Monday, May 19, 2014

Better, Better and Goodbye


You think you understand death, what it looks like. You don't. When you think of death you think of what TV has taught you, of cowboys clutching their hearts and falling from horses, of terse final words being spoken from clenched teeth, of the phrase "at peace." No one tells you that the death rattle is real, a rasping, desperate sound that fills the entire room. They don't tell you that it sometimes lasts for days, with the dying person's chest rising and falling laboriously as if life is being forced through them against their will. They don't tell you about the netherworld between when they lose their cogency and when they draw their final breath. They don't tell you about diseases that grip you and break you down part by component part years before you get to leave, about the slow and thorough loss of dignity and freedom. Until you sit by the side of the dying, you don't realize that, really, death looks like a lot of hard work.

Last month I shared my aunt's last hours of life. Now my grandmother is in hospice care. I am unraveling her oxygen tubes, fixing her meals, balancing her checkbook. I am a thirty-one year old woman who eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast and someone made the grave mistake of putting me in charge of another adult human being.

Death is making my life really, really real, and I don't have the time or desire to write dick jokes anymore. Do I still have plenty of witty insights, insults, bon mots and ideas? Yes. But just I don't have time to share them anymore. Better to put the blog to bed.

Gram doesn't want to be cared for. When the opiates dull her pain enough she can be gentle and she allows me to stroke her hand and tell jokes. But the rest of the time she's snapping at me to brush my hair or use a coaster or lose five pounds. I'm a guest in her home, and she wants me to know it. She was a child of the Depression, a single mother in the '50s, and a hard-drinking, chain-smoking, well-dressed and sassy widow for the entire time I have known her. She has never not been in control of her own life.

In one of her gentle, dopey moments she asked me how, exactly, one becomes a patient. How do you allow yourself to be cared for?

I told her a story about getting food poisoning and shitting my pants in Thailand (I didn't say shitting) and being nursed back to health by an older Thai lady. The lady wanted nothing in return: no money, nothing. I told my grandmother that being cared for is a service we can do for others, that it feels good to take care of the people we love, to be of service.

And you know, sometimes it does. Sometimes it feels good to kneel there, to stroke her hand and to tell her I love her. I look down at her and feel the love radiating from me, more love than I ever thought I was capable of. Then there are other times when I really want to watch Mad Men and she raps on the wall with her cane and demands that I come in and scratch her back. Those are the times that resentment boils up in me. I resent that this is my job, that there is no one else available to do it, that she took such poor care of her health her entire life and because of that I'm to surrender my own health to take care of her.

So I take a deep breath for myself and wait and will the self-pity away. And usually when I do that the great, strong love inside me resurfaces. Self-pity, I know, is the enemy of usefulness. And if I can't be anything else—if I can't be pretty, if I can't be smart, if I can't be kind—I at least want to be useful.

When I started Humboldt Bachelorette I was ready to give up my writing career. I didn't really think anything would come out of my embarrassing dating stories except a few chortles. I told you about everything: bad dates, bathing suits, cursed underwear, vacation flings, quitting smoking, gaining weight, homesickness, old flames, existentialism, elopement. The love I got wasn't unconditional, but it was enough to make me want to give you more, and more and more. And the more I put into the blog, the more I got back. Editors took notice. My writing career took off. I formed a better idea of who I am and what I believe in. I formed a better group of friends. I formed a healthier taste in men. My trust in the universe strengthened. I owe it to you, readers. You helped me get ready for life to wash over me, wave after wave after wave: grief, lust, longing, doubt and redemption, to let it all happen without fighting. You helped me arrive in this place, where I can sit by my grandmother's bed in the middle of the night, take her hand and talk about shitting my pants with complete honesty. Because you taught me to trust honesty, I can watch it enter and transform her, watch her calm down, stop fighting, breath easier, fall asleep. Miracles are never what we think they'll be. Our relationship with the world isn't what we think it is. We are not heroes or antiheroes. All we get is the opportunity to play our part, to serve. The world is so much bigger than me. I am just a small, flawed part of it. I'm brave enough to be that small, flawed part, to be battered and shaped and smoothed into something beautiful. I know that the process won't be painless. I am more than ready--I am grateful.


Love,

Caledonia




Saturday, March 29, 2014

Scripts for the Makeover Kings

When a lover squeezes your stomach appraisingly
Suggest sit ups or long walks or vegetables
Only ten pounds until perfection
When a strange man corrects your posture
With two fingers on your forehead
And a hand on your lower back
When the boys in front of your bar rate your respective parts
Nice legs, okay face, everything in between inadequate
It's wise to have reserves
It's wise to approve of yourself
It's wise to surround yourself with those who approve of you
Ten pounds less, ten pounds more
Who know your slumped shoulders
Are a hunch of concentration
It's wise to have talked to the part of yourself that is more than flesh
So you can let it speak
Say,
"Thank you. I have a group of people who love me unconditionally.
I would love for you to join their ranks."
Because opinions are far less important than inspiration
Inspire kindness, class and love
Start with yourself

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

When Mr. Nice Guy Hugs Too Much


So if you know me, you know that when I get comfortable around you my sailor mouth comes out. If I'm making jokes about foreskins, we're cool.

So when an acquaintance adjusted his collar Rodney Dangerfield-style and told me that my sense of humor was a bit salty for him, I re-calibrated accordingly. I felt for the dude, who had walked away suddenly from our last conversation, adjusting his pants as he went. To be an adult with the hair trigger erections of a pubescent boy can't be easy. I told myself I'd edit myself a bit around him.

But I grimaced when our mutual female friend started crying and he hugged her. And hugged her again. And again. And again. And again.

Way more talented people than me have written about the conundrum of "nice guy," and there's not a whole lot I can add to the conversation. But I'll break it down like this:

1. Human interaction is not a transaction. Just because you're a "nice guy" doesn't mean we owe you anything, especially not sex.

2. It is both shitty and shady to befriend a woman and get pouty when she doesn't offer up sex. It's aggravating as a woman to suddenly realize your male "friend" was never interested in your personality at all.

3. Honestly, I should be able to wear, say and do pretty much anything I want without worrying about what your penis thinks about it. Given, I'm a fairly tactful and polite kind of person for the most part. What I'm saying is that your hair-trigger erections are your problem. I'm not trying to provoke them, and I'm not interested in tip-toeing around your crotch region lest a slight breeze make your pants feel uncomfortably tight. Insisting women are responsible for uncontrollable male desire is a slippery slope that ends in Steubenville.

4. Maybe you're not emotionally advanced enough to understand what you were actually doing when you repeatedly hugged our sobbing friend, but I call bullshit. It's not cool to hug someone and pretend you're offering comfort when you're really taking satisfaction. It's fucking predatory. Get a blowup doll.