The Frustrated Buddha

There are many words that could be used to describe who I am as a human being in this world.  Ones that spring to mind would likely be different depending on the person doing the describing, and I'm humble enough to know that some may not necessarily be complimentary--but I'm certain that the word 'pious' or any of its even somewhat-related synonyms would make it into the Top 100 that anyone, friend or foe, would choose.

I recently heard a statement that nature is not cruel; it's indifferent.  I grasp hold to this statement as I make thin attempts to make sense of this world, a world where my friend Summer struggles to come to grips with having so many hospice patients under the age of 50 dying of cancer; a world where Maya Thompson channels her overwhelming grief at losing her perfectly gorgeous youngest son Ronan into action; a world where my friend Meghan isn't here to raise her three babies.  I should not personally know two completely unrelated people, one in his thirties and one who was only five, who have died from brain tumors.  And three more under the age of 40 (including my own brother) who have had cancer, but thankfully the roulette wheel turned up a non-fatal kind.

And cancer aside, of course there's a whole host of other devastations that could turn any eternal optimist into a Debbie Downer.  

I can only make sense of this life and its everpresent attendant, grief, with reserving my...piety, if you will...for life itself.  For our Earth, and how lucky we are to be here with the people we love for the time we're given.  

A friend gave me this in college, and it hangs in my bedroom by my closet back in Denver.  I can't think of a more true statement.

. . . . . . . . . .

I think the first tape I ever bought was Beastie Boys' Licensed to Ill (it was either that or Huey Lewis' album Fore!, but I'm going to go with Licensed to Ill to keep my street cred).  During a road trip that summer of 1986, my brother and I tortured regaled our parents with our rendition of Paul Revere (that to this day I still know every.single.word. to, even though I can't remember what I made for dinner last night).

Adam Yauch, Beastie Boys band member and practicing Buddhist, passed away last month after a three-year battle with throat cancer.  I read a Rolling Stone interview with Yauch's friend and fellow band member Adam Horovitz, and this statement caught my eye:

Did the comfort he took in Buddhism help you deal with his illness and passing?

I don't believe Adam was afraid.  Bummed out, yeah.  But I can't think when I ever saw him afraid.  We got jumped in Brooklyn one time, so we've been afraid in that sense.  But, man, he hadn't been afraid in a long time.  That gives me peace. Read more: http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/beastie-boys-adam-horovitz-opens-up-about-adam-yauch-he-was-in-charge-20120523#ixzz1x4oSkGn8

. . . . . . . . . .

Scripture is offered in Australian schools, so I signed the boys up for Buddhism.  I don't care for attaching myself to any organized religion, and I feel strongly that the boys should make an informed decision if they should ever decide there is (or isn't) a particular belief system they should follow.  That aside, Buddhism feels less like a religion and more like a philosophy, and there are principles that are useful for making one's way through life.  I know you could in theory say that about any religion, but Buddhism seems to lack the absolutes and judgment about how one should live their life that have soured my view towards the rest.

Alex has expressed frustration at attending Buddhism classes, but he unfailingly cracks me up in his earnest, wholehearted protests.  Imagine a true, verging on teary-eyed, complainy voice as you read these gems:

• "We watched a cartoon movie about the Buddha and it was so fake!  He was born and then just started walking right away; that would never happen in real life!"
• Him: "All we do is chant 'Lumbini Garden'!!"  Me: "What is Lumbini Garden?" Him: "It's where the Buddha was born.  I saw a picture and it's just grass; there's no flowers at ALL--what kind of a garden is that???"
• "I can't even tell my Buddhism teachers apart!  They dress the same and have the same hair!" (they are monks who wear robes and have shaved heads)

Still, I catch him incorporating little Buddhist things into his day now and then, more so than Jackson.  And if it can help him navigate his way through the world, deal with grief, and be a better, more conscious person, then I think it's time well-spent.

Thanks, Tom

Take 1
Jackson, my son with an absolute replica of my logical/spelling bee/orderly brain, has surprised me recently by writing song lyrics.  He sings them, and I've heard the younger two walking around singing them as well.  They're catchy.  I'd venture to say they're good, maybe even great if you take into account the fact that he's only eight years old.  He's hesitant to attach himself to being a musician, but I told him that the only difference between a song and a poem is that one is set to music (although I'm neither a musician nor a poet, so what do I know?).

I saw him write a couple of lines today; he said he came up with them as he took out the trash.  I can't divulge the lines here because they may or may not be written in a letter to his Nana and Papa that will be mailed tomorrow--but they reminded me of the lovely, heartbreaking Tom Waits song, San Diego Serenade.



I never saw the morning til I stayed up all night
I never saw the sunshine until you turned out the light
I never saw my hometown until I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody until I needed the song


I never saw the white line til I was leaving you behind
I never knew I needed you until I was caught up in a bind
And I never spoke I love you til I cursed you in vain
I never felt my heartstrings until I nearly went insane


I never saw the east coast until I moved to the west
I never saw the moonlight til it shone off your breast
I never saw your heart until someone tried to steal, tried to steal it away
I never saw your tears til they rolled down your face

Just before bedtime, my two oldest boys and I sat in silence, listening, as I played the song for them.  I love that they're at an age where I can share things, and they can appreciate things, that are meaningful to me.

Take 2
I'm quick to move on after holidays--the day after Christmas, I'm itchin' to get the ornaments nestled into their nicely divided Tupperware bins, the lights neatly wound (although they have an uncanny ability to tie themselves in complicated sailor knots by the time the next year rolls around), and the tree out by the dumpster where the city picks it up to turn into mulch for spring gardens.  I'll find rogue pine needles hiding out under the couch and in doorway crevices until long after the tulips have bloomed, but still, it feels good to move on.

Likewise, and especially in anticipation of the snowstorm headed our way tonight, I packed away the life-size skeleton, tombstone, and other Halloween goodies that helped make our house 'definitely waaaaay spookier than any other house on the street', as Alex declared every time we pulled into the driveway over the last couple of weeks.

I also removed the plants that brought so much beauty and life to our front porch since warmth was the norm, and the vines of morning glories that had fiercely wound their way up our railing.  They had done their work, bursting open their violet blooms for us to enjoy as each summer day began, and now it was time to rest.

As I carted the load out by wheelbarrow to the alley dumpster on this evening before a snowstorm, before my friend Meghan's service tomorrow, a lump rose in my throat.  Seasons change, loved ones leave us, and we must move on.

I think Tom Waits will be the soundtrack for my evening.

Robbed

When I first met Meghan (who I've written about earlier here), she was the gorgeous girl sitting in my orientation for teaching summer school.  I was not a teacher, nor did I have plans to become one, but it was a pretty good summer gig to teach a half day during the summer while I figured out my law school plans.  And with Meghan teaching as well, it was a blast.  She was fun, carefree, and we spent many an afternoon sunning ourselves at the pool.

Some years later, Meghan fell in love with Barton, the cute PE teacher at her school.  How perfect is that?  English teacher marries the gym teacher.

Just three weeks after they were married, Meghan noticed a lump and her neck and was diagnosed with cancer--a rare form, called synovial cell sarcoma.  Barton has been a rock throughout this journey of supporting Meghan, and the grace with which Meghan has handled this diagnosis has been astounding.

Meghan wanted nothing more than to be a mother, and last October she welcomed three beautiful babies into the world.  Having triplets would be a daunting road in itself for anyone, but Meghan and Barton were remarkably calm and joyful with their babies, most notably just a couple of weeks ago as I shared in the celebration of their triplets' first birthday.

Meghan bravely battled the relentless cancer for five years but last night had an unexpected, fatal brain hemorrhage.  Doctors say she didn't experience any pain, that she basically just went to sleep, which at the moment offers me only a little bit of solace.

Right now I'm feeling so sorry for her one-year old triplets who will only hear stories about how wonderful and kind their mother was.  And for her husband, who has been robbed of the opportunity to share his life, and the joy of raising their children, with the woman he loves.

I know there are no guarantees in life, but this one really gets me.

The world just lost a really kindhearted, beautiful, fun person.  Fuck you very much, cancer.

Edited to add: An education fund has been set up for Meghan's triplets.  Anyone wishing to make a donation can mail to:
Barton Joule Triplets Fund
Horizons North Credit Union
11455 Pearl St.
Northglenn, CO 80233


Also, anyone wishing to follow the adorable triplets (Kesleigh, Preston, and Gavin) as they grow can keep an eye on http://www.jouletriplets.blogspot.com.

Me Too

My maternal grandmother was notorious in her preference for boys over girls.  My brother and I would often spend a couple of weeks up in southern Maine during the summers under my grandparents' care, where she quickly bestowed upon me the nickname 'Me Too'.  You see, I had a cool older brother, just 18 months older, so oftentimes what he wanted to eat, or where he wanted to go, I did too.  In the mornings, she'd make us brush our teeth and then drink a glass of orange juice before offering up cereal or oatmeal.  "Oatmeal, please", my brother would say.  "Me too," I'd pipe up. 

He's someone I've always looked up to (or in his words, he's spent his life knocking down brick walls with his head so I can walk right through).  I did manage to have children first (and that's quite a big brick wall to knock down), but through the vast majority of life I've been fortunate to have my brother experience somewhat of a trial run of life with me close behind as a witness.  It's given me the opportunity to know what I'm in for as I move through life, or as life comes at me.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was sweeping my hair up into one of my usual fabulous, fancy mom updos (read: ponytail), I noticed a lump right where my hair meets my neck.  Hmmm...and another one on the other side as well.  I was at the doctor's the next day-- my brother was diagnosed with Hodgkin's lymphoma a little over a year ago, so lumps aren't taken lightly, especially since studies do show a sibling correlation with the disease.  And these lumps weren't your usual, run-of-the-mill, tender but spherical swollen gland kind of lumps; they were painless, rubbery-hard, and an odd shape.

Fast forward through two weeks of the obligatory antibiotics to see if a viral infection happened to be getting those lymph nodes riled up--they didn't do anything for the nodes, but I am now nine days into my first allergic reaction to amoxicillin (whoopeeeee!).  It's a rare, cruel joke to be on the cusp of a high probability of a cancer diagnosis to also have one's body be overcome with dermatology textbook-publishworthy skin.  To use the word 'rash' does not accurately describe my misery--here's a picture of a small bit of my skin, if you can stomach it.

see my right leg?  It's one mass of redness.

Then multiply that by a million to cover my whole body (except my face, thankfully), and add the incredible itchiness.  Steroids, prescription-strength Benadryl--nothing is touching this rash as it continues to ravage my body.  A couple of nights ago, Sam made a late night trip to Walgreens and I shook with anticipation like a crack fiend as he came home and unloaded a bounty of Caladryl, cotton balls, oatmeal soap and some special aloe skin wash.  Cotton balls are fluffy and all, but I could have used a side trip to Home Depot to buy an applicator for applying deck stain, for the amount of area I'm covering here.  You know what, though?  Looking on the bright side, this unbearable misery has definitely taken my mind a bit off the potential cancer diagnosis looming over me.  And I don't want to come across as a Debbie Downer; throughout this whole thing I have felt wholly and eternally grateful that I am going through this instead of one of my boys. 

Anyway, the last couple of weeks have also included a fine needle aspiration biopsy (showed atypical cells but no conclusive diagnosis), blood tests, a CT scan, and the grand finale to this period of what-the-hell-is-going-on-with-me will be bright and early tomorrow when I have an open biopsy.  Removing a node or two should give them some answers, and I'm really looking forward to it.  Hook me up to the chemo machine; luckily, my big brother has knocked through this brick wall for me, so if I'm going to pull a Me Too with this cancer shit, at least I've seen him go through it first.


We've all been faring fairly well here, considering...last night I promised Jackson that I wouldn't look this way forever, and he told me that he was used to it and it didn't bother him at all.  Mental note--get that kid an extra Christmas present.  And for those that believe bad things happen in threes, I should get an all-clear biopsy.  This rash is a big number one, Kenyon was up through the night vomiting last night, and we woke up this morning to find that our beloved Gumball the Guinea Pig had died.

Are you there, Universe?  It's me, Annie.  This is enough for now; I think we've got all we can handle.