Hospitals blow

My mother was dreading chemo.
I had forbidden her to read online forums, because I am WAY too used to the rather depressing state of mind they can elicite in you. She read them anyway, and everyday brought a new tale of woe from anonymous 36 on the WORST CANCER STORY website.

We didn't even know what kind of treatment she was going to undertake, and I already knew more about chemo side-effects than others, since I saw both my grandparents go through with it.

My mother called me up elated on Friday. The biopsy was OK, and the doctors saw that the tumor was unresponsive to chemo, so they are going to go with an operation and then radiotherapy. My mother told me gleefully that her tumor was just like her.
"UH?"
"Well, it doesn't want to do chemo."
"OK."
"Also it likes drastic measures."
"Right."
"This tumor is just like me."

My father had a really bad spell a few days ago and had to be hospitalized in intensive care again. I'm going to see the doctors today during my lunch break, but reports differ: some people tell me he's doing oK, others seem to think he is very weak. Tracheotomy is an option. Anyway, my mother was telling me about her operation, which is in two weeks, and will require a lot of after-care. A nurse will help me at home, but it will be a lot of cooking, hand-holding etc. I have planned to have family and friends help, but still.

My mother and I chat together, thinking about how it will work out. Then she thoughtfully says:
"I do hope your father won't get worse and worse while I'm recuperating post-op. Then what will you do?"

I still miss my sister a lot. It would be so much funnier to have her around, since she is funny funny .

I may start reading forums for people who hate hospitals.

The twisted road

I was finding it hard to write here. My computer got hauled off to undergo repairs. I'm trying to find a way to get my father in a retirement home, against his will pretty much, which does not make you feel like daughter of the year. I would look at my last entries: death, depression. It would make me say that as soon as I had something funny to write, I would do it. But I realize I have to make a habit of it. Because the strange turn of events making 2010/2011 a bad, bad time for my family has just continued impressing me with its motivational anger.

My mother has been diagnosed with breast cancer. DISCLAIMER: It's breast cancer, the most easily taken care of cancer, she's in good hands, it seems that she is OK, it's going to be chemo and an operation and all that, but the doctors have so far been optimistic and kind.

I'm so scared of not being up to the challenge. I sometimes resent the fact my father is always at the hospital or sick. I look at him and think that I want to be alone, not talk to him and have to watch him so diminished. Now my mother is going to be weakened and exhausted and I'm afraid of resenting it in the same way.

Also I feel so guilty all the time. Guilty that I'm trying to put my father in a retirement home because it is hard to care for him, but also because I have so much work and a part of me can just forget. Yes, both my grandparents died in the last six months, my father is still in the hospital and my mother has cancer, but in the end, I think I could get into the mindspace that this is normal. After all, I'm used to being worried.

The worst part of all is thinking about my sister. J and I are incredibly close. We have our own lives, but when things go bad we immediately start working together.
J is in America, miles away, and has to "enjoy" her last college semester while scouting for jobs, knowing that everyone is sick at home...And yet I want to rely on her. I want her support too.

This to say that I have given up on writing when things go well at the moment. This place is a shelter for me, and I need to accept that life can go twisted and dark, and that it doesn't make my blog "boring".

So we all go down the twisted road. I hope I'm a good traveller.

A diamond as big as the Ritz

An old picture of me which is the closest I can get to the EAT PRAY LOVE look. The "I look so natural and free-spirited! When in fact I took hours to find this flattering angle!"



Last night I was tired after work and decided to go see a shitty movie. That movie turned out to be Eat Pray Love. I had listened to the book while running and not really gotten into the whole guru-following, yoga-practicing balooney idea that spirituality was something you could wilfully acquire. Anyway, I just wanted to see Javier Bardem and James Franco.
It turned out to be the film première, and to celebrate it, some German magazine called HAPPY had organised for glasses of sparkly wine to be distributed around. All the women in the theatre were rather tipsy then, and giggled extremely loudly. I struck up a conversation with my two neighbours, who were speaking bad French to each other, and we quickly decided that we liked each other. Funny how that works.

So the movie was very depressing. BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPES...JULIA ROBERTS AND HER GIGANTIC MOUTH...Finally some Javier Bardem.

The story of Liz Gilbert is supremely relatable. I suffer from depression, I know almost no one who hasn't felt trapped in their lives at least once, this is good material. I may hate the mumbo jumbo of the ashram episode, but I could certainly respond to her other themes. Food is my antidepressant of choice...

When I left the movie house, I felt very unhappy. Vividly unhappy for the first time in months. I simply did not want to go home. Going home meant going to sleep, and that meant coming closer to waking up and going to work. I decided to drink a cocktail at the Ritz.

The Ritz Hotel in Berlin is right behind the Sony Centre and Potsdamer Platz, formerly known as No Man's Land. It's now a land of hotels and office space. I swept inside and ordered a Virgin Berlin. My bike was waiting outside and I don't drink and drive...

It was a perfectly soothing experience. Lavish, extravagant, dumb. Sipping my 11 Euro cocktail, I sank into the thick leather bar stool. I think I waited for an hour for my melancholy to go away.

Years ago my sister and I would sometimes dine with our grandfather at the Ritz for Christmas. We would wear our nicest clothes and people watch: older men with ravishing young women, plastically enhanced bimbos, and the occasional family treat scene, like us.

I miss my sister so much. Sipping my Virgin Berlin, trying not to go home, feeling low, I thought of her in America, and felt strangely comforted.

I rode home gently, feeling at peace.

A wonderful spiritual experience A nice drink in a nice bar is sometimes all it takes.

Move that body

I dragged my sister to a Zumba class. It's a fitness/dance thing, mixing lots of different latin styles, and it's really exhausting.

I've done fitness classes this year, but it's only running that give me quiet. My brain stops talking talking, and my legs feel the pounding, and the world has a beautiful perfect silent quality to it.

I'm a terrible dancer (although an enthusiastic one) so I was hoping I could keep up with the Zumba teacher, an adorable Cuban man in his late thirties who could shake his money maker in a way I can only aspire to.

Something happened to me during that class. I lost myself in the music, in the gestures, in the tiredness of trying to keep up with the steps and not succombing to the heat, I found myself in that emptiness I love about running. I was pretty bad at anything requiring a good hip movement, Shakira has nothing to worry about yet, but I loved it.

That's the thing about exercice: I do it because it's the best cure for depression. I would do it if it bored me horribly. And I'll be honest: I don't like "fitness" for the sake of fitness, I don't care if I don't have perfect abs. One of the reasons I hated my bodysculpt class was all the negative body talk: "Come on ladies, let's get rid of that fat!" It was noisy and vulgar. People talked about dieting in the locker room. I'm a recovering bulimic: I don't need people talking about themselves as if they were slabs of meat.

I like the feeling that everything is slowing down and that I'm enjoying my own little nirvana for a while. And if it comes with a healthy dose of Cuban sexiness, that's pretty OK with me.

As I wrung the sweat out of my Tshirt at the end of the class, I exchanged a smile with my sister. She looked happy and worn out and delighted.

We walked slowly home, and I can't lie, I may have practised some of those hip shakes this morning.

Back from the USA!

Because I watched the Cartoon Network as a child in Holland, these vitamins completely won me over.
I <3 Northampton.

I had a wonderful time in America. First of all, I have to say that I love America, I love how completely gargatuan everything is, I love how junky the junk food is, I love how beautiful the country is, I love how nice everyone is. It's perfect. I'm very happy living in Europe, but whenever I go back to the USA I am struck anew by the sheer scale of everything-in a good way.

So I went to visit my aunt and my sister, and I got to visit two college campuses (or should it be campi? Whatever, as any good Freshman would say), Bard College and Smith College.

I'll focus on Smith College because I lived there! For three whole days!

The American Way of Education is just amazing. From the libraries to the gym facilities, to the splendiferous campus, it's just NOT THE SAME THING AS IN FRANCE. The incredible lavishness of it all...Anyway, I intend to talk about this some more, when I'm not ridden with jetlag.

Eternal Sunshine of the...

What are your memories worth if you are the only one to have them? Often my sister and I bicker about remembrances, and I know how grateful I am to have her as a sounding board. Did this really happen or was it an illusion? We'll replay some of the funniest or worst times of our childhood, and we'll giggle or shudder in unison.

What is your past relationship worth if you are the only one to remember it?

My biggest fear, strangely enough, when X and I were together, was that he would forget everything. Because he does. He can't remember names or faces, or events or anything. I would cuddle against him at night and wonder if he would remember how nice the meal had been, or how much we had laughed during the concert of A Hundred Gypsy Violins. And then I would realize that of course he would not.

In a way my fears have been realized. Sometimes I'll ask him "Do you remember that weird time we had..." and he'll shake his head. I suspect he'll only remember the bad times. Or maybe not even. He'll ultimately remember that we were together at one point, and not much beyond.

I am very good friends with my first ex, we've known each other since we were 16. The friendship we've built goes beyond what we shared as a couple, but it's so very comforting to know that when I make a joke about the time we went wine-tasting around Alsace and got hopelessly lost and rather drunk, he'll know what I'm talking about and smile.

With X, I know our friendship will be completely different if we remain friends. I don't mind that two years of my life have been erased from his memory, because I never expected him to remember anyway, and I've had time to grow accustomed to the idea that I will only have my side of the story.

I guess I'm forgettable, but at least I get custody of all the great memories.

Why I am afraid of taking drugs

I am terrified of becoming an addict.

My father is an alcoholic, many people in my mother's family have been addicts.
When my sister smokes hash or takes amphetamines "to study" better, she thinks I'm judging her because I am conventional and straight-laced, which I am. But not about drugs.

I can't imagine losing control of myself. I remember taking sleeping pills and doing things and not remembering anything, and I vowed to myself never to do that again. I get tipsy very fast, so I rarely drink more than two glasses of wine at a time, say once a month.

Not everyone becomes an addict. I know people who do drugs recreationally.

I'm just scared that I won't be able to, so I don't touch anything.

And deep inside, I wish my sister wouldn't either. Because if by chance she does become an addict-I don't think I can witness any more self-destruction again.

Irony

My current situation reminds me a lot of what the lovely Britni was saying on her blog a few weeks ago. I give advice I find difficult to follow to my sister, who is also going through a rough time with her ex-girlfriend. The ex is with another girl, yet keeps texting and calling J to tell her how much she means to her, etc. I tell J to cut her off, stop answering her calls.

Wish I found it easy myself.

My ex is not a piece of crap like my poor sister's former girl. He is a lovely man in so many ways, which is probably why I'm still hurting so much almost a month afterwards. But once I get to move out of this town, I will not talk to him. I need to move on, forget his horrid new girlfriend, and be a happy single girl. All this will happen. I know it will. When I follow my own advice.

my sister's back!

My sister has just returned from the States and she is in amazing shape. She looks beautiful and happy, and even overjoyed to be home with her boring family. She's a force of nature, is J, and I can't wait to gossip sarcastically with her, sample her new music collection and be scolded by her. After a leisurely jog this morning, I managed to get breakfast down and am looking forward to lunch...
I'm feeling better already.
Had a nice text message from Yelena, and I am very glad she will remain my friend. I like her enormously. We can meet up in Paris and have some nice girly lunches. Yay for new friends!
Off to Milton, with a real smile on my face.