Inner Child, Part Deux: Ramifications of Bangkok

I woke up gasping for air like I was drowning. And in a way, I guess I was. Drowning in sorrow. It was terrifying as my mind woke up from the tilt-a-whirl dream I was having. I was sobbing in it too.

I sat there for a second, in that moment between dream space and reality - not sure which was which.  I reach out to Gary, ashamed I was about to wake him, but the fear was encroaching faster than I could dismiss it.  When he finally mumbled and turned over - I slipped under the waves and couldn't breathe.  I felt like waves of water crashed over my scrunched-up face.  A pendulum of water squelching any hope I had to breathe. I felt my heart begin to race and I heard the sharp gasp for air as I tried to catch my breath instead.  

The fear kept crashing over me.  And I could hear myself begin to sob between the attempts to suck in oxygen.  I couldn't choose which.  Until the child-like sobs took over and I kept asking Gary if this was real.  I wouldn't be going through this if the fear wasn't real, right?

There has always been the lingering doubt that I made the whole thing up.  That I had convinced myself in some demented way that all that happened in Bangkok had never happened and I had told so many people that I made it the truth instead of the truth.  That maybe the last time I woke up sobbing was some other festering wound in my soul that took over in my sobriety and it was just a good story to justify a random moment of Krazy.

But it happened again.  And God wouldn't make me suffer that twice would he?  Or maybe I just never wanted it to be true and so it's easier to pretend I made it all up...

Chapter 1 - The Beginning

 What my mother didn't understand at the time, is that pudgy and precocious little girl was just at the beginning stage of becoming an addict.  At the time, I had repressed all the seedy little ugliness of being molested and was eating all those shameful emotional ramifications instead.  I couldn't name the problem because my brain was actively denying there was one.  

What I do remember is watching TV on the floor of the den with my family, comfortably swaddled in an old blanket and not understanding why touching myself felt so good and seemed very very wrong. I remember thinking that everyone must realize what I am doing here and a sense of relief that they very clearly didn't…they were all too focused on the television.

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My father was a pilot in the Air Force.  A handsome one at that.  I cannot think of John Wayne without thinking of my father, and vice versa.  He was six foot two, mostly quiet, and from the bottom of his heart he adored me.  He was called to duty in Thailand from our tranquil suburban home in Virginia when I was just about thee and a half.  

I don't recall the flight to Bangkok.  I was too young for that.  I have vague recollections of our first hotel.  It was huge to me and ornate.  I remember being given my first Shirley Temple there and sensing that I was special in some way.  It was years later before I realized that my blond hair and blue eyes were still something of curiosity to them, and even in humility I can acknowledge I was a very pretty little girl.  I had the most irrepressible smile and innate curiosity of all the people I encountered.  Thankfully, I still do.

It was there that I first embarrassed my mother in a way I didn't know then.  It has been told as a story for so long now:

There must have been an anorexic woman at the hotel while we were there.  I must have seen her about as I used the hotel as a playground.  On a flight up in the elevator, she must have been with me and my mother, I exclaimed loudly, "Mommy, Mommy!  It's the Skeletal Lady!!"  

As it was only the three of us, the poor woman MUST have known I was talking about her.  And in my poor mother's head, I can now see all she could imagine was what this woman must have thought about HER.  Her poor little narcissistic brain must have been tied in one huge Ol' knot that night as she tumbled around the idea that her darling little baby reflected so poorly of her.

But what happened in Bangkok didn't happen at the hotel, it happened on the compound on XXXXX street where we were all finally moved after our stay there.

Life in a second or third world country is nothing like life in America.  There, you are a Westerner, and a Westerner has more money than almost anyone.  And if you have money, you have servants.  It's just the way it is.  So, on our compound we had Wen, the Cook; Marcy our housekeeper; Marcy's two 'tween children whom we name Oy-Girl and Oy-Boy because we couldn't say their Thai names; our chauffer; and our gardener.  This is in addition to our family: My father, my mother, my fourteen-year-old brother Whit, my eleven-year-old sister Rebel, and my four-year old self.  My oldest sister, Wende, was attending her first year in college in Alabama.

In many ways, life in Bangkok was idyllic.  My mother had always dreamed of travelling to far-away countries and exploring exotic lands, so she was living a dream come true.  My father was rising in his career teaching the Thai Royal Air Force pilots how to fly, and my siblings and I were enjoying the luxuries of the American dollar in an exceptionally large home with a staff at our disposal.  I was fascinated with the frogs that thrived there not understanding that many are apparently poisonous.  So worrisome an issue, that our landlord bought me two geese if I would quit playing with them.  I don't remember how the first one died, but Giel (which is Thai for Goose!) was mine.  

Rebel and I shared a bedroom on the top floor of our home.  Whit is an almost forgotten person in my memories there.  We must have crossed so little in our experiences there as a fourteen-year-old boy and a four-year old little girl.  But Rebel was a constant torment to me, even if she had no idea.  So, I built my world around the staff.  Especially Marcy and her daughter.  All the staff had small apartments in the fourplex that ran along the backside of the carport.  Marcy's was on the front left and Wen's was on the front right.  On the backside was the gardener, behind Marcy; the chauffeur was behind Wen.

I spent hours in Marcy's apartment watching poorly dubbed John Wayne movies.  Every one of the staff believed America looked like the old West.  Maybe, I did too.  I was too little to recall otherwise. While the rest of my family used the facilities in our home to shower and bathe, I frequently was given my wash in the servant's bathroom.  Where instead of a shower-stall or tub - they had a Klong Jar.  A Klong jar was a very large earthenware pot, something in the States we would plant a tree in, but there was more like a deep soaking tub.  It was short enough that I could keep my head above water if I stood on my tiptoes and it was WAY more fun to have a bath in than a Western tub.

So, of an evening, after a long day of play with Oy-Boy and Oy-Girl or following Marcy and Wen about their duties, I was frequently tossed in the Klong Jar and hung out with the rest of the staff until bedtime.  

Surviving Perfect

At the store, whenever I couldn't find her, I looked for her hair. A subtle blonde beehive that was washed, set, teased, and sprayed into place every Thursday morning at Larry's Coiffures.

Both the style and the meticulousness with which it was arranged defined her. It was both rigid and buoyant at the same time. As was she. But there was great security in knowing exactly where she was, whether that be at the salon or just an aisle or two over at the Base Exchange. 

For all the forthcoming and derisive analysis, I want it known that I never once doubted her love for me or her unequivocal belief that I could achieve anything I set my mind to. Both these truths were fostered daily in many subtle and profound ways. But from the distance of time and many hundreds of hours' worth of navel-gazing I can honestly see now that to my mother, I was also a projection of her need for self-perfection.

I was a pudgy and precocious little girl who assumed the world revolved around me. If I was EVER shy or demure it was short lived. By the age of five I was quite certain you wanted to be my friend. A trait I hope never to outgrow.

To my mom though, I was an accessory to who she was. Something to be dressed, molded, and perfected, in ways she couldn't derive perfection for herself. if she couldn't successfully lose weight, by God I would. I mean, what would it say about HER if her daughter was a roly-poly little thing?  So, I was shuffled into a room of heavyset, middle-aged women at the age of eight to attend WeightWatchers meetings. taught to carefully weigh myself and my food. Who would have guessed that for the next 40 years I would struggle with food and body acceptance issues??

What would people THINK if my hair was unkempt and flat? So, most evenings, I was positioned like a doll at my mother's feet so she could tug, brush, and pin my slightly damp hair into little coils around my head before trundling off to bed in a helmet of bobby pins that would dry in my uncomfortable sleep. How might my idea of beauty be different if she had just acknowledged neither of us had God-given ringlets of flaxen hair? Instead, once scientific improvements were made to over the counter perms, that same damp hair would be wound around plastic rods of torture while acid and whatever other foul-smelling concoctions it needed was doused upon my head like a vinegar-laced baptism. It should be no surprise that even now, I tell people my variously-colored hair is from L'Oréal...because I'm worth it.

Prologue

There's nothing like spending the night in an urban, city jail wearing nothing but a strait jacket to make one rethink their life choices.  That was me, not but four months ago.  After being arrested for a second DUI, I sat in an in-take of the Travis County Jail in Austin, TX.  I was blind drunk, ashamed, crazy worried that my husband had no idea where I was, and I was fucking mad as hell at the world.  I screeched my throat raw as I raged to the guards.  I NEED TO CALL MY HUSBAND! I yelled.  I HATE MY LIFE!  I screamed.  And then the kicker… wait for it…. "IF YOU DON'T LET ME USE THE PHONE, I WILL JUST TRY TO KILL MYSELF!!!!"  Funny that.  Prison guards really hate the suicidal ass-hats in jail.  Throws their shift into a whole other level of liability.  So off I'm trotted.  Strapped to a wheel-chair like Hannibal Lector, hood over my face and handcuffs on each limb of my body.  I really needed to get my shit together, post haste.  

Luckily for me, my father once put his arm around my shoulder and leaned into whisper, "Don't worry honey.  I know you're gonna figure things out one day."  I was forty.

He was right.  It only took me twelve and a half years to do so.

Now I plan to tell you how I did it.

Clearly way too long

Jeez, I should really  be shot for waiting this long.  I don't even know what's kept me from posting.  In a rut much??

So I get done with dealing with Dad drama and back to what I love most...dealing with me, self absorbed human that I am, and yet I don't feel I have much to share.

I had a stupid, ridiculous fight with Mrs. Kravits which keeps a ton of drama out of the posts (and part of the reason for our fight) so I haven't been walking much of late.  Although after the death of her brother (and my neighbor) we found a way to reconcile since I couldn't exactly be the cold hearted bitch I sometime dream of  being during that crisis.   I really do empathize with her...though her question of why her brother died boggles the imagination...I mean really??  He was 6'4" weighing 350 lbs if he weighed an ounce.  He was diabetic and paranoid schizophrenic and unwilling to take meds for either condition.  He drank an 18 pack a day and hadn't had a home cooked meal unless I made it in the last five years...which means fast food 98% if the time, and she wonders why he died???

In the last month I know 4 people who have died.  And again, I'm trying to understand why I'm a little depressed.  It's coming upon winter time and the weather is not helping.  I woke up on Sunday to freezing weather and unable to rationalize getting out of bed to get to church, which is exactly what I should have done to end the blues that consumed me.  Thank God I finally woke up from my lazitude and called my friend Sharon to express my gloominess - she too was feeling my blues and agreed to meet me for drinks and dinner.  Little did either of us know her uncle would be one of the four dead folk I would be grieving for.

So yesterday we had a good Irish wake for her uncle, talking about  family and just what constitutes that name.  What we determined was that blood kin had little to do with it.  Who we chose in our life was much more important.  I mean, I love my parents and my siblings...I can get all emo about their demise when I think about it - but in the last several years, the people I talk to every day are just as much as my family as those who share my DNA.

What I know is that Ron from Texas is my life partner.  He's not my husband in any traditional sense...but I can't imagine my life without him.  We speak 3-4 times a day about absolutely nothing.  We argue, we get pissy, we get bored with the conversations and we laugh together like couples who've been married for years.  Who else am I going to tell that I've got a boil on my butt that hurts like hell?  He's my guy.  And I'm grateful to have him.

Sharon is my friend I met at church.  She couldn't be more opposite from me if I tried.  She's reserved, thin, detailed, and politically indifferent.  On the other hand, she too is divorced, relationship-ly agnostic, without child, and my age-ish. She understands what it means to be too isolated for ones onwn good.  I can call to tell her I'm blue when it makes no sense to feel that way.

Because the reality of where I am now is that I am blue.  I've lost the equivalent of a seven year-old child (75 lbs) and nothing really has changed.  I still have to shop at the 'fat' stores...even though I feel sexier/skinnier/thinner than I am. I thought I would  be excited about pretty bras, but interestingly I'm much more interested in wearing high-heels. I thought I'd buy new clothes...but can't seem to rationalize spending the money on something I'd only wear for a few weeks.  And the on-line dating thing is too depressing to even discuss.  If you're not 35, skinny, never smoked and not interested in men who look like models or serial killers...you're out of luck.

So that's what I've been dealing with.  sorry it's not more up beat and peppy.  I just decided some time ago that I needed to be honest about where I am - for better or worse. 

I am excited that I'll finally get to CES (consumer electronics show) this January (my birthday) and I do know my life is 93% better than most....I'm just saying that there's still a long way to go and some days are harder than others.  None of which compares to my friends who've lost their wife, brother, mother or uncle.  In light of all that...I'm just a sorry assed whiner.

I am NO DillyDally...Must Read to the end to get this...

To my neglected followers...

Your very neglectful friend here.  It's been a crazy couple of months.

So far, I've lost 65 pounds and am feeling so much healthier, positive, and emotionally grounded.  I still have some ups and downs.  I'm still human.  The last week I think I've been a little hormonal.  A little blue.  But I think some PMS, cooler weather, and realizing I'm only half-way there were/are contributing factors :)  I know in my head it's all irrational.  I mean really...I'm HALFWAY there!!  In what?  Nine months?  The bulk of which has occurred in the last four?  So yeah, it's just the old impatience kicking in.  I'm sure it will happen again.  But I'm trying to be patient about my impatience :)

So, part of the long lapse in writing is just recovering from dealing with my folks.  As you may or may not know...my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer, which led to the discovery of some kidney cancer too.  Ironically, the prostate cancer seemed like 'no big deal' to me - have a surgery, it's pretty much done.  The kidney cancer freaked the hell out of me.  Instead, the doc was more concerned about the prostate and wanted immediate surgery.  Later on the kidney...only part of the left one at that.

So I went home to Austin a few weeks ago to tend to Mom and Dad just before his first surgery and for a couple of weeks after.  I have to tell you, taking care of old people sucks.  Not only do you realize they are inching closer and closer to being dead...but it's officially your turn to take care of them instead of the other way around.

So Dad's surgery went swimmingly.  In on a Tuesday and on Wednesday he's sitting up, responding to visitors.  Flirting with the nurses.  The doc says he can go home.  I tell everyone I think this is a horrible idea, that one more day in the hospital will do everyone good.  I'm so outvoted.  So we pack him up like a crate of china and take him home with a bag of pills and a colostomy bag.

My sister Rebel has generously agreed to stay an extra night at the house with me as she's really too exhausted to drive two hours to her home anyway.  Sometime in the middle of the night I hear her talking, a lot of action in the hallway and I'm desperately trying to ignore it.  Until finally she knocks on my door and says "Get up Cameron, I think we need to take Dad back to the hospital."

I fumble around for a bra and a pair of shorts and get dressed.  Mind blank, numb with sleep.  I step into the hallway, where she's sitting with her back up against the wall.  I look at her with eyes like 'ok, what happened' and she said "Ummm, you might want to brace yourself before going in there.  Dad apparently decided to take out his catheter."

Not fully comprehending the magnitude of that decision, I opened their bedroom door. Jesus!  It's like a freaking crime scene.  An old towel is draped on the floor, barely concealing the blood beneath it.  Dad's lain out in the bed, fully dressed, the coil of hose to his catheter neatly rolled on his bedside table.  My next look at my sister clearly conveys "WTF!!!"

She shakes her head and says "He decided he needed to pee and forgot why all that stuff was in the way...so he just pulled.  I've already left a voice mail for the doctor.  I'm waiting for his reply."

"What do you mean waiting for a reply?" I ask incredulously.  "We just need to freaking call EMS and take him back to the ER!"  At this point I just see blood and imagine all the horrible things everyone is thinking when they imagine a dilated balloon stitched into the urethra of a man's ding-a-ling being unimaginably removed manually without anesthesia!

This is where I'm very grateful to have a clinical, non-hysterical sister.  She calmly explains she would rather know what the doctor would like to do before subjecting him to another round of emergency surgery with a team unfamiliar with my father and the best thing we can do is wait for him to call back.  And maybe clean him up in the meantime.

This is where I am glad I can compartmentalize things.  OK, she's given me an action.  I can do that action.  Actually, I leave she and Mom to do the Dad cleaning thing.  I was a maid.  I clean things, not people!  So that's what I set off to do.  I get the 409 and some rags and just start hosing down the bathroom.  It's like an episode of "Bundy Gone Wild" in there.  On the john, on the tub, in the tub, on the walls, on the door, just a slaughterhouse.  Mom and Rebel are in the room just replaying all the horrible thoughts I've pushed out of my head until I finally say "Shut it!  I can't do THIS and think about it at the same time.  Uh uh.  Nope.  Not gonna do it. Just shshhh."  Mercifully, they acquiesce and I finish my job about the time the doc calls back.  He said we should just wait until his office opens at 8am and he'll try  to fix the problem himself.

Well hell, it's 4am at this point and clearly I"m wide awake.  Rebel somehow manages to shuffle off back to bed and I just go downstairs in stunned silence.  I tidy up the kitchen, I make a pot of coffee, I start the laundry.  I mean what else can I do?  I'm afraid to close my eyes!

Dawn finally arrives and I get Rebel up.  We do take Dad back to the doc.  The doc patches him right back up and we can finally go home again to start over.  That's day one.

Rebel and Mom are, needless to say, terrified Dad will do this again.  I'm fairly certain no man (no matter what his drug infused mind might think) will EVER do that twice.  But they somehow convince me that for safety's sake we need to tie my father to the bed.  Seriously.  I don't mean like a straight jacket or anything.  But I tie an ace bandage around one rung of the headboard and the other end around his arm.  Their logic is that he would have to wake up enough to untie himself and hence recall why he doesn't need to bother.  Catheter in place and all.  Convinced Dad is safely ensconced, Rebel finally says she needs to go home.

At 2am, I hear my father call for my assistance.  He'd like me to empty the collection bag.  No problem, it's a simple lever mechanism that I just flip while his ankle is resting on the toilet.  As I'm tucking him back into bed, he comments "Your damn mother tied me to the bed!"  I don't have the heart, will, courage...to remind him I was the guilty party there.  I secretly am thrilled I am not the bad guy.  My mother is.  So I don't re-tie him.  I just slink back to my room praying it will all be fine.

But then I start to worry.  What if I'm wrong?  What if he does forget again?  No one would forgive me and my father will have to live with a bag attached to him for the rest of his life.  So I do what I think is the next reasonable thing...I simply lock the bathroom doors.  The one in their room and the one in the hall.  We're all upstairs anyway.  If he can't get into the bathroom I think...he can't try to use the toilet.  If he can't use the toilet, he'll wonder why.  If he wonders why...well, he'll remember.  Sound logic.  Really.

Now what I have failed to mention is that my mother has been having a few "digestive issues" herself these last few days.  I think I'm being delicately clear here, right?  In my aforementioned reasoning...this little dilemma was not part of my equation.

So...now it's 4am and I'm alarmingly woken to the sound of a large bowling ball being whacked around my parents bedroom.  Thunking around the walls like a damn pinball machine.  Then I hear the shrill cry of a woman in panick.  "CAMERON!!!  CAMERON!!  (huff, squeak, wimper...) WHY ARE ALL THE BATHROOMS LOCKED??? (thunk, thud, thud)

My eyes fly open.  I realize the problem.  Realize the urgency.  Kinda realize the funny.  I grab a penny and fly into the hallway and unlock that bathroom door with a simple twist in the knob.  "Here!  Here!  This one's open!"  I see my mother hobbling across the room just as fast as her waddling body will allow.  I turn on my heel as she stumbles onto the toilet and thunks her ass down.  I crawl back into the comfort of my bed and pretend I'm not laughing inside.  I hear her whimpering just a few feet away as she gratefully relieves herself of her own emergency.  (Wimper, wimper, sigh, mew) "Huh, huh (pause) a small squeak...silence."  then a small sad voice in the dark..."I...I...I... HAD... TO... PEE... IN...THE... LITTER BOX!"

That was day two.

If I don't deserve an opportunity to recover from THAT visual...I don't deserve anything.

The rest of the time was just the usual catering to old people stuff.  Fetching and carrying.  Emptying the catheter bag.  Cooking, shopping, errand running.  Rolling my eyes.  Thinking "Dear God...who will ever do this for me?"

Gratefully meeting up with a friend or two for a much needed drink...or three.  And coming home.

Since then, I've been catching up at work and church.  Lots of activities happening on both fronts there.  Haven't really seen any new movies other than the chick-flick "The Help"...which is actually just so great, that boys should see it too.

Read a great trilogy written for young adults that futuristic/sci-fi about government conformity and Self.  Called The Hunger Games.  Amazing.

And...And...decided to join match.com two days ago.  Glad I started early 'cause there a WHOLE lot of Krazy there be.  Wack-a-doodles galore!  Just for giggles...here's my favorite two emails I've received so far...

A LONELY SEEKING A LOVE LIFE...

Without being a stereotype, I’m looking for a woman to make me feel like the prince I have always known myself to be, I know I am deep down inside. Will you ride to meet me in your shining armor, on your noble steed? I’m the Beatles biggest fan, and I’m feeling lonesome tonight. I want someone to love me tender, and to be my Rose of Sharon. If this describes you, then I’m sure I’ll discover that I can’t help falling in love with you. But if this isn’t you, and you’re all shook up, or a devil in disguise, or even if you want to step on my blue suede shoes, then please don’t send me to the heartbreak hotel.

***What I want to know is if he's the biggest Beatles fan...why does he keep referencing Elvis??? Jesus, boo, it’s ELVIS, not Paul Muh-freakin’-Cartney!  OMG***

#2:

 Hello
I was opportuned to read/see your profile and i must say that what i saw & read was quite fascinating & interesting.U strick me as a divine prettyness of endless chime & all that is fair & lovely meets in your aspects.I am interested in knowing/meeting U.B4 u get scared away, i am real, & i am no dillydally. It is a big step of courage 4 me to send this message to you hoping that what i seek for is the same that u seek 4.If u deemed it.waiting to hear back from you again soon..will like you to get back to me with your yahoo email same as my yahoo messenger IM...waiting to hear back from you again soon.

Kiss And Hugs

Mike

***Seriously?  Enough said!***

Kiss and Hugs,

Cam

The Last Ten Years...

I'll be the first to admit I'm avoiding the news surrounding the 10th anniversary of 9/11.  On MSNBC there seems to be unending loop of George Bush looking stupid and/or rationalizing why we went into Iraq.  Both of which seem unfair.  I'm not saying there's not a debate to be had about whether we should or should not have gone into Iraq while we were in the middle of avenging ourselves in Afghanistan...but I think it's a lot more complicated than what the press seems intent on portraying today.

What I do know is that I'm the only one I know who has read every UN Treaty on Iraq and there isn't a single country that didn't believe that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction.  And every sanction that was imparted was ignored.  I am also convinced that whatever weapons might have existed were removed, destroyed or buried before we ever entered that country and we knew it before Colin Powell stepped foot on the stage at the UN - leaving me to believe that George Bush threw Colin Powell under the bus for an invasion, occupation and war that could have been rationalized under much better circumstances.  Who among us would have denied our troops the authorization to enter and overthrow a dictator that was systematically killing its own people no differently than Hitler did in the 40's?  Who here isn't justifying Obama's insurgence into Libya for the same reason?  Who here doesn't think we should have done more in Somalia? Or any number of a dozen countries slaughtering their people to this day?  Who can say if our 'proactive' approach into Iraq wasn't the start of the Arab Spring?

I doubt any of these questions can be answered with any legitimacy by anyone.  It's been a crazy ten years. Ten Years!  At this time ten years ago I was married just a few months.  At 6:30 a.m.,  Pacific Time, I was awakened by a phone call from my bosses wife telling me to turn on the television.  She wasn't sure if we were being bombed or what...but she knew we were under attack and that I should turn on the news.

As the information poured in over the next several hours and days I became increasingly overwhelmed.  By the sadness, by the rage, by the confusion.  I hadn't paid enough attention is world history in high school (not that I think it was discussed) to understand why we we under attack by some weird Middle Eastern group called Al Queda.  And my poor ex-husband was so under the influence of heroin the previous 10 years that he didn't realize that George W. Bush was the second Bush serving as President of the United States.  He had vague recollections...just enough for me to realize I was married to the wrong man.

So this time, ten years ago, while the country was in an emotional state of flux - so was I.  I have oddly considered the horrible acts imparted upon this country the best day of my life.  While I surrendered to sleepwalking through the last few years of my life, I was at least somehow moving forward.  In the three years leading up to 9/11 I wasn't sleepwalking so much as moving forward in a dark tunnel with blind folds on.  I didn't want to acknowledge in any way that I was on the wrong path and if I just kept moving, I would see the end of that tunnel.  Bin Laden and his plans was that light.

In the early morning light of September 11th, 2001 - the lives of over 3000 people passed before my eyes.  I continually asked myself how many of them forgot to say "I love you" to those they loved.  I wondered how many of them intended to do more with their lives 'when they had the time'.  I was forced to ask myself what would I have done differently in my life if I  had known I would die in a top floor office on a random day of a random year for some unknown random reason.

And so I commenced upon a plan of action to address that question.  I sure as hell wouldn't be married to a drug addict who didn't even realize that G. W. was the son of G. H. W. Bush.  I certainly would want the distinction of being a college grad.  and I most definitely wanted to be considered a better human being than I thought I was at the time.

I know that ten years later I have achieved at least those goals.  There are more goals to accomplish - but those are pretty great.  Even my petty goal to have a smaller number flash upon the scale can't compare to those other three.  But it's pretty awesome to see I'm half-way there on that count too.  I've lost 60 pounds since January and am off  all meds outside of vitamin supplements. That's pretty freakin' amazing.

Even more amazing is the realization that I am the daughter I was raised to be.  When my father was diagnosed with cancer and needed surgery, it didn't take me but a second to realize I needed to go home.  Taking care of parents, which more and more of us have to do, is part of the obligation of being in a family.  And I am so grateful not to resent that obligation.  Is it hard?  Yes!  Are there resentments built into that obligation?  Yes.  Would I trade that resentment/obligation for abdication?  No.  My parents continued to love and care for me when I was the least likeable person I know.  It was time to repay the debt.

And for all of you who offered your prayers, support, and assistance...they were rewarded.  My Dad's surgery went well and the pathology reports indicate that as far as the prostate cancer is concerned...he's cured.  No chemo, no radiation needed.  We still have the partial kidney to contend with a few months from now - but for the moment, we are celebrating this small victory.

It is my hope and prayer that I will continue to grow, achieve goals, and evolve into an even better human being over the next ten years...and it wouldn't hurt my feelings at all for those in Washington to do the same.  Otherwise, Al Queda will have won after all.

C-

p.s.  On another, less somber day...remind me to recount the brain-burning recollection of my father's decision to remove his own catheter...and my attempt to keep that horrible situation from recurring...much to my mother's chagrin and embarrassment.