When Your Shoes Are Tired And Worn (pt 1)

‘When your shoes are tired and worn, You may borrow mine’ read the get well card I bought for my Jamma during her short stay at the Wenatchee Valley Medical Center. It was day 5 of her visit. By this time she had transferred hospitals, units and now resided in Oncology. The possibility of Pneumonia in the midst of summer was ruled out. The ‘Get Well Soon’ cards and flowers began to pour in. Visits from dear friends had gained momentum. It took a few days and several tests to confirm that it was Cancer. And a few more tests to suspect that it had started in the pancreas and then rapidly spread through her entire upper body.

I remember the day. June 19th at home. Lazy summer afternoon. Friend Maggie and Mother came over for a voice lesson and some lunch. We never got to either. Shortness of breath and a blue face required a trip to the ER. Hurriedly the three of us packed into the Maher’s blue Ford Explorer, while my Jamma took her time claiming everything was ‘just fine’. After the voice lesson and lunch, she would see how she felt and then maybe a visit to the Dr. could be agreed upon. She was always like that: Art first, others second, Amelia Sluis last. Somehow we finally did convince her stubborn self, I think it must have been the fear that she saw in my eyes. A blue Grandmother! No lunch. No lesson.

The eight mile trip to the hospital lacked gloomy worry. Jamma cracked jokes. We laughed. Probably sang a little. My attention automatically drawn to her silliness, her ability to always make me smile.
Mile 7: the adults decide it best that Mags and I wait in town rather than at the hospital. ‘It’ll be real quick’, Jamma promises. We are dropped off at Lakeview Drive-In. Given money for ice cream. As the blue beast drives away eye contact is made. There is fear in her big brown peepers as well. We wave. We smile. Whisper I love Yous and I love You Mores. Our ritual.

Hours later Mags and I are picked back up. Taken to the hospital. There she lay in an oxygen mask, hooked to an IV. There are now tears in her big browns. My Aunt is on her way from Seattle. There are plans to be rushed to the nearest city hospital. She can’t be treated here. I am scared, no terrified. (Is there a word for fear that is stronger than that?) Whatever it is, I am that. I can’t breathe. They order me to sit down. They hand me water. There are hugs from strangers, Dr.’s and Nurses who think they know what it feels like to see your only guardian, your saviour strapped to a white board that they call a bed. Unable to speak. Unable to breathe. And what is wrong? What is wrong with her? Why is she still so damn blue?

The next days are a blur. This hospital is much nicer. It smells better. There is a cute Dr. The gift store sells candy, I am allowed to buy some. Jamma never let me eat candy. I eat a little and I feel sick. I want that salad she made, the one we didnt eat because she changed colors. Someone takes me shopping. I buy 2 dresses. My Aunt and I visit a nursing home, ‘We have to think of the future.’ This is impossible. We stay in a fancy hotel. I haven’t been home in days. I see Geoffrey, my father, walking towards me in the halls of the Oncology unit. He is walking in, I am walking out. He has longer hair than me and still looks like a rock star. This is the first time I have seen him in ten years. We recognize each other by our shared blue eyes. He says ‘Hello, Rachel’, shakily and begins to say something more. I am scared and confused. I dont say anything. I walk away. Half way out the door I think of turning around and running after to hug him. To tell him I love him. I forgive him and mom. I don’t though. I can’t. I can’t breathe. Again they order me to sit down. They hand me water. More hugs from strangers, Dr.’s and Nurses, but this time also family and friends. But still they think they know what it feels like to see your only father for the first time in years. To know the stories of his talent. To hear his music. Unable to fight off drugs. Unable to get life together. And what is wrong? Why couldnt he love me? Why is he still so damn beautiful?

I learn there is a little church in the hospital where you can go and pray, but I dont go in. I want to. But I am afraid of men in robes who may reside. I close my eyes in my stiff leather waiting room chair and I attempt some sort of prayer. I’ve never really done this before. The room is too cold. I am wearing my new green plaid dress, I want to be outside. Thats when I feel most spiritual. I leave the waiting room. I walk. I ‘pray’. I feel something. Its the same something I felt the day before this all happened, when I heard that voice…I was in my room, thinking as I often did. Feeling pre-teenage frustration and being overly dramatic as girls that age are prone to be. But for me maybe it was different. I had reason to feel pain. My parents abandoned me as a baby. I was raised by my Grandmother, my Jamma. It was an eerie stillness-that something that I felt. And then a calm and gentle voice ‘You are taken care of.’.. I hadn’t thought much of that voice and those words when I heard them. That was the 18th of June. Now its the 24th? 25th? Now I am walking outside of the hospital where my Jamma lay. We have learned there is no hope for radiation or chemo, the cancer is far too advanced. It is a wonder that she has made it thus far. I walk and I remember those words from my room just days before and again I feel that eerie stillness….Later on I learn this is peace.

thanksgiving feast:i shall nourish

i am like a young turkey. lived among the coop wire and stale feed. even though i was born a bird, i never could fly.i have scuttled my way through shit. the shit of my brothers and sisters. those who shared the same pen. i have entertained myself in the rain. ran around in circles endless. then i was chosen. butchered. slaughtered. my bloodied wounds have stained mans hands. in time it will wash away, but maybe they wont forget me. i have been taken home. i have been gutted. washed clean. smothered with butter and herbs, injected with hearty goodness.
i am now in the oven. 320 degrees. i have been in here awhile now. a slow roast. good turkey takes time. when it is decided that my time is up, i will arise from the depths of the heat. my aroma will fill the air. my skin will be a perfect goldeny brown. my meat; juicy, tender, succulent…there are mouths to feed.

dear john: sing me to sleep

there is a park a 5 minute walk from my home. it’s not just any park. höhenpark. its incredible! its in a string of others that form a ‘u’ shape. you can start from one end and make it nearly all the way around the city. perhaps the greatest feature of höhenpark is not the kleinbahn (little train) that takes you amidst the beautiful gardens, or the little zoo that serves as home to a clan of sheep and a hand full of alpacas…nope its got to be the freilichtbuhne. the tiny ass stage that hosts a few shows in the summer. i’m not sure who books these shows. or how the hell these artists would find themselves playing in such a random ‘arena’. so here it is the list of coming attractions for june and july:

joan baez
the b-52’s
buena vista social club (i would fork up the 30 euro to see this)
jethro tull

and tonight, my friends, as i write to you in my room with the window open and the summer sun setting-the lovely….john fogerty is singing sweetly in my ear!

germany= the land of opportunity.

Forget the sun a shinin’

Its the first week of June and I have been instructed to wear a scarf at all times of the day. Dana Schlund, my Russian doctor, says it necessary to keep my throat covered and warm. Atleast thats what I think she was trying to tell me. Either that or she was giving me much needed fashion advice. So here I am in my little corner of Germany with my prescribed throat, sinus and immunity medicines, with my 3 different kinds of cough drops (I prefer Zitrone), my throat spray, my vitamin c, my liter of o.j., my neverending mug of nettle tea and my thinnest-least itchy-black scarf…And then there’s my beautiful tomato colored face and severe sunglasses outline from a poorly misjudged sunscreen-free day. I am a sight to see! And just to let you know how my week is going I will tell of the humbug clerk at the post office whom, when hearing that I did not speak German she thought it best to yell at me louder and more aggresively in her native tongue. I don’t quite understand her method. Maybe it worked for some other poor foreigner. Then there was yesterday, when I locked myself out of the house. A wee tear snuck its way out of the corner of my left, with my dirty paw I squished the little bugger and began to laugh.
Maybe people will take me a bit more seriously when I lose the scarf, the wretched cough, the imprinted glasses and when I learn to say more than ‘hallo’ and ‘danke’. I await the day. But for now I will keep laughing.