overcome me while baking now. An addicting feeling, of making people feel good, taste something amazing, and recall their own happy memories. My pumpkin bread journey is probably the happiest, most fun and exciting adventure of my life to date. And I hope to create a pumpkin bread empire one day. And I know I'm on my way.
　
What's on my mind, more than ever these days, is that maybe I can sell enough pumpkin bread to send Scott to the fat farm in Texas. There's this ranch there, Rancho Cortez, where people go to lose weight. It costs over $4,000 per month, and that's the discounted work-program cost. Since insurance and Medicare won't cover any program for him, and a medical treatment facility costs over $10,000 a month, this option seems like the best option. But then the problem is getting him there. He's afraid. Afraid of dying far from home. Afraid of having to change his life. Afraid of failure, again. Afraid we're going to ship him off and forget about him. Afraid to succeed, because of all the responsibility that comes with that. And I can't tranquilize a 650-pound man, throw him over my shoulder, and drop him at their doorstep. I have spent countless hours researching a solution to Scott's problem. But there isn't one. I have struggled for a very long time to keep hope alive in my heart. I am trying to move on with my life, but can't leave my brother behind. I can't turn my back on him. I can't stop fighting. I won't. I won't. I won't. I'll bake my fingers to the bone if that will make him thin. I love him.
　
　

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Two - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:21:00.000-08:00

Chapter Two - The Hospital
2004 - Mom is 55, Scott is 30, I am 27

This is the second time Scott has ended up in the hospital, ready to die. It has been 3 days since he took his water pill because he ran out and didn't tell anyone. He has been eating bratwurst and ham and everything salty for a week. He is in full congestive heart failure. His skin from the neck down to his knees is infected with some sort of staph infection, and is hard as a rock to the touch - inflamed and overfilled with fluid. He's bigger than I've ever seen him, swollen beyond control.

We are at the Newport Hospital - the place we hate, and that seems to hate us back. It is early in the day, and my brother's ER doctor is Dr. Frazier. He is a wicked, insensitive, evil man. I have encountered him here several times before, and he is beyond mean and vindictive. I am with my brother, who is crying silently, waiting for someone to help us. I adjust his bed a little so he's more comfortable, ask if he wants some water, steal another pillow and a warm blanket from the nurse's cupboard, and rub his feet a little.

Scott's been through a lot today. At home, he finally divulged how sick he was to my Mom and I. He had been avoiding us and hiding out in the garage, afraid of us, afraid of the hospital, afraid of the humiliation. He could no longer stand and walk. His blood pressure was sky-high. He could barely breathe. We called the ambulance. And, once again, had to tell them to bring extra manpower, and the big stretcher. My brother weighs 678 pounds. It takes 9 grown men to lift him into the ambulance. The fire department had to come to help. But he's here, finally, in the emergency room, cold from shock and humiliation, tears sliding down his nose, afraid that this is it.

We were here about 8 months ago, similar situation. They released my brother from the ER about 5 hours after he was admitted. I begged them to admit him to the other part of the hospital. They wouldn't. I begged them to help him. They let him lay in that bed for the first two hours after giving him a massive dose of a diuretic (water pill) to make him pee off some of the fluid he was retaining. He was hooked up to a few machines and couldn't get up. He was peeing in the bed because he had no choice. His own urine was burning his body, a rash between his legs. He was in excruciating pain, and they just let him sit in it and suffer. After that 2 hours, they finally let me back to see him. I've never been so angry in my life. Scott was bawling, ashamed, scared to death. When he told me what had been happening, I lost it. I marched out to the nurse's station and started screaming.

"WHAT KIND OF DOG-AND-CAT HOSPITAL IS THIS???? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH PAIN MY BROTHER IS IN??? DOES ANYONE CARE? OR WOULD YOU RATHER THIS FAT MAN JUST DIE??? HE'S SITTING IN HIS OWN PISS, YOU ASSHOLES, HIS OWN PISS!!! AND NO ONE CAN HELP HIM? WHAT DO YOU GET PAID FOR? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE???? SOMEONE HELP ME CHANGE HIS BED - NOW!!!!!!!!!"
"I'm sorry Miss, but please stop yelling. We gave him a urine jar to use." This male nurse better do what I say and not give me any shit or he's gonna need the emergency room himself.
"HOW IS HE SUPPOSED TO USE A URINE JAR, YOU IDIOT? HE CAN'T REACH DOWN THERE! CAN'T YOU SEE THAT, OR ARE THEY HIRING BLIND NURSES THESE DAYS??? HAVE YOU CHECKED ON HIM IN THE LAST TWO HOURS? DON'T YOU REALIZE THAT GIVING HIM A DIURETIC WILL MAKE HIM PEE??? JESUS CHRIST, WHERE DO YOU PEOPLE GET YOUR TRAINING? AT THE FUCKING BACK-ALLEY SCHOOL FOR DUMB-SHITS???"
"Miss, yelling and cursing isn't going to get you anywhere. Please calm down."
"BEING NICE HASN'T GOTTEN ME ANYWHERE WITH THIS STUPID FUCKING HOSPITAL - OR YOU STUPID FUCKING PEOPLE, SO DON'T FUCKING TELL ME HOW TO ACT! YOU'RE KILLING MY BROTHER! HAVE YOU SEEN HIS BLOOD PRESSURE?!?!? HE'S SO STRESSED OUT FROM THE PAIN AND HUMILIATION YOU ALL ARE CAUSING HIM, HE'S GOING TO DIE!!!!!!"

The male nurse doesn't say anything more. He goes back to the nursing station, goes in a back office, whispers something to some other stupid people and never comes back. Two other nurses come to my brother's curtained-off area about 20 minutes later. Scott and I are both crying, holding hands. I am standing next to him, out of breath, and leaning on his chest, stroking his arm and telling him it's gonna be okay, I love him, I'll take care of it. In the 20 minutes it took for the nurses to get there, I have already found some super-human strength, and hoisted my brother's lower half up off the bed, removed his sheets, found some new ones, cleaned him with some warm water and paper towels, helped him to pee in the jar, covered him with a warm blanket, and now here we are, with nurses ready to help, and nothing for them to do. That was the first visit.

Now, here we are again. Dr. Frazier comes up to talk to Scott, asks him how he's feeling. Scott says, not very good. Dr. Frazier looks him up and down, says he thinks he needs a shot of diuretic and then we'll run some tests. I tell Dr. Evil that unless my brother has a catheter in, they are absolutely NOT giving him a shot of diuretic. They MUST put a catheter in first, so we don't have a repeat of the last visit. I am trying to remain calm. Dr. Death says he has a urine jar for Scott to use if he can't make it to the bathroom. I calmly, but firmly tell him "He can't reach down there, in case you can't SEE that. The JAR will not work. We've been down this road before. I WILL NOT HAVE MY BROTHER SITTING IN HIS OWN PISS AGAIN. DO NOT, AND I MEAN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, GIVE HIM A SHOT UNTIL HE HAS A CATHETER IN. Understand? And the doctor says he understands, but we have to get some of this fluid off him soon. I say, then you better get the catheter guy here soon so we can get going on it. Another doctor comes by a couple minutes later. He's compassionate, an old hippie in sandals and socks, with long hair and glasses perched on the end of his nose. I like him. We discuss what I just told Dr. Asshole and he agrees that a catheter is an urgent first step to treating my brother. I feel better. I have to make a phone call, so I tell the new doctor that I'll be right back, and to please make sure Scott doesn't get any shots before the catheter. He assures me everything will be fine, and goes off to find the catheter guy.

I am outside for a total of eight minutes, maybe, when a nurse comes out to get me - tells me my brother is asking for me. I race back inside, and the look on his face is pure terror.

"What's wrong, what happened?"
"They gave me a shot. And I've gotta pee - RIGHT NOW."
"OHMYGOD!" I don't have time to yell at the nurses and doctors yet, I grab the urine jar, hoist up my brother's belly, find his penis, and point it at the jar. "Scott, the jar is almost full. Can you stop for a sec so I can get another one?"
"I'll try, but hurry." I set the full jar down, run to the nurse's station, yell URINE JAR - NOW!, and head back to Scott who's chanting, "Hurry, hurry, hurry, gotta pee, gotta pee, hurry please, hurry." When the second jar is mostly full, Scott finally stops peeing, but I know it is only a short-term reprieve. I grab both jars, tighten the lids, and storm out to the nurse's station.

"WHERE'S DR. DIPSHIT, DR. FRAZIER??? SOMEONE BRING HIM TO ME SO I CAN HOLD HIM DOWN AND CHOKE HIM WITH THIS!!!" I hold up and shake in the air, the product of this doctor's malpractice and ignorance. "WHERE IS HE?? AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, I WILL SUE EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU FUCKERS FOR THIS - EVERY LAST ONE! AND DR. FUCKING FRAZIER IS GOING TO DRINK EVERY DROP OF THIS URINE IF I EVER SEE HIS FACE AGAIN! KEEP HIM AWAY FROM ME, KEEP HIM AWAY FROM MY BROTHER, OR I WILL KILL HIM, MARK MY WORDS - NO HOSPITAL WILL BE ABLE TO FIX WHAT I WILL DO TO THAT SLIMY, SICK FUCKER."

A nurse I actually like, and sort-of know from the bar scene comes up and brings me another urine jar. She says she'll make sure Dr. Frazier doesn't come back and find out where the catheter guy is. I thank her and ask her to please hurry. Scott needs help, please hurry.

"Juuuliieee," I hear my brother, urgency in his voice, and I know he needs me again. Jar number three is full to the top when the catheter guy finally gets there. But it isn't the catheter guy, it's the hippie doctor, and he hasn't done a catheter in a long time. But he's going to do this one, because he doesn't want to wait any longer. I help him hold Scott's belly out of the way, he sterilizes Scott with iodine, and takes a deep breath. Scott grunts a little in discomfort, but within two minutes the catheter is in and he is comforted. Five minutes later, it is time to change the catheter bag for the first time - it is already full. The fluid that has been crushing his heart and filling his lungs, is finally making it's way out of his system. We are both tired. We are both relieved. Something, somebody, is finally going to help.

Another nurse comes in a few minutes later with discharge paperwork. I look at him like he's an alien. I don't understand. Scott is very sick and needs to be admitted to the hospital, I tell him. He's not going anywhere. I look at the paper, Dr. Frazier's name is on it. I grab it out of the nurse's hands, tell him I know it's not his fault, and that he better get out of my way, and out of this area, unless he wants to be strangled.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE???" I hold up the discharge paperwork, take my cigarette lighter out of my pocket in front of the nurse's station and light it on fire. "GET A DOCTOR TO ADMIT MY BROTHER TO THE HOSPITAL RIGHT NOW OR I WILL BURN THIS WHOLE FUCKING HOSPITAL TO THE GROUND!!!"

The nurse I like grabs the burning paper out of my hand, throws it in a sink, and grabs me around the shoulders, just as I collapse on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, muttering help him, please help him, please, I love him, he's gonna die, why won't somebody just help him, please help him. And then I can't even speak. The nurse is rocking me in a pile on the floor, stroking my hair, telling me it'll be okay, telling the other nurses to find the doctor, call the doctor, help, help, help.

Forty-five minutes later, Scott was admitted to the hospital, where he stayed for 9 days, and lost almost a hundred pounds - 75 of it was water-weight.
　

NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter One - In Julie's Eyes

2009-11-11T11:18:00.000-08:00

"I have to get off the phone, I'm just not a phone person. I just have to...get off the phone now. I love ya and maybe I'll talk to you later when I'm in a better frame of mind or something..." My Mom is annoyed. Her frustration comes through the phone at me like an ice pick in my ear.

"Ok," I barely whisper, trying not to fully break down and bawl my eyes out. "I love you too, I'll talk to you later, Mom." I am sobbing at this point, unable to control it anymore. She softens a little and tells me she loves me again, and then she's gone. My whole head shakes as tears pour from it. Again.

This is the story of having a brother. An older brother. A brother everyone has taken care of for years. This is not where we begin, by any means, nor where it will end, this is just the middle of a very long, very hard struggle that will last for the rest of our lives. This is Scott's story, my story, my Mom's story. And it's scary as hell.

I gave up nearly seven years of my life, this last time, to take care of my brother, and to help my Mom - to keep them from killing each other, to keep them from hurting each other, to keep them both sane. But I have moved on now, and the guilt of that abandon may end up killing me.
　
　
**************************************************************
Chapter One - Missing Dads
1985 - Mom is 36, Scott is 11, I am 8

"You're stupid!"
"No, you're stupid."
"You're so stupid, and ugly, that it's no wonder Russelllll doesn't call you. Who would want a stupid, ugly girlfriend?" Scott is mad because I told Mom he was out back torching ants with WD-40 again, right next to the house.
"You're MEAN! And I HATE you!" This is almost the worst thing I can think of to say.
"No boy is ever gonna like you because you're such an idiot! Ya big fat tattle-tail!" Once again, he's triggered something violent in me and I can't help but run up to him, dig my fingernails into his arm, punch him a charlie-horse right in his shoulder, and try to take him down. He is bigger than me, older by 3 years, and I can never take him down. He screams at me, spins me around, and throws me on the floor. Sitting on me, pinning me down, he says again, "no boy is ever gonna like you.....because you're fat, and ugly."
"You're never gonna have a dad...because you're stupid and nobody wants you. TWO dads left you behind, TWO! Nobody loves you. Because you're mean and crazy." These words come out of my mouth calmly, pointedly, like a marksman taking aim.
"God, Julie, you suck." Bullseye. I am released and my brother slinks off to his room - sniffling and kicking the hallway walls on his way.

I know I've crossed a line, but I don't care. I hate him. He's always mad at me. He always takes my things, tells me I'm horrible. He used to steal my new Christmas Barbies and mow them over in the yard, or hang them from the trees, or rip their heads and arms and legs off. He lights everything on fire, and stabs holes in everything with his knife. I think he's maybe a little crazy for real, but I don't know. He's got a million zits and no friends. He's just mean, and I don't know where he learned that. What have I really ever done to him? Besides only having one dad that left me behind, instead of two. And I didn't really have much to do with that, I don't think.
I'm scared to face another attack, so I stay in the livingroom and watch Bob Ross paint some happy trees with his mighty fan brush on PBS. It's summer, and it's hot outside - too hot and too dry. The fan blows on me and I fall asleep on the couch. I dream that I am in a hospital, but not because I'm hurt. My brother is having a seizure. There are lots of nurses holding him down, and someone sticking a needle in his side. There's a doctor or two and a lot of machines. I watch my brother's eyes jitter around in his head, watch his feet kick at strange angles, watch his fists tighten and contort. And I just stand there, in my dream, and watch, like it's just another day. I've never seen Scott have a seizure, just heard my Mom talk about it when he was a little boy. I don't know what was wrong with him, nobody knows. He just had a lot of seizures, nose bleeds, and ear infections.

I wake up to the smell of hamburger frying. I must have been asleep for a long time. My mom is in the kitchen making dinner, spaghetti and garlic bread. But instead of spaghetti noodles, all we have is elbow pasta. And instead of french bread, all we have is Wonder bread with garlic salt on it. It smells good, and I'm hungry. I go in to see my mom, slink up to her side at the sink. She puts her arm around me and asks if I had a little nap. I tell her I guess so, and ask if she needs any help. Scott is still in his room, but I'm sure he'll come out - he never misses food. My mom asks what happened with us. I tell her we had a fight. She sighs, shrugs, stirs the Ragu, and tells me we just HAVE to stop all this fighting. I say I'm sorry, but I don't think it helps. I feel really bad all of a sudden, and I'm thinking Scott should be out here by now, so I go to his door, try to open it, find it locked, and knock lightly.

"Scooter, dinner's almost done....spaghetti....are ya comin'?" No answer. "Scoooooottteeeeeeerrrrrrr..."
"Leave me alone."
"It's time for dinner. Come outta there and eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You're always hungry, come eat, don't make mom mad, she's already upset we had a fight."
"Screw mom."
"Don't be an ass! That's mean, she didn't DO anything! Just come have dinner before you upset her more!" I pound and kick the door a few times and get pissed again. What's his problem???
"Get outta the way-fat ass." He's opened the door and pushed me aside, smacks me in the head - all in one swift movement. "I'm mad at you, don't talk to me." HE'S mad at ME. Wow.

We all eat dinner, Mom in the livingroom on her recliner, Scott and I at the kitchen table, glaring and slurping sauce. Mom sends us both to bed after dinner, it's past eight, our bedtime. No one says anything, except "good night, I love you". Scott won't say it to me. We always say it, no matter what. Every night. No matter what. But he won't say it. I go to my room, get in my jammies, and kneal down to say a prayer. "God, please make Scott tell me 'good night, I love you' - please. And please watch over Grandma and Grandpa Fishie, and my Mom, and all my friends, and my other family. But if you're too busy for that, just do the first one. I miss it. Thanks, God, good night, I love you."

There's no answer and I'm impatient, so I go to Scott's door. It's open a little bit, and dark, so I quietly slink in and up to his bed. I slide down against his mattress, onto the floor, and pick at my fingernails.

"Sorry."
"What for?"
"You know what for. I didn't mean it."
"Yeah, you did."
"Sorry."
"Go to bed."
I get up and head out, leaving him in the dark, and say again - almost pleading, "good night, I love you".
"Good night." I only get half. And the wrong half.

Poker, Lately

2009-11-10T01:50:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to write a little about poker lately, but have gotten caught up in other writing, so here's a few tidbits I saved for when the time was right.

Some of my favorite players have been in to play this week:

Tim 'n' M - I call him this because his name is Tim and he always wears a baseball cap with M'n'Ms on it. He's a sweet guy, never has a negative thing to say, which I like.

Ben-JAM-in - He requested to be called this, most of us just refer to him as Ben, the "C'MON, LUCK!" guy.

Greg - I've mentioned him before. He's the Comedian. ALWAYS has something funny to say - ALWAYS. And most of the time it's highly inappropriate too. When I don't see him for a few days, I start to have withdrawals.

Judy - a.k.a WHAAAT-EVEEEER! We have an inside joke about this, and it's what we say every time we meet, and every time we part, like a Hawaiian would say 'aloha'.

Duane - a new favorite who I don't have a nickname for yet - just an altogether hilarious guy, who doesn't look like a Duane at all. Young kid. Was sitting next to Greg all day a few days ago. I laughed so hard I think I peed my pants a little. I had taken a pain pill that day, which always makes my nose itch. And I don't like touching my face when I'm dealing cards because everything is so dirty. So, Duane offered up his finger as a scratcher - which was equally disgusting and horrifying and catastrophically humorous for some reason.

A.J. - yes, A.J., in the pit, after buying some of my pumpkin bread tells me it's RIDICULOUS and asks why I'm dealing cards...I should be making that stuff for a living. I tell him I'm workin' on it. When I come by to see him, he knows he owes me money from the last loaf, and I say, joking, "you got my dough?" And he would've preferred I say, "where's the money, bitch!". I would've preferred that too, but since he was bossing the craps table, I think better of it.

Jason - not a player, but my floorman some days. I'm beginning to think he might be gay - for several reasons. He doesn't have a girlfriend, and isn't interested in one. Whenever he talks about hanging out with anyone, it's always his "friend" and this last time, he was making brownies for this "friend". He's also a very gentle man. But he doesn't have much of a fashion sense, doesn't talk about decorating, and isn't really girly either. I just don't know. Anyway, on a particularly strange and moody day for the players, Jason came up to me and said, "What's with this? I feel like saying, 'Welcome to the room of cranky-pissy people, how may I anger you?' Everyone is crazy today." And I agreed. And then we thought it was funny, which I'm sure made the people crankier and pissier.

Some not-so-fun aspects of the week:

The Leprechaun, Jonathan, is a professional poker player. Or so he says. He's an angry little leprechaun. And he knows everything. And he thinks I know nothing. And he tells people that I know nothing. And I want to strangle him til the bells fall off his shoes.

Sleepy, Drunken Rick has followed me from Boulder Station, where he's been 86'ed. He drinks too much, falls asleep at the table and bums my cigarettes, always offering a dollar chip for one, but never paying it.

Pete is a smelly dealer. That's all I have to say about that.

Devin, who I shacked up with a couple times and now can't stand much, plays cards like a tool. I want to just tell him, "give me your money and walk away - this isn't your game." But I can't. And every time the action comes around the table to him, he acts like he's surprised it's his turn to bet. Every time. This holds up the game, costs me money, and is generally annoying. Especially because I shacked up with him, and shouldn't have. I blame it on the alcohol.

Fastest Bottle-Drinking Lamb

2009-11-07T08:16:00.000-08:00

Today is the day Grandma Fishie went to sleep, and didn't wake up, 22 years ago.

For two-thirds of my life, Grandma Fishie has been gone. I really can't fathom that. She passed away when I was 10 years old. I can't remember much from when I was 10 years old, but I remember that, and most everything we did together up to then. And everything we've done together since.

When I was somewhere around 2nd grade, Grandma got me a lamb. A real lamb. They always had cows and dogs and other animals out at the fish farm, but for some reason, they had sheep that year. And she gave me my very own baby lamb! I think maybe she felt sorry for me. My Mom had just moved us all to a new town, I had no friends, and a student at the beauty school had just permed my hair to look like Little Orphan Annie. A boy at school had tugged on my hair and laughed, said it looked like a wig. I was devastated. So, she gave me Gabby. And Gabby made everything better.

If you've never seen a baby lamb up close, I've got to tell you, it's the cutest thing in the world. Gabby loved me like I was her mother, and she probably thought I was, since I was the one feeding her. She never stopped talking, hence the name Gabby. Grandma taught me how to make her bottle - a BIG bottle, and she would follow me around all day, looking for more. Hungry little critter. I washed her with the hose when she got muddy, I cuddled and played with her on the grass. We were best buddies.

Grandma read in the paper that at the "Scio Lamb Show" this year, there was going to be a "Fastest Bottle-Drinking" competition, and we both knew Gabby would win. There were no restrictions on the age of the sheep, or the age of the owner, just the amount of milk in the bottle. Gabby and I practiced every day - and she was happy for it!

The day of the Lamb Show competition arrived. I was so excited I could barely sit still. We loaded Gabby in a crate in the back of Grandma's truck, and off we went. I didn't like her back there, it seemed cramped, and I didn't want her to be nervous for the big day. She whined and bawled the whole way to town. At the competition, we got Gabby out, tied a rope to her collar, and went in to this little arena where the bottle-drinking would take place. There were about a dozen other people in there with their sheep. And they were ALL OLD SHEEP! I thought this was a LAMB SHOW! Where were all the LAMBS? Gabby was the only little one, and I knew we had a lot of work to do. The announcer explained the rules, and we all got ready. Gabby's bottle wasn't a regular bottle. It was a 20oz beer bottle, emptied out and filled with milk, with a nipple duct-taped to the top. We had been so excited, we forgot her bottle, and had to make a new one at the show.

The announcer fired his toy gun, and off we went! We hadn't fed Gabby that morning, so she would be extra hungry and drink her milk faster - and it worked! She was sucking on that nipple like she'd never had a meal before! She was so excited that she jumped and kicked and nearly knocked me over. In the excitement, our makeshift bottle came apart, spilling half the milk all over Gabby's head and my jeans and shoes! All of a sudden we were done! And I held up the empty bottle and screamed "WE DID IT!" After careful inspection of the bottle's remains, the judge announced with a wink, "WE HAVE A WINNER!" We won, we won, we won!

For our big prize, Gabby and I got a blue ribbon, a $25.oo savings bond, and a statue of a sheep titled "FASTEST BOTTLE-DRINKING LAMB" that also doubled as a piggy bank. I was on top of the world! I still have that statue today, sitting on my book shelf in my room. It is one of the proudest moments of my life!

Thanks Grandma! I miss you, and I love you! And I'll never forget.

God, I Loved His Smile...

2009-11-06T10:37:00.000-08:00

Today is the day Andy killed himself. Nine years ago.

What I had hoped would someday be my "happily ever after" surely didn't turn out that way. Andy was a man I loved. And he did love me back, I'm pretty sure of that. We had a very secretive on-and-off relationship for about 2 1/2 years before he died.

The first time I met Andy was in the back of the Rogue Ales Public House bar and restaurant on the bayfront in Newport, Oregon. I was dealing blackjack there in a makeshift cardroom. There were four blackjack tables crammed into this room, in the back of a bar, where two pool tables used to be. There was a small group of dealers, and we all worked well together. Steve was a big, shy, funny guy. One of those guys who doesn't say much, but when he does, it is always funny or insightful. Dan was the class clown, hilarious, but strikingly insecure. Steve's brother Dave also dealt blackjack with us. You wouldn't know they were brothers unless they told you. As Steve was a tall, bigger guy with curlyish unkempt hair, Dave was a rather short little guy, clean-cut, and trim in build.

The four of us were standing behind our respective tables, waiting for action, and joking back and forth about who-knows-what. Dan and I were drinking beer, but the brothers were going sober for the night. In our cardroom, dealers could drink, and smoke, and pretty much do what they liked while dealing. And we liked to drink. The boys all got off on some guy topic, so I decided to put my cards in order before the game got started.

I was looking down, sorting cards, and this strange feeling came over me. Very similar to the feeling you get when you can feel someone watching you, you look up, and someone is watching you. And something else too, a warmth, a wave, a flood of energy. I heard Dan and Dave simultaneously say, "SHEP!" I couldn't take my eyes off my cards. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. The boys started to welcome Shep back from wherever he'd been, chiding him, and shaking his hand, ordering him a beer. Slowly, and matter-of-factly, I took a deep breath, raised my eyes, and smiled.

"SHEP! God, it's been a REALLY long time, how the hell are ya?" He smiled at me first, then looked at me, then, for a moment, tried to remember who I was. I had never met this man before. He had never met me. He knew in an instant who I was, and I knew him. He walked straight past the boys' tables, sat down at mine, and introduced himself as Andy Shepard. We shook hands for a moment or two longer than is necessary. We locked eyes for a moment or two less than we wanted.

He played at my table all night, we flirted like no one else was in the room. He wrote his number on a piece of a cigarette package, with a little smiley face and heart. When he gave it to me, he slipped it in my hand like a secret, held on tight for a moment, and said, mostly with his eyes, "Please call me." And so I did.

The reason our relationship was so secretive was because of his ex-wife. They had been high-school sweethearts, she got pregnant to keep him, and they got married. She was a very controlling woman who wanted him to be miserable. She played their child like the queen on a chess board, moving in every direction, always a step away from him. He loved his daughter more than anything. She threatened to take her away forever if he stayed with me. She wanted him back, and if she couldn't have him, no one else could either. I hated her.

We were in an "off-again" phase. I had moved to Eugene with a friend of mine, and we had only seen each other a few times over that year. About a month before he died, I went home to Newport and saw him at the other Rogue, the brewery bar. There was some function going on. I didn't know he was going to be there. I was angry with him for letting his ex-wife control our fate. But when I saw him, all I wanted was to be alone with him. To touch him. To feel him. And I was incredibly nervous. I could barely speak. We sat together with a couple of other people at a table and watched as people danced, laughed, drank. He moved in his seat so that our legs connected, tapped my foot with his, turned to me and sort-of smiled an apology. I asked him to dance, and he said he doesn't dance. Yet, a little bit later, some drunk woman he knew pulled him out of his chair and forced him to dance. I should've done that. That was MY dance, MY chance. And I missed it.

About a month later, I was back in Eugene. It was an uncharacteristically hot fall day. But beautiful. The sun was sparkling through our windows, our garden of flowers were all stretching up to get a big gulp of it, they were bright and stunning - the final flourish before winter set in. I was cleaning house, and happy about it. Playing loud music, and dancing, and dusting, and folding laundry like it was my favorite thing.

I saw a car pull up outside the house, did a double-take, and realized it was my Mom! Could this day get any better? A totally unexpected visit from my Mom?!?! How wonderful!

"Mommmmmyyyy!!! Yey! What are you doing here?!" Her face looked like she'd just seen a terrible accident. "What's wrong? Is is Scott? Oh, please tell me it isn't Grandpa... MOM! What's WRONG??? Tell me WHAT'S WRONG, PLEASE! Who is it?"

"Come in the house, Julie, just come inside."

"No, Mom, just tell me, please, just tell me. Is it Grandpa? Oh, God, it's Grandpa...is he gonna make it? Mom..."

"It's not Grandpa, let's get in the house, please." I was shaking so bad I barely made it up the steps, I remember looking at the flowers and thinking that all-of-a-sudden they were grey, lifeless, dead already.

We barely got through the door when my Mom said, "Honey, it's Andy. He's gone." She handed me a newspaper clipping of his obituary. "I'm so sorry, honey, so sorry." Some sort of sound came out of me that I've only heard a couple times before. It's the sound those mothers make on the History Channel, the African mothers who've just lost a child to some unknown disease. A long wail, sorrow voiced, gutteral soul-pain. I crumpled to a mess on the floor, crying and shaking and breaking.

I took a week off school and work, and went home. By the time my Mom had come to deliver the news, Andy had already been dead a week. His family was ashamed, they didn't even have a service. The obituary listed no cause of death. I guess "he shot himself in the stomach with a shotgun and bled to death slowly" was too graphic.

At home, I met up with Andy's best friend, Laura. She and I met through a mutual friend, and had become friends too. We were at a bar right off the beach, drinking and crying, crying and drinking. It was loud. People were dumb. We needed a walk. Laura and I headed down to the beach, holding hands and walking, no more talking, tears sliding down both our noses. It was clear out, but cold, ice in the air. It felt good. The moon, huge and bright, lit up the beach like a spotlight. We walked toward the ocean as if we would just walk right in, and we probably would have - to disappear, to forget, to go with Andy wherever he went. But, there in the sand, something stopped us. Big, huge letters, carved at our feet. A message. GOODBYE. It was about 10 feet tall and 20 feet across. We stood and stared at it for a long time, then hugged and hugged each other as if that would bring him back. It was when the ocean washed over our feet, wiped away our message, that we stopped. Five minutes later, and we'd never have seen it. That was Andy for ya - big message, but only a little time to read it.

I've missed him a lot over these past nine years. I've wondered what could have been. I've second-guessed everything in our relationship. I've felt his warm breath on my neck, his hands on the small of my back, his eyes smiling at me. I heard his laugh once in a grocery store. I turned to find him, but it was an old man buying turkey kielbasa. I never wanted that man to laugh again - and what's so funny about turkey kielbasa anyway. Today, it's been nine years since he bravely and cowardly blew himself apart. I picture him that way sometimes because I can't help it. But mostly I picture him in the cardroom smiling, in his bedroom smiling, having drinks with me somewhere, smiling. God, I loved his smile.

Where's My Baby, Where's My Man?

2009-11-04T11:55:00.000-08:00

I used to be able to say that about half of my friends were married and had kids, and half were like me - single and childless.

Damn Facebook to hell for throwing my ratios out of proportion! At least when I was in a 50-50 category, I didn't feel so bad about not having a relationship or family of my own. Now, I see pages and pages of people I went to school with, profile pictures and status updates with pretty little babies, and wedding photos. Ugh, I feel so lonely and old.

My biological clock is all I can hear some days. The loudest TICK and TOCK echoing through every vessel, every cell of my body.

I have always subscribed to the theory that there is just one person out there that truly matches us, from head to toe, through and through the soul. So, where's my man? My fear is that I'll meet him when I'm in my 50's or later, too late to have kids. All dried up. And more important to me anyway is the actuality of having a child of my own. So, where's my baby? I'm very near the point of finding a random stranger somewhere, getting knocked up, and having a baby on my own, just to quench my thirst.

But, I'm holding on, every day, to the idealistic hope that it'll happen the "right way". And someone will love me, and we'll make babies together. Keep your fingers crossed for me please. Because there are a lot of wierdos here in Vegas, and I'm not too keen on the idea of procreating with most of them so far.

National Novel Writing Month - NaNoWriMo

2009-11-02T22:43:00.000-08:00

So, I started it tonight. I only have 1300-ish out of 50,000 words written so far, but I'm gonna do it.

This is going to be quite a struggle for me, as the topic I've chosen is my brother, Scott. A lot of the individual memories and information will be fiction because I can't remember anything anymore - getting old. :( But, the story is based on real life. It is based on my relationship with my brother, his relationship and addiction to food, and all of our struggles throughout the years.

I am thanking everyone in advance for your support and encouragement through this process. I know it is going to be a very emotional month for me, but the end goal is to get someone to see my story and help Scott. Otherwise, we will all lose him before too long, and I just can't bear to think of that.

There's a link here - on the left somewhere - if you would like to follow along with the story.

To Write a Book, Or Not...

2009-11-01T07:56:00.000-08:00

Today is November 1st, 2009. This is the day that NaNoWriMo starts, and it's on my "32 Things" list. NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. Every November, for 30 days, people go crazy trying to write a book in one month. The goal is to write 50,000 words in 30 days or less. What this means is, every day, one participating in this event should write about 5-6 pages of a book each day.

I really want to accomplish this feat.

The trouble is, I don't have a story. A book needs to have a plot - a beginning, middle, and end. And some good stuff in between. I think it's supposed to be fictional, so I can't write about my own life. Plus, my life has a beginning, but I'm still in the middle, and how am I supposed to know how it's gonna end?

I actually attempted NaNoWriMo a couple years ago. I was in Newport, Oregon, living with my Mom for a few months, saving money and getting ready to move to Vegas. A strange and unfortunate condition took over my body for 6 solid weeks. As a result of a mis-diagnosis and mistreatment by the Newport Hospital Emergency doctors, I was covered in hives from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. It was a miserable experience. I never slept more than an hour and a half each day. I took between 10 and 80 pills a day to try and remedy my affliction. I was in constant, excruciating pain. My kidneys and liver were failing. And I was in a true state of delirium most of the time. So, I decided to write a book.

I think I got to about 12000 words or so, but it was mostly ramblings. But, it was one of the only happy things I can remember from that time. Hives and kidney failure weren't going to keep me down.

Now, I am in Vegas. My life, and body, are hive-free. I am experiencing lots of happy things. I am actually writing quite often. I'm much more prepared for NaNoWriMo this time around. But I still don't have a story.

I guess I better find one, 'cause time's a-waistin'.

Poop, and God, and Elvis

2009-10-31T22:12:00.000-07:00

Dealing poker this week has been a blast. I ended up getting a few extra shifts because Steve got terminated. I really like him, for the most part. When I first started work there, he constantly made me laugh. When he bacame a dual-rate (part-time dealer, part-time floorman), he almost never made me laugh. So, I really do like him, for the most part. And I'm sorry to see him go, and I'm sorry he lost his job, especially in this economy. But, for me, it meant more poker, more money, and more stuff to write about.

It's been six days since I wrote about my job, and of those, I worked four. Here are some highlights from the week:

On Monday the 26th, while out on break, I run into the Lightening Lady and another woman from the EVS department. (That stands for Environmental Services - they clean the casino) They are having a conversation about the other woman having new bathroom-cleaning responsibilities. She says to the Lightening Lady, "I have no problem diving in to master the turd." And she's serious. This makes me laugh, and then we all laugh. The Lightening Lady then gets disgusted about the diapers the old ladies leave in the stalls. Her face contorts around and she chokes a bit on her cigarette. "They're just nasty old bitches," she says. "I wonder if they leave them diapers on all day sometimes - and just sit in it."

Later that day I text my brother to tell him some good news about something - I don't remember what. He tells me he's sick. He texts me, "Got the squirts - gotta go." And I wish him a speedy recovery.

Sometimes when I see A.J. around the casino, he tells me he has to go "make something". And, the first time he said that, I said, "what?" When he said, "I gotta make a poo," it didn't really surprise me. Some days it seems like poop comes up in conversation a lot.

On Tuesday the 27th, the players at the table during the day were actually fun - and in a good mood. I almost always sing along to the casino music, or to other music in my head while I'm dealing. We (the players and I) decided that in order to bring more business into the room, we should have Poker Karaoke. Everyone could pass the mic around the table and sing a little ditty. The only thing we were split on was the name of the game - Karaoker or Pokeroke. I voted for Pokeroke.

Watching the game from too far away to see anything is Elvis. Or what I suppose was Elvis at one point. There's no white, sparkly, bell-bottom get-up with a big belt buckle, no guitar, no microphone, no "thankyouverymuuch". Just the hair, the glasses, the cigarette, the swagger. I see him later in the high-limit slot room, standing/gyrating alone. At first I think he is singing along to the casino music like I do, but upon closer inspection, I spot an Ipod. I don't think Elvis ever had, or needed an Ipod. And I think, "What's the world coming to?" And I walk outside to have a cigarette.

On Thursday the 28th I run into Jason from Security. He's inside, and this throws me off a bit. Usually he is in a yellow and black outfit outside on a bike or one of those people-mover things - a Segway I guess they call it. But Thursday he's in the brown security uniform, with no helmet on, and I can see he's letting his hair grow out. Jason is so funny because he says anything. And most of the time every other word, literally, is f--k. I say, "Hey, J-Dog, I haven't seen you in forever! How ya been? I thought you might have finally quit." Jason hates his job. And Jason says, "Naw, man, I'm still here, f--k, I hate this place, these f--kin' people. I mean, it's all f--kin bullshit, ya know? I hate this f--kin place. It's just f--kin'...." He doesn't finish his sentence. He doesn't need to.

While I'm on break I get a text from my cousin Aimee that says, "i think i need to fast so god can hear me better". I tell her I don't think it really works. She says she needs to figure something out.

On another break I am outside at the front of the building, around the corner, where we used to smoke before the new General Manager came in and took our ashtray away. Some of us still go there out of rebellion or laziness. I just wanted a change of scenery. There is just a little breeze, but swirling around on the ground is a plastic grocery bag. It's jumping around, floating in circles, and sliding to and fro in the wind. It comes to my feet and stops. It looked like it was having fun, so I move over to let it swirl some more. It follows me. I move. It follows. This happens at least a dozen times, to where at one point, I moved about 15 feet from where it had last landed at my feet, and it followed me. I began to wonder if the plastic bag was the spirit of someone I knew, trying to tell me something - or just say 'hi'. But then I thought that no one I knew that had passed away would come back as a plastic grocery bag - even on a temporary basis. So, I flicked my cigarette into the street and went back to work.

Back at the poker table, one of my favorite players - Al - and I are joking back and forth about some 'inside stuff'. I get a mild case of the giggles when a woman that was sitting next to him gets up to leave. She makes a comment about how no one should mess with her because she's from Bulgary. And Al says, "NOT a BULGARIAN! Oh, those are the worst!" And he means it. And he starts talking about how he met a Bulgarian woman once and how horrible she was - the worst, he says again. And my giggles turn into full-blown laughter. And I can't think of any time that I've ever met a Bulgarian before today. And I wonder if Bulgary is a real place.

Shortly after that, I see Santa at one of the machines right in front of the poker room. He is sitting there, bowl full of jelly, pipe in mouth, white beard reaching down his chest, all in-tact but the suit. I tell the floorman that this is where Santa comes to make all his money for Christmas presents because he had to lay off the elves this year. And though it was supposed to be funny, I feel a bit sad.

After Elvis, Bulgary, and Santa, I am more than ready to leave for the day. I see Security Jason in the parking lot. He says he thinks he's gonna go play poker somewhere. He tells me he played somewhere yesterday and that, "those players were f--kin stupid. F--k, I almost f--kin strangled one of 'em 'cause of how f--kin stupid he played." I tell him to play somewhere else and get in my car.

Somewhere between poop, and God, and Elvis, I actually made some decent money. Things are looking up for sure.

KitchenAid Mixer Anxiety

2009-10-29T16:40:00.000-07:00

I received my new KitchenAid Mixer yesterday, courtesy of my wonderful mother! I am very excited about this, as it's an item I have been coveting for a very long time. And I know it's going to help me tremendously in my pumpkin bread production.

However, I have some anxiety about it. Will my bread have as much love in it with the flick of a switch, as opposed to the turn of a spoon? Will it taste as good having been mixed by a machine? There's a lot I think about, and a lot of memories come flooding in when I've got one arm wrapped around a mixing bowl, and one wrestling with the contents, stirring, smushing, melding. The muscles in my arms tire with the effort, but I think I'm gonna miss that.

My Grandma had a mixer, and that's when I first wanted one...way back when... And now I've got one. But, the majority of the time we baked together, we stood over bowls bigger than me. With wooden spoons in our grip, laughing, talking, stirring silently sometimes, thinking, dreaming, humming, hoping. I hope I'm not abandoning something. I hope I'm not losing anything. I hope I don't forget.

Poker - Entertainment or Work?

2009-10-25T23:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I go to work purely for the entertainment of it all.

Though it was quite slow for the first half of the day, there was something interesting happening during every hour.

10:00am-11:00am - Julio, my favorite bald, Cuban poker dealer and I sit around for a few minutes before the tournament starts (late) and he tells me that Mr. P. has been fired. Surveillance finally caught him sleeping at the poker tables during the day. Then the tournament starts. There are some new players and some old players. Tantrum Doug is there - and almost throws a fit because he starts out losing. Then he ends up winning second place in the tournament and leaves smiling and happy and not throwing anything.

11:00am-12:00noon - The tournament is over, and no one stayed to play a live-action (cash) game, so Julio and I, and Steve the floorman, sit around and chat some more. Steve looks remarkably like the main guy on "Revenge of the Nerds" and I like that. I text back and forth with my cousin, Aimee while Julio rambles on about the good ol' days. And Steve mostly just listens and laughs once in a while. We talk about Mr. P. for a few minutes, and Steve says it's "final", meaning no second chances. There's almost always a second chance here. They should call it Second Chance City instead of Sin City. But I guess Mr. P.'s sins outweighed his chances this time around.

12:00noon-1:00pm - I get bored so I go out to smoke, but stop in A.J.'s department first to say 'hi'. He looks like his dog died. I ask him what's the matter and he says he doesn't know. He says he thinks he's depressed. He asks me where I was Saturday night. That was over a week ago and I can't remember. I say I must've gone to the store or something. He says I wasn't home, my car wasn't there. And he asks in a very prying, jealous, disappointed way. And I'm supposed to think everything's alright with that. I smile and say I don't remember where I was, hmmm...Saturday... He lowers his head and says he should've just called me. I tell him that would've been a good idea. He comes in the poker room a bit later and creeps up behind me. Then sits two seats away from me and plays with his phone for a few minutes. I wonder if he's texting me while I'm sitting two feet from him because he likes to do strange shit like that, but he's not. Then he leaves.

1:00pm-2:00pm - I go outside to smoke again, and a lot of the regular smokers are there. The lovely banquet lady who's as sweet as pie. A couple of food server people, the Liberace-gay black guy with the camel boots and camel suit and loud, loud voice. And the Phillipino kid with one eye is there too. I say hello to everyone. No matter how many times I see that kid and his crazy face, I can't get over it. And it makes me feel bad. Something terrible must've happened to him, I'm sure. But it's not like he just doesn't have an eye. Whoever fixed him up after he lost that eye had to pull some face skin up over it and covered the whole area up completely. No eye, no eyebrow, no hint of an eye ever being there. It's freaky. And I'm shallow. I text A.J. that I wonder if he is busy tonight, and if not, is he going to come by my place and say 'hi'. I go back in to the poker game that just started and begin to actually work for the day.

Vinny and her large arms are there. Her husband is playing too - yikes - he stresses me out when he plays. Constant, and I mean constant - I don't even think he breathes - chatter, mumblings under his breath about how horrible the game is for him. Even when he wins, it wasn't a big enough pot, or he thought so much that he was gonna lose that the shock of winning is even a bad thing. There are also four other players, one of which is a large elderly man who reeks like parmesan cheese and hospital cleaner, and when he gets up, it's like a cloud of vomit-antiseptic explodes all around us.

2:00pm-3:00pm - The big-hair lady I had seen wandering outside the poker room earlier decides to play cards with us. I had thought it was a wig, but it wasn't. Big, thick, wavy, bobbed black hair on a slender woman in or around her early 70's. She drew the short stick and had to sit by the drunken pervert loudmouth in the middle of the table. Her name was Marilyn - and the drunken loudmouth let everyone know that, though I think she would have preferred to go unknown, incognito. A.J. comes back in the poker room for visit #2, but I'm dealing, so he paces back and forth in front of the table a few times, stares at me for a few minutes from every angle of the table, then walks out of the room staring behind him, at me, still.

3:00pm-4:00pm - I go on break one last time and check my phone for an answer to my text. There isn't one. There won't be one.

4:00pm-5:00pm - Jason, the swing-shift floorman comes on duty and begins watching everything like a hawk. He's good at that. And no one is ever going to accuse HIM of sleeping on the job. He catches me writing a note on my hand while I'm still dealing cards at the table, takes my pen away, and whispers in my ear what a horrible offense I have just committed. I laugh and laugh and say it was important. I had to remember to bake Julio's pumpkin bread tonight, I didn't want to forget.

5:00pm-6:00pm - I'm actually working this entire hour - it's a miracle. And it kind of is. Because I end the day making $110 in tokes (tips) and thought for sure I wouldn't even break $40 for the day. I stop on my way out to chat with Nadine and Syble, my two favorite old-lady-poker-sisters. I tell them about my pumpkin bread and they want to buy some. Yey for me! We exchange hugs and short stories and phone numbers. And then I'm free.

Whether it's for entertainment, or for cash in my pocket, I go to work. But somehow I think maybe there's more to the story. And I dream about some of these people weeks after I've met them. I'm a poker player, maybe that's why. On one of my breaks, a buffet server guys said to me: "poker people are a strange, quiet little group". And, except when they're drunk, I think he's right.

A Perfect Heart in the Suds

2009-10-25T07:28:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to Vegas, I met and became instant family with Chef J.B. He is the cousin of Kelly, one of my poker players from back home. Three or four days after I arrived in Vegas, he put me to work doing catering with him. All summer long last year, we catered events all over Las Vegas, out in the hot sun, sometimes for 10 hours in a day, five or six days a week. I don't know if I'm just out of practice catering since I've only worked a few parties over the last several months, or if it's something else, but yesterday was the worst catering day I've ever had.

It was hot, I was in the full sun for the better part of 5 hours, and I had virtually no help in my funnel cake/corndog booth. When you have a crowd of 1000 people, all wanting a funnel cake - and you can only cook 8 of them at a time, things can get kinda sticky. By the end of the day, I was burnt to a crisp from the sun and fryer, mildly heat-stroked, and just plain over it. Needless to say, when I got home, I was ready for a shower and a long, long sleep. But for some reason, I decided to take a bath.

The tub in my bathroom is the size of a small semi-truck. I have only once before taken a bath here because it seems a wasteful expense of water, and takes a long time to fill. But I wanted to soak the grease off my body, out of my pores, and sand the blisters off my feet. Every muscle in my back and neck and legs and arms was screaming for a good, hot soak and a bubbly reprieve. And oh, it felt good. If only I'd had a glass of wine and a good book, I'd have been in that tub still.

But I did get out, wrapped my hair and body in towels, and let out a whopper of a sigh. As I turned to shut the shower curtain, right there in the middle of the tub, still floating in the draining water, was a heart, a perfect heart in the suds. I couldn't take my eyes off it. It never wavered, never changed shape, never melded with the other bubbles nearby. It stood alone, about 10 inches across, and filled me with comfort. I watched it until all the water had drained. It slipped, tail-first, into the drain, but stopped short at the fat part of the heart, and waited for it's bubbles to burst. Too big of a heart to fit down the drain.

I thought of Stacie, and if this was her way of telling me that everything would be okay. That a shitty day could end with a big fat soapy heart. That I'll manage with only 2 days of work per week. That my pumpkin bread business will reach the stars. That I'll find someone to love me soon. That it will all work out somehow.

There were hearts everywhere after Stacie passed away. In the fireworks on the 4th of July, in the clouds, in sun shadows, in pictures, everywhere. After 7 years, there are still hearts, in the most unexpected places, at the most needed times.

32 Things - A Reminder

2009-10-24T08:04:00.000-07:00

Well, as my brain's swirling with all things "pumpkin bread", I have lost sight of my "32 Things" list a bit. I did attempt some stretches the other day, but no exercise lol - unless you call walking to the apartment office to mail pumpkin bread exercise lol. I haven't been on any dates. I haven't seen a movie or taken any photographs. Apparently, I'm just a big slacker! But I've still got a little under 9 months to get it all done - and this pumpkin bread stuff is just way too fun!

Anyway, as a reminder to myself, and perhaps to everyone else (who can help me keep on track), I am reposting my original "32 Things" blog today:

Recently, my Mom turned 60 years old. We talked about starting a blog and I suggested she write a list of 60 things she wanted to do as a 60-year-old. I took my own advice and made a list of 32 things I want to do as a 32-year-old. It's in no particular order, but I plan on trying to achieve them all during the nine remaining months of my 32nd year of life. Here's the list:

1. Lose 32 pounds
2. Read a book a month
3. Start my pumpkin bread business - DONE 10/17/09 YEY!!!
4. Quit smoking
5. See the Grand Canyon
6. Get a massage at least once a month
7. Do a fundraiser
8. Pay off 2 personal debts
9. Attempt to publish a poem I wrote into a children's book
10. Stretch 5 times a week
11. Clean my fish tank
12. Plan a trip to Norway to meet my brother Geir
13. Go on 10 dates
14. Write a cookbook for single people
15. Create a blog - DONE 10/14/09 :)
16. Plan a friend retreat with my 10 closest friends
17. Take artistic photos once a month
18. Start painting again
19. Write an article for a poker magazine
20. Play one poker tournament a month
21. Do NaNoWriMo
22. Buy a house
23. Rebuild my credit
24. Learn yoga
25. Learn how to dance
26. Take a class
27. Exercise 3 times a week
28. Go to a movie bimonthly
29. Try a new food each month
30. Start writing a book
31. Explore Las Vegas bimonthly
32. Have lunch with Oprah and chat about life

Love Baking

2009-10-23T09:42:00.000-07:00

My house smells like pumpkin bread every day now.

Baking means more than mixing up ingredients and putting them in the oven. Baking, for me, is the essence of my Grandma wafting through the air, tickling my memory, and turning my face happy no matter what else is on my mind.

My Grandma passed away when I was 10 years old. There are only two things I regret about the time we spent together. I remember clearly being at her house, I must've been around 8 years old at the time. We were in the living room, watching "The Price Is Right" and relaxing. For some reason, we got in a fight. I wanted something and she wouldn't let me have it. I don't even remember what it was, but I remember distinctly what happened next. I yelled at her and told her I hated her, then stormed out of the living room. Moments later, realizing the mistake I made, I peeked around the corner, afraid. Afraid of a spanking, afraid of what I imagined would be a very angry Grandma, awaiting my return with punishment ready. What I saw instead, was my Grandma crying. A punishment that fit the crime.

At her funeral, my cousin Brad and I got in trouble. There was this man singing some sort of operatic ballad and it tore us up. We started giggling and couldn't stop. We were chasing each other around the somber crowd as if it was a carnival, not a funeral. When I apologized later, my Mom said it was okay, that everyone deals with death differently. But it wasn't okay. The only chance I had to pay my respects, I was laughing instead.

Most of my memories with my Grandma are in the kitchen. We baked pies, and breads, and cakes. We made applesauce at the old porcelain sink, watching my Grandpa and the boys through the window, bringing down apples from the orchard and grinding them into cider. We picked blackberries along the drive for pies and jams. We made sandwiches and tea for all the men working on some thing or another. My Grandma took me to the dentist for the first time and bought me a hamburger and ice cream right after. We used to go shopping at the thrift stores to find treasures.

And my Grandma took me with her to put together and deliver food to the elderly for "Meals on Wheels". What a grand adventure! We put together the meals at the old Grange Hall in Scio, a million women in the kitchen, slinging cornbread and mashed potatoes and meatloaf and green beans. The heat and energy there was mesmerizing. We loaded up Grandma's old red pickup truck and headed out for deliveries. At the first house, Grandma made me deliver the food by myself. A very old woman with hollow, wet eyes answered the door. I was instantly sad for her. I told her I had a meal for her, and the styrofoam box grew heavy in my hands. She told me she didn't really eat much these days, handed me a check for $4.00, and asked if I would come in and look at something. In that moment, fear and compassion were pulling me in two very different directions. I looked in the house, looked out at Grandma in the truck, looked at this sad, sad woman, and went inside. The hot food was burning my hands and I set it down, at last, on a corner of her coffee table. The rest of the table was covered in old photos.

"This is my daughter," the old woman said, holding up a photo of a brunette about my age. "I don't see her any more. And these are my boys...they haven't been up to see me in more than...well, seven years I guess." She went silent and still.

"There's meatloaf and mashed potatoes in there," I say, because I don't know what else to do. And I just want to leave this sad, smelly place.

"Oh, I don't eat much, really." I open the box and steam flushes out. I take the plastic fork and knife and cut a piece of meatloaf and dip it in the potatoes.

"You should try a bite...it looks really good." I move the bite towards her and she closes her eyes, opens her mouth, and lets me feed her.

When her eyes open again, a tear comes sliding out and down her cheek. The hollowness has disappeared and I see her children dancing there, laughing, playing.

My Grandma came through the door, told me we need to get to the rest of the deliveries, told the woman to make sure and eat every bite, and before I know it we were back in the truck. Though I am usually full of things to say, we drove on in complete silence for what seemed like a very long time until we got to the next stop on our delivery list.

That next stop came as quite a surprise, as Grandma liked to drive fast, and almost missed the turn-in to a very strange place.

"Hold on!" Grandma reached across the seat to hold me in, slammed on her breaks, cut in front of a rather large truck, and skidded to a stop in a dirt turn-around nearly covered in blackberry bushes.

"Geesh, Grandma! What is this place? Does someone actually live here?" There was a very small trailer, covered in blackberry bushes with newspapers stacked from the ground to the top of the trailer, all the way around it.

"Hello Ma'am, Missus," a little crooked man had come out from somewhere in the tangles of that trailer to greet us. Grandma and I got out of the truck and said hello. I handed him his meal and he smiled, sort of. Is it still considered a smile if you only have three teeth? I wondered. "Thank you, Missus, just you wait here a sec, I've got something for you." He disappeared into the tangles once again, and came out with two full bags of newspapers which he set at my feet.

"What's this?" I asked, totally confused.

"It's all I got." He hung his head and turned up his palms. "Here, lemme bring some more for you," and he turned to go back to the trailer.

"No, no, this'll be just fantastic!" Grandma chimed. "You wanna save some for next time, right?" She smiled at him as he turned back to us, and he nodded in agreement. We all looked around then, at the thousands of newspapers piled everywhere, and got the giggles. My Grandma gave him a hug, whispered something in his ear, and once again, we were down the road.

On our last delivery, we came down a long, rutted road that bumped and rattled us for what seemed like miles. A ginormous mansion sat at the end, and I thought 'who could possibly need food that owns a house as big as this'? A very bouncy woman with long, wild, silver hair rushed out to meet us in the drive. My Grandma jumped from the truck and embraced her as if they were old friends reuniting, and they hugged and talked and held hands and walked. And I was forgotten, and meals were forgotten.

On my own in this wonderous place, I wandered around and looked at everything. The house was huge, but looked as if it was held up by a string. It was the color of this woman's hair, grey and black, and would make a good haunted house for Halloween. There were chickens running around all over the place. The property was lush and green, damp and secret. It was a treasure, not found at a thrift store, but at the end of a very bumpy road. I found a black and orange caterpillar on the ground and picked it up. Usually they curl up in a ball, afraid they'll be eaten. But it just crawled around on my hand and arm like I was part of the terrain. Maybe it knew that nothing could be harmed in this place. Maybe it knew it lived in wonderland.

Grandma finally came back to the truck with Millie - the smiley, wild woman - who was carrying five flats of fresh eggs. I don't know how we ever made it back down that road without breaking one of them.

I hope these days, that my Grandma knows I didn't hate her, and that I don't hate anything. I hope these days that my Grandma can see me happy, see me baking, and feel my respect. And I know, true in my heart, that her hand is on mine with every stir of the spoon. That I can hear her absently humming in the kitchen while I bake. That love is the most important ingredient in any confection. And that she taught me how the smell of love baking lingers long after the crumbs have been wiped away.

Passwords

2009-10-20T20:59:00.000-07:00

I have 23 Usernames and Passwords, and the list is growing.

My Mom used to ask me all the time why I let my friends use me. Sometimes I didn't even know it was happening, but most of the time I did. Whatever my excuse was, the real reason was that it felt good to be needed. It took me a long time to figure out that being genuinely needed and being blatantly used were two very different things. The resolution to this issue is that now, I know instantly which thing a person is after, and I act accordingly. If someone needs help, I offer help. If someone wants to use me, I evaluate the situation, and if I can, in turn, use them for something too, I let them.

I don't have many "user names" in my address book these days. But that hasn't always been the case. There have been several "I call you to talk about ME" friends. You know these people...you say, "my dog died" and they say, "my dog died worse than yours". There have been countless work associates throughout the years who smile in my face and stab me in the back five minutes later. And men, that's a whole other book altogether. There's not enough space on this blog to delve deeper into the topic of "Men Who Use Women and the Idiots Who Stay With Them". Alternately, and to be fair, there's an unfortunate amount of women who use good men and spoil it for the rest of us.

When I was about 10 years old, I cut my hand trying to slice some cheese for a sandwich. My Mom was at work and I ran to my brother's room with tears in my eyes. After finding the door locked, I pounded on the door with my good hand and screamed for him to let me in.

"You can't come in unless you know the secret password!" I don't have time for this, I am going to bleed to death, so I kick the door a few times and scream some more.

"Let me in, Scott!! I'm hurt!! Pleeeeeaasssee!"

"Not until you say the password."

"But I don't know the password."

"Well, then, you can't come in."

"Abracadabra!"

"Nice try. Not it."

"Please, Scott, I think I'm gonna die. Let me in."

"Say it."

"I don't know it." By this point, my voice is barely a whisper. I have slid down against the door and am absently knocking on it with my good hand, and saying my final goodbyes in my head.

"Say it."

"Scott is the coolest person on the planet." The door flies open and I fall into my brother's room with a squeak and a thud, now laying on the floor, bleeding to death I'm sure. "I cut my hand." Scott looks at my outstretched hand, blood now running down my arm.

"Shit, Julie, why didn't you just say something!"

In junior high I went to a summer camp called Camp Wilani. Several of the girls from my CampFire group went that year. We were almost too cool to go to camp, but thought we'd give it a try anyway. I remember one day we found this trail in the woods, that led down to the most beautiful little forest oasis you ever saw. The tree cover just barely let in enough light to see, but what light did come in made everything sparkle and dance. I imagined a little world of fairies probably lived there. That this was the place where animated birds and squirrels came to retire and sing all day.

The girls and I used to sneak down to the trail and go to our secret place when we were supposed to be canoeing or crafting bookmarks out of yarn and plastic. No one said anything mean in this place. No one knew what time it was, or cared. Not one of us tore a leaf off a tree or pulled clumps of grass or picked a flower. It was a sacred place, pristine, and damp, and beautiful. And ours.

About 20 feet down the trail toward our secret sanctuary, there was this old, torn and soaked-through bag of mixing cement. It was the only thing that didn't belong, and was so out of place that it almost fit. The wording on the bag was beautifully ironic - ALL PURPOSE WET/DRY WATER-PROOF CEMENT. We studied the cement bag thoroughly on our first trip out of the forest - kicked it with the toe of our shoes, poked it with a stick, and brushed the leaves away to read all the words. But we didn't try to move it. It was our landmark. It told us we were on the right trail, and soon all would be quiet and peaceful and calm. And so it became, that our password into this secret place would forever be: ALL PURPOSE WET/DRY WATER-PROOF CEMENT. No one who didn't know this password would ever be allowed entry into our safe haven.

Now I have 23 usernames and passwords - to pay bills, manage bank accounts, for social networking, to run a business, to make lists of music, to create photo slideshows, to report maintenance issues to my apartment complex, among other things. Today I had to make a list on my computer of all of these usernames and passwords because sometimes I forget them, or get them mixed up with each other.

Funny that a lot of other user names are burned in my memory, and I can still remember passwords from way, way back.

Thank You!

2009-10-20T01:25:00.000-07:00

I need to stop a moment to say "Thanks" to a few folks...

To L.B. at paradiseknitting.etsy.com for featuring me and my pumpkin bread in her blog, topetsyfinds.blogspot.com which highlights "Top Etsy Finds" she searches out. An altogether altruistic and sweet woman, she also was the first to donate to my "32 Things" fund. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

To J.O. at joshark04.etsy.com for being my very first out-of-state pumpkin bread buyer! Wahoo! Thank you!

And to my Mom who is one of my #1 fans. Beside being a source of constant encouragement, support, and premier editing help, she has graciously ordered me up a vacuum-sealer and a Kitchenaid mixer for supreme pumpkin bread production efficiency!

Lastly, to my brother Scott, who is my other #1 fan. Also an encouraging force who has been supportive in many ways, including helping to pick out the perfect pumpkin bread mugshot.

To everyone else, from Facebook, Myspace, and beyond...I'm not for a moment forgetting how wonderful and supportive you all have been this week. It's truly amazing that only 6 days ago I started this blog and since then; a business (with profit already!), new friendships, and new hopes, and new dreams, and new purpose.

Another Day at the Office

2009-10-20T00:09:00.000-07:00

I arrived at work today, completely cracked out on this new coffee I bought and the delirium of 3 1/2 hours of sleep. Something was wrong with the floorman, we'll call him Mr. P. He seemed a bit somber, and very quiet. I asked him repeatedly throughout the day what was wrong, to no avail. But the swing-shift floorman seemed to think it was because Mr. P. might be catching some flack for his laziness on the job. I was delighted.

A little about Mr. P... He has been in the business too long, has gotten comfortable, and that's never good in the casino industry - or in Vegas as a whole. You always need to look over your shoulder and keep your ears and eyes open. Everyone is replaceable. Everyone is expendable. Mr. P. has been doing less and less of his job every day. On a daily basis, he actually closes his eyes and sleeps sitting up at one of the empty poker tables. Several of us have taken pictures on our camera phones - evidence, just in case.

Of all the times I urged Mr. P. to talk to me today, this was the incident where he actually had something to say:

I was at the end of my break, waiting to go to the table and deal when something on one of the t.v.'s caught my eye. An Afghani woman with stab wounds all about her neck and shoulders. I watched the news story with sympathy as the reporters delved deeper into the story. 90% of Afghani women are abused they said. Violence in Afghani marriages is rampant. There was a group for Afghani women to get support, and they were showing a room full of women sheathed in fabric, eyes scared, but sharing. Talking. Helping. My heart really felt for these women.

"Now you know why those Afghan women wear all that stuff over their faces, don't ya?" Mr. P. broke my reverie. "Ugly women."

"That's awful Mr. P." It's all I can say. I've known him to be somewhat of a bigot in the past, but this is ridiculous.

"Well, it's true. I mean, look at 'em. That's why they cover up their faces. It's gotta be."

"Stop, Mr. P, that's horrible to say." I look at the clock on my phone, two more minutes.

"Can you imagine if they had a beauty pageant with all those women in it? They'd have a really hard time finding a winner, I bet. Think about it, have you ever seen an Afghan woman win Miss U.-"

"Stop Mr. P., you are a horrible, awful man. It's enough." I cut him off, push early into the poker game and wish I'd never provoked him to speak at all.

Other than that, it was a pretty typical day with pretty typical player turnout. Tantrum Doug, or Little Doug, formerly Golfer Doug, was in for a few hours. Not throwing cards too much today, but the grumbly, mumbly constant commentary about losing on the river was thrown around quite a bit. Two Bobs, well, one Bob and one Robert spent a few hours with us. Mike that looks like Jesus, and Mike who has no poker etiquette. One very quiet Larry and one very verbal Larry were actually sitting right next to each other for quite some time. Today, I guess everyone came in twos.

Out back at the smoking patio, I saw the Lightening Lady. She had a story for me about a man at a slot machine the day before who either farted or pooped his pants, no one knew for sure. As she recounted the story, it made her laugh and laugh. Her face is like the desert we live in. Cracks and holes and deep, deep roadways and saggy folding skin over saggy folding skin. When she laughs it is a beautiful disaster. I love it when she laughs.

On my last break, Mr. P. told me that Marie, one of our elderly players, had a stroke. That she was in a coma and wasn't expected to come out of it. I told him I liked Marie and it made me sad to hear that. He didn't say anything else, but the look on his face told me that he was gratified, almost happy, to have brought me this terrible news. The more I learn about this man, the more I listen and keep my mouth shut.

I left the game a little early, leaving our 5:00 dealer the reins on a lame horse, a shaky game. I spent about 15 minutes gossiping and venting to the swing-shift floorman. And gathering info on what was to come with Mr. P. and the room in general. As I walked to my car, the wind picked up and was nearly unbearable.

But I was off work - for 5 days - and I was happy about it. All in all, just another day at the office.