I. Am. Rapunzel.

I had been waiting about 45 minutes when a small beige woman opened the door and called my number.

"Seven hundred and seventy seven." She looked around the waiting room both expectantly and if I wasn't mistaken, bored. This rattled me, I had just spent the last 15 minutes pondering the fact that at 10:14 AM with five other people in the waiting room, the slip of now damp paper in my hand read 777. That's seven HUNDRED. Did they already see 776 applicants this morning? Or did they not start the numbering process over each day? If not, how long has it taken them to get to 777+ interviewees? I was lost down this rabbit hole in my mind when the beige woman with a tight bun and glasses opened the door. 

"Seven hundred and seventy seven." She said it louder and slower this time. I pinched myself on the inside of my thigh. Hard. The tall man sitting two chairs away from me followed my hand with his eyes. I ignored him.

"Here." I said, standing up. Then thinking that it sounded too much like a classroom reply, I tried again. "That's me."  I sang out. Gah, what's wrong with me. "I'm seven hundred and seventy seven." I clenched my jaw.  No more words, keep quiet!  The beige woman looked at me, nothing about her changed. No smile, no nod, no frown even. Do I go with her? Or do I wait for her to invite me in? Keep your mouth shut. She pushed the door wider and stepped back. That was enough of an invitation for me. I did my signature hair toss as I left the waiting room knowing it would intimidate the others, make them powerless. I followed the tight bun on the back of her head as she led me down a short open hallway with cubicles to the left. I imagined the inhabitants were sneaking peeks at their soon to be--. I pulled myself up short. I had nearly run into the woman who had stopped in front of me at an office door.

"Please go in." She gestured. My stomach flipped over, I was so excited to finally be here. At last I was interviewing with the top brass for my dream job. I sat in the chair she pointed me to and looked across a modest desk to an empty ergonomic chair.   Where was my interviewer? Where was he when I had made my entrance? First impressions are everything and he missed my signature hair toss. The beige woman shut the door and walked behind me, around the desk and sat down. I stared at her and tried to get myself under control. Shit shit shit shit, SHE is the interviewer. I had thought she was the… the what? Secretary? Receptionist? Administrative assistant? Shit shit shit.  Without looking at me, she deftly shuffled through the papers in a file in front of her marked with the number 777.

"My name is Khshayarsha." She made a small clicking sound at the front of her name. "I am head of acquisitions and applicants." She still did look at me, but continued to examine several items in my folder.

"Ahh… Nice to meet you… " I hesitated, then decided to not risk using her name and screwing it up. "I'm –" She held up her hand and I stopped mid sentence.  Her hand stayed there as her eyes zipped across a page of writing. I wished I had brought a bottle of water with me. She lowered her hand and looked up.

"I have your application, required paperwork and blood test results here, but we seem to be missing your references." Her eyes were bland and colorless.

"Really? What?" I stalled "They aren't there? Well, that's strange." I made my face look puzzled. "I'll get another copy to you ASAP. I hope someone didn't take them." I grinned charmingly, "They might get a mighty strange reference if they didn't know who they were. My references, that is. If they didn't know who my references were. That my references were for me." That had sounded cleverer in my head. I performed a small head to toss to cover my awkwardness. The beige woman just looked at me a moment and then went on.

"I will be asking you a few questions here. Then we will do a brief physical exam." She indicated a curtained off area in the corner of the office. "Then we will proceed to demonstrations of strengths and talents."

"Sounds good to me!"

"Yes, quite." She paused "Shall we begin?"

"Yes… Ma'am."  I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat and felt the corners of my smile quiver. Dammit girl, pull yourself together! She cocked her head a little to the side.

"Why are you here?"

"Uh, I'm applying for a position?"

"Of course you are. All the applicants are. Why are you here?" Her voice was even and smooth, her expression didn't change an inch. What does she mean? What does she want? Shit shit shit. Then it clicked, I sat up taller and lifted my chin.

"I am here because I have special abilities and I think-- No, I KNOW I can be a superhero. I have been helping and saving people my whole life and I am only getting better and better at what I do. Everyone tells me all the time that I need to apply here and get formally recognized and accepted by the league of superheroes so I can better fulfill my destiny."  OK, that last part isn't exactly true but I do tell myself that all the time. The woman across the desk listened to my statement, and still her expression didn't change.

"I see." She wrote on a notepad. I tried to read it upside down but it was in some sort of shorthand and just look like squiggles and dots.

"Go on."

"Well, my superpowers include-." She held up her hand and I stopped.

"No, you will show me during the demo part of your interview. I want to hear why you are here."

"Oh, yes, I see."  Actually, no I don't. "Well, my instinct is to save people, I am attracted to their need without them having to say anything. I can sense their need and so I have to… I WANT to… I NEED to save them."

"But why?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you do it?"

"Because I have to."

"Why do you have to?"

"Uh, because it is my destiny? It is my purpose in life."

"What is your purpose?"

"What's my purpose?" I frowned, this was going in circles. "My purpose is to be a Superhero. To save people."

"Why?"

"Why what?" I barely held back the snap in my voice. I licked my lips.

"Why save people?"

"Why save people?!" I was dumbfounded "Because that's what we do! That's what superheroes do, that's our destiny and it's imperative that we fulfill it." She was jotting down more notes and I noticed a lot of them were circles.

"To paraphrase you then, the purpose of a superhero is to fulfill their own destiny?"

"Yes, thank you!" 

"And what is the destiny of the people they are saving?"

"Huh? I'm not sure what you mean."

"Is their purpose, or their 'destiny', to be the recipient of your rescuing?"

"Well yeah."

"And the ultimate purpose, in your mind, the divine reason for the existence of superheroes is…?"

"...is to be all that we can be and live up to the recognition and adulation that is bestowed upon us." I finished triumphantly.

"What about to be of service to others and make sure their lives are secure so they can fulfill their own purposes?"

"Yeah. Sure, that too." We sat and looked at each other for a long moment.

"We can come back to that in a bit." She dropped her gaze and pulled out another form with my writing on it. "So, tell me your name."

"Which name?" Strangely enough, I saw she cracked a tiny, small smile at that. Whatever.  "Do you want my superhero name or my real name or my alias?"

"Let's start with your superhero name." I performed my signature hair toss and said,

"Rapunzel"

"And what is an alternative name?"

"What do you mean?"

"What other names could you use instead? Rapunzel is a bit too fairytale, but mainly it is already highly associated with a well known figure from regional folktales and a specific commercial conglomeration." She looked at me over the top of her glasses, her pen poised to write.

"I thought about 'Super Tresses'." I offered reluctantly, she nodded.

"That's a little better. What else?" I frowned. Rapunzel what is my superhero name. I didn't want to change it.

"What else?" She repeated. I thought for a moment.

"Madame Pompadour?"

"That has the same issues as Rapunzel."

"Uh, Goldilocks? No, never mind. Umm, Mohawk?"

"Better. But let's put a couple more down, shall we." My cheeks were hot and my hands clenched into fists. I took a deep breath and folded my hands in my lap.

"Razor-cut." I hoped she COULD hear the sarcasm in my voice.  Apparently, she didn't.

"Good! Another?" I began to mechanically grind out words, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Beehive. Dreadlock. Pixie. Chignon."

"Thank you, I think that is enough. I am highlighting the ones that are my recommendations." I saw that she had selected Beehive, Dreadlocked, and The Pixie. "I'm going to highlight Razor-cut also, but that may not be iconic enough." She looked at me over the top of her glasses, "I assume you're fine with adopting any of these hairstyles associated with your ultimate superhero name." I nearly choked and barely refrained from shouting at her. But the word came out much louder than I intended anyway.

"NO!" This time her expression finally changed…a little. Her eyebrows raised just a fraction and her eyes narrowed just a fraction. I felt the sweat beginning to form in various places. I heard my breath going in and out, sounding ragged, but my brain felt so very far away. She slowly set her pen down and her eyes never left me as she sat very straight in her ergonomic chair. She adjusted her glasses with one hand.

"I don't believe I understand."

"My hair!" I gasped "MY HAIR! It's… it's… my crowning glory! It's my superpower! I've used it a couple of times already! How could you not have noticed? Are you blind?" Her face slowly turned to stone, but I didn't care. "I'm sure you noticed. I mean how couldn't you not notice?" I waved my hands around my head "My signature move? The hair toss?" I shook my head at her knowing there were waves of golden tresses swirling around my face; knowing how impressive I looked. I shook my magnificent head at her. "No?" I couldn't quite repress the little 'tsk' that followed. Her lips pursed ever so slightly and I felt a thrill run up my spine. She placed both palms flat on the desk and leaned forward just slightly. I couldn’t look away from her.

"Let us be very clear here. You attempted to use an unauthorized, unapproved superpower during an interview for application for admittance to the League of Superheroes upon the entity interviewing you? Is that what you are telling me?"

"Yes. Well, no. I didn't ATTEMPT to use it. I did use it. How could you have missed it? Are you immune to us or something?"

"Us?"

"Yeah, 'us'! Super heroes?" I failed at keeping the unspoken 'duh!' out of my voice at the end of the sentence. But I didn't care. This bland woman was an idiot. What is this? Some sort of test? Combat and defeat the Mistress of Idiocy? She chuckled then, low and dangerous, leaned back in her ergonomic chair and folded her arms.

"OK, you win. It's demonstration time. Show me your super powered …hair."

"Finally!" I stood up, shook my arms and legs, and stretched a little side to side. These were unnecessary moves but I knew I look good doing them. I stared her straight in the face and ran my hand under my hair at the back of my neck. With rehearsed ease I gave my crowning glory a fantastic flip. And I waited. But the reaction wasn't what I expected. In fact, there was no reaction at all. The beige woman nodded encouragingly.

"Go ahead." She prompted.

"I just did!" I repeated the move with more force, directing it with everything I had full at her bland face.

"I. Am. Rapunzel!" I thundered. She looked at me. 

"Oh dear.  I believe I understand now." She picked up her pen and began making notes. My vision narrowed and became a little fuzzy around the edges. My heart echoed loud beats in my ears.

"How dare you! How dare-" She held up her hand without looking at me and my jaw clamped shut. She pointed her index finger at me and I sat down without intending to. I raised my hand to activate my hair again. She drew a vertical line in the air and my arms clamped tight to my sides, my knees and ankles crashed together and remained pressed tight. I growled low in my throat and then pitched it as high and loud as I could. She touched her fingertip to her lips and all sound disappeared from my body. She continued, at leisure, to make notes. When she finished writing, she put her pen in a cup filled with other pens and gathered all my papers in one neat pile. Slowly and deliberately she slipped them into the folder marked 777.  She sighed and I swear she looked at me with pity.

"I wish there were a gentle way to tell you this." She stopped herself and shook her head. "No, that's not true." She gave me a hard look. "It's people like you—. Listen to what I am going to tell you and hear me well.  You. Do. Not. Have. Superpowers. In. Your. Hair. You are NOT a superhero." She stared at me a moment. To my horror, I could feel a wave of pity wash over me. No! Don't you dare! Don't you dare pity me! Don't you dare do that to me! Do you know who I am?

"I know you are not a superhero. You are arrogant, entitled, narcissistic, and completely unaware. You cannot see the world beyond your own needs and wants. Your opportunistic manipulation of others is what you consider your 'superpower' and that goes against the entire concept of what we represent here." She made a quick flip of her hand and I was free to move again. I tried to speak but nothing came out. 

"Yes, I'm sure you've noticed that I haven't released your vocal chords yet. If you follow my instructions, I will. When you exit this building, which you will do quickly and quietly, stand on the sidewalk outside of the entrance to the building. I will be able to see you from this window." She gestured behind herself "Then and only then, will I release you fully. You will then leave the area immediately. I suggest you find employment elsewhere."  She looked me up and down, then rummaged in a drawer and handed me a business card.  "You may want to consider this organization."  I would swear there was a twinkle in her eyes.

"You can tell them I referred you." She indicated the door. "That is all." She picked up my entire file and slid it into the basket marked “Rejected”. I looked at the card in my hand. It was made from some sort of very, very thin and very, very cold metal. 

The Supreme Order of Super Villians 

Chapter House # 1499

“Semper Malus”

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Some people never change.  And some change constantly. Me, I change in these small bursts irregularly spaced through out my life. Not all change is good, nor is it bad.  And I've had chunks of both. Some people don't want you to change, even if it is better for you to do so. And maybe those people don't want to be "your people" anymore. They may not like the newer you, and sometimes the newer you may not like them anymore. Sometimes the parting is mutual, but usually it is not. So, I have changed a lot through my life, both for the better and for the worse. I have lost some good people and shed some bad. Ultimately I am the sum of my experiences, but "non sum qualis eram", loosely translated "I am not who I once was". And that, my dear, is simply reality. And I choose to see it. 

Turn and face the strange

X's and O's

 Stream of consciousness writing January 2004 (edited and formatted)

Begin. Be gentle, go slow. Baby steps, tip toe, tip toe. TicTacToe.  #  X's and O's  Hugs and kisses from an absent mother. Always a note, so I will always know.

"Don't be afraid, I will be back soon XXX OOO." 

One for each of us.  I didn't know, thought they were all for me (or if you were reading all for you.)  

X's are kisses, this is the love, the exuberant, messy "I don't care who knows".  But kisses can leave me cold. There are just too many ways to mess them up. Too slobbery, too hard, like a peck from a chicken, chapped lips, bad breath, have good aim or you'll kiss someone's nostril. The intimacy of allowing someone's lips to touch yours. Your breath, your words come out from your lips. Sustainance, food, drink pass through them. Such a symbolic area. Reserved for VIPS. Unless I have bad breath.
But the O's, the O's were for hugs, the quiet, the strong, wrapping around and holding me up. O's  can be anytime, happy, sad, anytime, long, short, soft, hard, half, whole, A frame, patting the back, side by side, heart to heart.  So versatile, those O's.  I liked them better, I knew I was loved with those.





Love, 
     Mom
     XXX
     OOO

What's Your "Thing"?

I know people who think going on Facebook is stupid; and Renaissance Faires are ridiculous; and Letterboxing is childish; and dancing is a waste of time; and anything Science Fiction should be dumped in the trash; and no one looks good in orange; and short hair on women is unattractive; and computer games are for idiots; and art is boring. In other words, they look down on me because I enjoy those things. 

I have my own list of "those are stupid (or pointless or boring)" things that other people like to do. And for the most part, I keep my lip zipped on my judgemental opinion around them BECAUSE I know they enjoy it and BECAUSE I know what feels like to be sneered at for liking something. 

So before you get all self righteous about a new craze and share snarky memes, ask yourself....what is YOUR Pokeman GO?







We all have a "thing", even if it isn't Pikachu.

Nice People

I have become a rather cynical (dare I say bitter) old bitch as I have gotten older. Pain, disappointment and betrayal will do that to you.  I see myself going down this unhappy, but most of the time amusing, road.  Then along comes a Nice Person.  Well dadgummit, you just ruined it, didn't you?  

I planted a letterbox in Hawaii a couple of years ago, in a very urban, busy, indoor location.  I didn't expect it to last long.  I had such a wonderful time that trip, I got to see my brother and his family for the first time in 10 years (they live in Germany)  I got to meet my very first great-niece and see my niece (her husband was stationed there) being a fantastic mother.  I went with my sister who I hadn't gone on a trip with in a million years, and we got along the WHOLE time.  Plus.... I was in Hawaii!  So, this box has a little bit of a special meaning to me.  I didn't expect it to be visited so much, to the point I was getting notes saying the log book was getting full.  My niece has since moved on to Georgia, so I couldn't ask her to help out.  I figured why not just ask a fellow boxer who lives in the city and who has found the box already.  I contacted Morgan Family Hunters introducing myself and asking if they would send me the box, then replace it when I send it back.  SMACK!   I ran right into a Nice Person.  Not only was she happy to help out, she told me what that box means to them.  Oh, the warm fuzzies peeked out of my bitter heart.  Quick as a flash she sent it to me with a lovely, lovely note and a package of chocolate covered macadamia nuts.  Don't get me wrong, the candy was a sweet touch, but the note was better.  It reminded me that Yes, Virginia, There is Such a Thing as Nice People.  Lookee, warm fuzzies exploding all over!  I'm almost finished with the box and I will send it back to her and it will once again be in place.  But no sweet treat I send back to her can compete with the gentle uplift she has given me...simply by being nice.

There are even fuzzies in my navel.

He Always Called Me "Doll"

On or about 1950, Mr. and Mrs. Gotelli decided to settle down and raise a family.  They picked a house in a new subdivision south of The City.  They ran their business, worked hard, raised a family and retired.  Life shuffled along as it does, neighbors moved in, moved out, passed away, had kids etc.  Mr. Gotelli was a bossy, nosy guy.  He had no problem telling anyone what's what, and he did so frequently.  Everyone knew him, he knew everyone.  He watched out for all the neighbors, told them when kids were throwing rocks at their cars, questioned the friends who would come by and feed pets while the neighbors were on vacation, alerted them when their back yard was on fire, wheeled in their garbage cans when they were too overwhelmed with caring for their wife who had cancer, yelled at them when they would park their to-many-cars so that driveways were blocked.  When Mrs. Gotelli died he told his neighbor that every morning he would go to the cemetery to visit her grave and yell at her for leaving him.  He doesn't have to do that anymore.  On Tuesday he will finally get to settle in next to her and neither one will be alone anymore.  The Mr. Gotelli shaped hole in the neighborhood is pretty big, about the same size as the one that's in my heart, but not as big as the one that is in my husband's. No more morning updates on the way out to work.  No more anything.  The S of GremLandS wants me to make a letterbox in his honor and plant it in the cemetery.  I will do it.  I can't think of anything at the moment that will do justice to the unofficial Mayor of our street.  But I will do it.

:-(

Ex Animo

I used to write in a journal all the time.  I started in high school and continued to do so until about 13 years ago.  I can't explain why I stopped.  I know when I did, it was a very momentous time in my life.  It was a turning point, my whole life changed within a matter of days, hours even.  And for some unknown reason, I couldn't write in my journal about it.  I know because I tried.
And I never went back to writing in a journal like that again.  I have looked through some of my old ones and was shocked (and embarrassed?) to see I wrote about the SAME things over and over and over again.  I remember thinking, all that writing and nothing changed, so what's the point.  Fast forward many years and here I sit...writing.  But this is a "Blog" not a journal or a diary, right?  I don't write the deep dark obsessive crazy thoughts that occasionally surface in my head.  Because now I know I am not unique in having these kinds of thoughts.  Everyone does at some point or another with varying degrees of frequency.  I do write about personal things...kind of.  Most often I allude to them or make them into stories or metaphors (or fives).   So what is the difference?  Here, I write for a pretend audience.  Originally I did that because this is the Internet after all, one of THE most public places in the universe.  I would be uncomfortable, embarrassed to put myself out there like that.  But what is the point of writing if not for some personal benefit?  So, I don't write about what I did on my summer vacation.  I don't write about the food I eat, the clothes I wear, who I saw or talked to......unless I see something larger in it, some connection to something else.  I don't know why I started writing like this, but it has been so much more satisfying than all of the journals I filled for sooooooo many years about how unhappy I was with my life or what boy I was pining after or wondering what should I be doing with my life.  Because ultimately none of that mattered all due to that one point of time in my life that changed everything forever.  
So, let's bring this puppy back around full circle, shall we?  What is the point of this bit of writing today?  The thing that changed my life forever was cancer.  non sum qualis eram: I am not what I once was.  My vision of my life, my purpose, my path was totally blown up.  It pisses me off sometimes, I feel cheated, I feel angry often, I feel sorry for my self sometimes.  I have scars, I have pain, I am missing parts of my body, I am missing parts of my memories but I am lucky to be alive, lucky to have married the best man in the world for me, lucky that my family loves me (in their own strange way....see this written just in case any of them stumble on this post, can't be too sentimental here.  wink wink)   Still haven't come to the point of this post, have I?  I am going to leave it at that, because like I said before this Blog tends towards finding that bigger connection or message in every day things.  So, if this is being read by anyone else than me, it is up to you to figure out the connection that resonates for you.  As for me, I'm going to bed.






Non Sequitur

And Yet More Proof

What is happening here?  Have I crossed over into the twilight zone?  Do I resemble foie gras?  Here was the scenario:


1. Pre-existing drama in group A.
2. Poor parenting guidance in group A.
3. Repeat of bad behavior of a minor in group A.
4. Request from group B to correct this.
5. Group A's dysfunctional communication cause misinformation.
6. Clash occurs between members of group A and group B.
7. Apparently, I am the only voice of reason on the whole block, but no one will stfu long enough to listen.


I stood between someone who's position was to keep asking a loaded question and someone who position was of the excluded middle.  I mean that literally, I physically stood between them as they repeated the same arguments at each other.  My repeated phrase was "stop", "STOP", "STOP!".  But no one listened.  I knew which direction to go in to solve this thing and it was as if I were invisible.  When I was finally able to get a word in, I pulled out the facts.  The series of events that took place.  The ultimate goal was to stop the kid from throwing rocks.  In the end, its was resolved peacefully between the two arguing adults.  All's well that ends well?  


Not quite.  


The fall out was that  an 8 year old boy was reduced to tears and I was left with the disturbing feeling that I am inconsequential.  





:-x

Apparently I *AM* Chopped Liver

So, I'm not always the most social person.  A lot of time if I have nothing interesting to say, I just stay quiet and this is a trait that has bothered people all my life.  Because, as we know, people like to comment.  As a kid, I never knew what to say to these personal observances.   As an adult, I still don't know what to say.


"You sure are quiet!"  (what do I say to that? okay?)
"You sure don't say much."  (I could agree conditionally, because sometime I yammer on and on.  All depends on the person, the subject, the situation, etc.)
"Well, no one can complain that you talk too much."  (said by an older boy when I was a pre-teen.  Was that a criticism or a compliment?)


We arrive at today.  I have been trying to reconnect through FB with some family members that I stopped having regular contact with.  I invited them to play some fun word games that we could take our turns at leisure and there is a chat window to...well, chat.  All is well and good I thought.  sigh.  Predictably, since it's summer people have been out and about on vacations and so there are longer waits between turns.  No big deal.  But this is the little zinger I get this morning:


Relative One:  sorry to take so long, hopefully (Relative Two)  told you I was camping and out of service
Me:   no, I didn't know
Relative Two:     Hi there! Nice to have you back (Relative Two)! I didn't really think to chat while you were gone. Sorry


Wait, what?  "Didn't think to chat while you were gone."  Seriously?  Seriously??  Wow.  Okay.  What do I say to that?  


Sarcasm:  Sorry I'm not worthy of your conversation.
Guilt-trip:  I'm not so good with chatting lately, things have been kind of rough.  I'm a little down I guess.
Deflect with humor:  Is this thing on?  taptaptap
Passive Aggressive:  Welcome back, chatting just isn't fun without you.
Martyr:  I know I'm boring.
Honesty:  ouch...

Okay, Here is the wrap up and the ultimate question.  You can't control what other people say or do.  I get that, I accept that.  You can only control what you do.  Yep, got it, accept it.  But how do you make yourself not care?  I can let it roll off my shoulders, I can control the impulse to lash out.  I can't control the feelings that come up.  I can't make it not sting.  I can't make myself not care what my family members say or do.  In the end, I can only kick myself for thinking things will be different this time.  Ultimately, I know better...no matter how much hope springs eternal. 








I am pâté, thankyouverymuch.

Letter to the Lady Who Cut in Line

Dear lady who jumped the line,
Yes, I saw you sneak through.  No, I don't believe you didn't know there was one line for two cashiers.  Why do you think you are more important than everyone else who is waiting their turn?  You are the perfect example of why people who play by the rules, work as a team, do the right thing are the ones who get screwed.  So thank you for that, thank you for taking humanity down one more notch.   Am I overreacting?  Maybe.  Or is this just one more log in the fire of my frustration?  Please, cut in line again...I'm begging you.


sincerely,
The lady with no more patience



beotch!!

This Is Me Trying to Let Go

A few days ago a friend helped me plant a LB that was part of a "Memorial Plant Day" for a boxer called preboxed who died recently from cancer.  I don't know what kind she had, but I hate every form it takes.  Guess it has stirred some stuff up, this is what I just wrote on my Facebook page.  I'm putting it here too because "This is me trying to let go." 

It's been probably 7 years since she died.  They played "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" by Israel Kamakawiwo'Ole at her memorial.  I break down every time I hear it...still.  I also don't talk about it.  So...this is me trying to let go.
Patricia was my "cohort".  We were in a breast cancer support group together, it was part of a study to see what type of therapy is most beneficial to breast cancer patients, regular group vs. variety (group, art therapy, education, yoga, etc.)  After the initial study was over, she was the only I kept in touch with over time.  She kept in touch with everyone, she was the glue.  I went to a "Survivors Day" in GGP with a friend and met her there, because she was a fierce survivor and wanted to celebrate it.  Even when she had a recurrence.  The last time I saw her was several months before she died.  I met her at Kaiser and sat through a chemo drip with her.  We laughed and talked and talked and talked.  I talked with her on AOL for a while after that, but then she became quiet.  Then I got the email from her partner saying that she had died.  For about 6 months after her screen name would still pop up on the IM thingy they had then.  Every time, my gut reaction would be to smile and think "Hi Patricia!"...then I  would remember and realize it was her partner, taking care of the business of life.  
I went to her memorial alone.  Steven can't go to things like that, it hits too close to home for him, but I needed to go.  I was in pain with muscle spasms and in a mental fog.  Patricia.  Dead.  Damn.  I sat in the back of the Swedenborgen Church in SF and listened and cried and held hands with the strangers on either side of me.  Then I tucked it all in the back of my head and went on with life.  Until I would hear THAT song.  Then it all comes back, every time, just as strong, and I don't tell anyone.  Until now.  I miss my friend, Patricia.  I am afraid, too.   When will that be me?  Because someday, it will.  And no amount of good intentioned "get hit by a bus" pep talks people give doesn't change the fact that one of my "buses" has already turned the corner and is heading towards me and all I can do is hope I've gotten out of the way in time.




I haven't bought a ticket anyway.