Lippy

Because we wouldn't want too long to lapse between the times that I need to visit the dermatologist, I had yet another biopsy of a suspicious spot back in March. Everything turned out fine (in that the spot was pre-cancerous, not cancerous), and the shave biopsy removed the entire area of concern, so ta-daaa, all set. 

The biopsy site took what seemed like an eternity to heal, even though it was no doubt just an ordinary amount of time. Perhaps that was because it is in such an obvious place -- just a few millimeters above my lip, on the right -- or perhaps it was due to its size. There's nothing quite like watching a wee open wound on your face slowly grow smaller and very sloooooowly grow less red, to make you sad about no longer being young and cute and scar-free.

There are now five easily visible scars due to skin cancer/pre-cancer: right temple, two nose, one upper lip, one high on chest. All thinks considered, they are small, well healed (though the chest scar is a bit hypertrophic), not alarming. They might not even be particularly noticeable, depending on the degree of interest that an onlooker takes in my appearance. 

It could be so much worse. I am grateful that it is not. 

I do not enjoy dermatological difficulties. But what else can one do? On we go.  

Evolve

 Herself speaks. 

A bit after my lovely Daddy died, I cut my hair short and dyed it more red. (I used to occasionally joke that I was in my "poison dart frog" era.)  I'm sure that Freud would have a field day dissecting the innermost reasons for the change. 

There was, to be sure, an amount of Heat Miser rage embodied in the short red hair. That year -- 2023 -- was a year of So Much Terrible, of Heartache unimagined and unimaginable, that the only possible action was a complete change of appearance, a metamorphosis, an outward indicator of the difficult state within. 

The Terrible continued into 2024, to the point that I asked for pharmaceutical help in order to further process and move through all of the Things. It has been a very, very, very long road. 

Time has passed, and the Terrible has attenuated. Grief has softened somewhat, although it periodically still has very sharp edges. I have done my best to let go of what I cannot change, and to move forward in new ways. It has not been easy.

The temptation has been to harden my heart, yet that thought yields a complex feeling which fans the embers of anger: why must I be made of stone? Must my joy in being open, kind, and warm also be stolen from me, along with everything else I have lost?  

Such a delicate balancing act -- remaining guarded, yet remaining true to my inner self. And with my Offspring, my siblings, my Cherished Friend all being far away, and with Beloved Husband being so busy and so often unavailable, there are very few opportunities to safely be who I am.

I refuse to give up, though. I may have built internal walls, but I have kept a window. And I have deliberately chosen to remain soft on the inside. You'd have to look really hard to find that softness, but it is there. 

My hair reflects my choice. I've let it grow out, and have returned to a more natural brown color. I like it. It's not as angry. It's kinder. It is hair to put in a ponytail while taking care of Stuff, hair to run fingers through. 

Freud would probably have a field day about this hair choice as well. 

I'll keep it this way for a while. 

Opening Doors

 We've been in this house for, oh, twenty-plus years. All this time the refrigerator in the kitchen has been not-quite-right: it has had single doors, with the handles all the way to one side. When we opened the (previous) refrigerator door all the way, the door would hit the kitchen island. BONK. Be careful! And we could not really use the right-hand vegetable drawer, because we couldn't open it all the way. 

That's just the way it was. For over two decades.

As part of the house refurbishing (such a nightmare, slowly receding into memory, although there are still lingering boxes that have not been unpacked), we purchased a new refrigerator. The kind which has double doors, opening in the middle outwards. For the first time ever, I can open the doors fully, use all the drawers, and not hit the island. 

It's DELIGHTFUL.

Why did I tolerate a mediocre refrigerator forever? There's no reason why this purchase couldn't have been done sooner. Surely at some point, I deserved a nice fridge. Or at least one that I could use properly. It never occurred to me to take charge and get one. Or to ask someone else to do it. Why? I do not know.

Anyway, I am certainly enjoying the new refrigerator. It's the little things in life. And it is OK to want the niceties that make one's life a teeny bit better. 

I need to identify more of these little things, and incorporate them accordingly. 

Nice.

The Big Six-Oh

 As I mentioned, Beloved Husband celebrated a Big Birthday in March - Sixty! It seems impossible -- he is, as always, eternally youthful and young-at-heart: cheerful, fun-loving, humorous. The Ernie to my Bert. He makes me laugh. 

He works very hard at Work and at his Volunteer Projects. He plays hard, too -- trying to find time for his motorcycle, for off-roading, for spending time with his lovely Mom and brother and sister, for enjoying his work-outs at the gym. He crams as much life into Life as possible, making the most of every moment. 

I wish for you, Beloved Husband, many, many more years to do All The Things that you would like to do. And all the joy that can be found in this strange, complex world that we live in. 

Seventeen

Seventeen years ago, I arrived.

We've had a spectacularly difficult few years, haven't we?  Perhaps there's some truth to the saying that teenage years are full of growing pains. 

Nevertheless, she persisted. 

Onwards and upwards, gentle readers. We shall see what the future holds. With a bit of luck, there will be new adventures, sparks of happiness, and moments of contentment and peace and love in abundance. 

Thank you for accompanying me on this journey. I am grateful. 

March Meme

Further to yesterday's reminiscences about Offspring the Second's visit home, this meme turned up in one of my Social Media feeds during March. It encapsulates something I think about often.

I did the best I could while the Offspring were growing up.  I am not sure it was ever Enough.  I was not the best I could be, and I was spread thin, and I did not know how (or who) to ask for help when I was overwhelmed. I wish I could have been more patient, more attentive, more... better.

I am sorry, my lovely Offspring, for the times I failed you. You have always deserved the very best. I hope that as you move through life, you find exactly what you need and what you are looking for. I think of each of you with love, always. 

Restart

 Herself speaks.

I did not mean to stop writing. 

Things got busy, and there was Stuff, and there were Feelings about Stuff, and not enough time to process the Feelings, and... now here we are.  

One of the blessings and curses, I have found, about using antidepressants, is that now there are more Feelings present, and they are felt. The days of numbness of grief and obligation are (relatively) in the rear view window -- but that means that time must now be taken to process feelings as they appear. And they are everywhere: sitting at the table or on the couch, looking back at me from the mirror, riding alongside in the car (they especially seem to love car rides). It gets very crowded. I am having difficulty naming them all, figuring out where they came from and why they are there, and finding the right space for them to occupy. Processing them? Who has the time? 

Apparently, not me. I need to make the time, though. Which is why I am here now: one of the best ways to process, for me, is to write -- and so I need to resume, for my good and for the good of all the Feelings that are wandering around bumping in to one another. 

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Let's look back to when we got lost and nearly dropped off the face of the earth, and start there. 

I believe it was in February when the pace of life picked up; and then March happened. I had one false start attempt to try again toward the end of March, without success. It's true that February was significantly occupied by the Orange Project, and there really is not a lot more to say about that.  So let's look at March. 

March always begins with Offspring the Second's birthday, followed in short succession by Beloved Husband's birthday.  Since this year was a milestone for Beloved Husband (sixty!), we worked on trying to get all of the Offspring back here to this desert land for the occasion.  We did not manage to have everyone here at the same time -- Offspring the First already had unchangeable plans -- but Offspring the Second came back home, for the first time in years, and we celebrated his birthday along with Beloved Husband's. Let's talk about Offspring the Second's homecoming.

 And this is why I stopped writing: I am not sure I can write about his homecoming. I'll try, though.

My heart was so full, to see him. This independent, self-confident, fully-fledged person who I raised and saw grow up, now a fantastic adult with a life of his own, with his own plans and friends and job and sphere of activities that are a mystery to me. He is the same as ever -- witty, smart, thoughtful, kind -- and yet wiser and happier than ever before. I am not really part of his life, and although I know that's ultimately the goal of every parent -- to no longer be needed -- it's heartbreaking in a way to know that he exists elsewhere and I cannot see his marvelous self more often, to enjoy the way he is and to vicariously experience his success in life. Yet this is how it should be: he has made his own life, and I am glad for it, because he seems happy. Who could ask for anything more? 

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The visceral love for children is an extremely painful experience, because it needs to be contained: it must not oppress the children or be wielded like a weapon.  Children must be set free into the world, unburdened by any expectations from us, or obligations to us. Be free, my children. Go forth and prosper.

My only remaining goal is that I, like my lovely Daddy before me, can somehow, quietly and in the background, make their lives easier for them. And to let them know that I am always here for them. 

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

-Kahlil Gibran, On Children, from The Prophet