sunday 23.04
Yesterday and this morning I attended the crawfish festival, one that I had heard about over a television show or dinner, a yearly event with set invitations, pounds of crawfish, neighbors and friends of the party givers. I knew not what to expect, only reflections made by family members of years past. I took pictures and gave of my time, but with an objective.
I wanted to meet the neighbors, for my satisfaction, but to know that if one or two, as they have, offer their time or assistance, unconditionally, to 'if there is anything I can do', my family during this a rather dark hour, they are here for, not by word of mouth, but by love and out of respect. It is my, I want my sympathy and condolence casserole while I am alive, to enjoy it and know there will be more after my surrender. A large expectation I was asking for and much emotional work to be completed, in a period of time that IT was not expected and alcohol could and most definitely would affect others intentions that I would take as literal, them not remembering this morning I write this.
So with fore thought I went and met and greeted people, slow at first, and decided who I thought was 'good people' and who, with a nice smile, I would say hello to upon passing, but certainly not invest in conversation. And still others were just there and I saw them as colors in the background, not to be spoken to, treated no less kindly, but as they were, my background colors.
And as the day fell into night and I had meeted and greeted several, returning home to throw a frisbee to Ashley, take a morphine pill, more diuretics and re-align my energy, I listened and watched in all directions as I was spoken about and my decline was mentioned, my terminal illness sparking curiosity and another opening of an alcoholic beverage. Distance was among us and this I knew from the onset. We sat by the pool and watched the children swim and we, as adults, laughed and joked, taking fond memory with music of days gone by, prom for some, grade school from others and shared life stories and realized that six degrees of separation is not a coincidence, but fact.
The conversations deeper as a small group remained, numbers where exchanged and a handful , or a mere one or two, asked me questions and thoughts about my illness and the disease process, but more important, asked me how I felt and I tried, as I always do, to add laughter, to decline pity and provide a sense of security, that seemed false due to the amount of processing that had to take place between the brain, the bottle and a clouded mind of the questioner.
And by nights end I had received a phone number, entered, into my cell phone and warned the givers as did my sister and brother, that I would call, and expect to the invitation to get together as real, and would wait for that next time to meet their acquaintance at a different gathering with undoubtedly different people and most likely in their surroundings. The one that I spoke with the most continued to speak way into this morning and painted and shared stories about life that I later would ask to share with family members and close friends, as he tried to understand me, wanting to know what others took 40 years to understand, in an instant.
Finding comfort, I spoke and answered with no shame and love, hoping too, that we would see one another again and socialization would become me on a day clearer than today, but sooner. And as I threw up obstacles or warnings to keep a distance, I was assured that we would talk again, by a soul trying to be pure, but sharing wants with me, illogical in a logical mind, and that by chance we were to meet as purely promised, I would enjoy my time, my space and give.
The others extended invitations as well, to me, and without giving specifics, encouraged my battle worn armor to continue to fight and when I extended the invitation toward my space there was a pause and simply stated, it became obvious that the intention was good, but the effort would have to come directly from me to them and I would be welcomed, possibly unexpected, but welcomed on another day, knowing that those offering would remain silent until I initiated their call to action and possibly they each individually or collectively, would remember that THEY offered to help and I did not expect it but might possibly ASK for follow through, more than once, and challenge their generosity, not out of spite, but pure want and need of assistance.
I wanted to meet the neighbors, for my satisfaction, but to know that if one or two, as they have, offer their time or assistance, unconditionally, to 'if there is anything I can do', my family during this a rather dark hour, they are here for, not by word of mouth, but by love and out of respect. It is my, I want my sympathy and condolence casserole while I am alive, to enjoy it and know there will be more after my surrender. A large expectation I was asking for and much emotional work to be completed, in a period of time that IT was not expected and alcohol could and most definitely would affect others intentions that I would take as literal, them not remembering this morning I write this.
So with fore thought I went and met and greeted people, slow at first, and decided who I thought was 'good people' and who, with a nice smile, I would say hello to upon passing, but certainly not invest in conversation. And still others were just there and I saw them as colors in the background, not to be spoken to, treated no less kindly, but as they were, my background colors.
And as the day fell into night and I had meeted and greeted several, returning home to throw a frisbee to Ashley, take a morphine pill, more diuretics and re-align my energy, I listened and watched in all directions as I was spoken about and my decline was mentioned, my terminal illness sparking curiosity and another opening of an alcoholic beverage. Distance was among us and this I knew from the onset. We sat by the pool and watched the children swim and we, as adults, laughed and joked, taking fond memory with music of days gone by, prom for some, grade school from others and shared life stories and realized that six degrees of separation is not a coincidence, but fact.
The conversations deeper as a small group remained, numbers where exchanged and a handful , or a mere one or two, asked me questions and thoughts about my illness and the disease process, but more important, asked me how I felt and I tried, as I always do, to add laughter, to decline pity and provide a sense of security, that seemed false due to the amount of processing that had to take place between the brain, the bottle and a clouded mind of the questioner.
And by nights end I had received a phone number, entered, into my cell phone and warned the givers as did my sister and brother, that I would call, and expect to the invitation to get together as real, and would wait for that next time to meet their acquaintance at a different gathering with undoubtedly different people and most likely in their surroundings. The one that I spoke with the most continued to speak way into this morning and painted and shared stories about life that I later would ask to share with family members and close friends, as he tried to understand me, wanting to know what others took 40 years to understand, in an instant.
Finding comfort, I spoke and answered with no shame and love, hoping too, that we would see one another again and socialization would become me on a day clearer than today, but sooner. And as I threw up obstacles or warnings to keep a distance, I was assured that we would talk again, by a soul trying to be pure, but sharing wants with me, illogical in a logical mind, and that by chance we were to meet as purely promised, I would enjoy my time, my space and give.
The others extended invitations as well, to me, and without giving specifics, encouraged my battle worn armor to continue to fight and when I extended the invitation toward my space there was a pause and simply stated, it became obvious that the intention was good, but the effort would have to come directly from me to them and I would be welcomed, possibly unexpected, but welcomed on another day, knowing that those offering would remain silent until I initiated their call to action and possibly they each individually or collectively, would remember that THEY offered to help and I did not expect it but might possibly ASK for follow through, more than once, and challenge their generosity, not out of spite, but pure want and need of assistance.
posted by the warrior at 10:14 AM
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