then | now.

I knew I needed to write again. I didn't know what or why. 

Now I do. I wish I didn't. 

I began this blog five years ago, overwhelmed by the tangle of emotions created by my father's diagnosis. I return to this place overwhelmed by the tangle of emotions created by his death. 

In 2008, I didn't know what would happen. I didn't know what to do. 

I have some of the answers now, but so many more questions. 

Then was hard. Now is harder. 

Writing it out helped some then. Maybe it will again. 

Nomadly.

The mountains. The beach. The lake. And now the city.
I love to go, to see, to do. I honestly and openly do.

But secretly, I also love to run away.
Will I never learn that everywhere I go, it goes with me?

Silly girl.

Scrivener.

"Write it out," he said. "Everything's better...you're better...when you're writing."

We were standing together, just the two of us, overlooking the Blue Ridge mountains in north Georgia. He was talking about the past, the present, the future; I was biting my lip and trying not to cry. Still, it was a good moment, a lucid moment, in a week that otherwise didn't have many.

And in that lucidity, he was telling me to write.

I know he was sincere. I know he was right. I know how often I mentally begin to put it all on paper or screen and sort it out. I know it's my best therapy.

But I don't know that he'd be happy to know that I'm writing about private things, difficult things, in a public forum.

For that reason, and because let's be honest: nobody really sees this stuff, anyway, which is a-okay with me, I'm locking this down. If you want to read it, let me know and I'll give you access, if I know and trust you.

And then I'll try. To write it out. To make it better.

Easy

Can't quite believe how quickly six months have flown past me, in a rush and a blur. Can't quite process all that's happened in the interim, both the large and the small, the wonderful and the awful. Sometimes I suspect that it might be easier to fall apart than pick it apart. 

So once again, I'll lean lazily upon the familiar: words from a song that simultaneously soothes and sears my psyche. I suppose that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

+++

I want my mind to pull me through;

Up until now, that's been hard to do.

But how could I know, how could I know 

It'd be easy?

I want my heart to stand alone,

To be the one that's made of stone.

How could I know, how could I know

It'd be easy? Easy as falling apart.

Woke from the sweetest dream,

Brought to the floor;

Robbed of the only thing

That I'm living for.

I want the sun to shine on me,

To show me the way and set me free...

How could I know, how could I know

That it'd be easy?

Easy as falling apart.

The farther I fall, the more I know

That I'm gonna have to let you go.

But how could I know, how could I know

That it'd be easy, easy...

Easy as falling apart.

Welcome mat

Why, hello. No, no; I'm glad you stopped by. It's good to see you here.

It's been a week of reunions on-line and off, with more on the horizon: old friends (including one really old friend, which: wow), the San Antonio clan, the forty acres, a host of familiar faces, young and old, from the kids' school...

... and everything autumn, even though I know that summer will linger 'round the edges for another month or two, at least.

Doesn't matter; I love this time of year. Spring gets all the credit for new beginnings, and not without reason, but autumn: that's a stack of new spiral notebooks just waiting to be filled with thoughts and hopes and dreams that have yet to be imagined.

Fresh-faced potential. Delicious possibility.

The truth is that I always feel nostalgic walking 'round my campus of choice, but last weekend was especially weighted with meaning and emotion and sweet, misty sentiment.

Twenty years, said the voice in my head at nearly every turn.

Twenty years ago, in what may have been the only truly independent decision of my life, I drove from Vicksburg to Austin to start anew. I had fallen head-over-heels in love with the town... and I had faith that the town would love me, too.

It didn't let me down.

I found love: the real deal. I found direction. I found illumination. I found myself. I found the path to my entire life within those forty idyllic acres, in that bright and shiny time.

Now I'm back in this town, just a little north. It's home and it's good, but I imagine that a part of me will always miss Austin, all of my days.

It's here, to this town, where my mom will come for a day this week, to have what we hope will be the doctor's visit that assuages all of our worst fears.

And a few days later, some of my dearest friends will gather in celebration and memory of the apple-cheeked baby girl who, improbably, brought us all together.

I welcome the reunions; I cherish the connections to my past. And I hold my arms open to whatever or whomever arrives on my front step next.

Interlude

The truth, of course, is that I love every one of her gorgeous songs, regardless of the meanings behind them. It just so happens that this particular selection speaks volumes to me.

And tonight, for me.

+++

What I deserve is comfort for my shaken soul;
The water on my hands are tears from long ago.
My skin lets it in; it's always been too thin,
Since I can't remember when.

And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...
Oh, darling: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve.

There's solace in this dusty earth and rocky hills,
But even starry skies can't mend my broken will.
My blood doesn't pour; there's nothing to bleed for,
I don't believe, anymore.

And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...

Now, I have done the best I can.
Oh, but what I've done, it's not who I am:
And, oh: what I deserve...

Time has left me feeling old and losing hope;
Hell, I've walked a long way just to find the end of my rope.
You say that I should pray: well, I would, but my faith has strayed.
I don't believe I'll be saved.

And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...
Oh, darling: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve.

Transparency

So, what happened was this.

Three weeks ago, I had a free minute, maybe two, so I called my mother. Just to say hello.

And what she said, in reasonably short order, was that she'd been to the opthalmologist for her annual check-up. He'd promptly referred her to a specialist.

She'd gone to the specialist the very next day, and learned that there was an inexplicable, heretofore unseen mass at the back of her retina.

No one could be sure what it meant, but the fear was that it meant something called ocular melanoma. Which didn't sound good. Sounded bad, actually.

It's a tricky diagnosis, apparently; no real avenue for biopsies and such. So the specialist told her: come back in three weeks, and we'll see if it's grown. How much, how fast.

Well, don't cry 'till you're hurt, my father-in-law said, when I explained the situation in a shaky voice. He meant well, I suppose, but it was utterly meaningless advice.

Because I cried. A lot. Fretted, worried, railed and wailed. Wrung my hands in therapy at the injustice of it all. Implored my friends to rally 'round, and fell clumsily into my husband's strong shoulders.

And then, set the timer for three weeks.

Three weeks later, we were at the beach, still playing chicken with a hurricane and grieving long-distance for a dear friend and her own unspeakable loss.

My father and his wife arrived; I was happy they'd come, but too anxious to emote anything cheerful. Couldn't stop checking the timer. Kept staring at my phone, trying to will it to ring.

Finally, finally, after an unbearably long wait: there was some news. Not much, though; in fact, it was really nothing at all. No change.

Thank God.

The nothing was something, in that it was the first glimmer of hope and optimism we'd stumbled across for three weeks.

But still, there were questions; still, there weren't answers. So: further tests, a trip north, sometime this week.

For now, though, we all remember how to breathe. And relax just a little. It feels good.

And that's what happened.