Thursday, June 11, 2009

Off kilter

I'm not sure what to say, next.

This is the first minute I've had alone since Teri got her news last week. As I said, we were on the road, heading to a family gathering, when she told me that her doctors had just left the room.

I had a great time in North Carolina with Clint's family and their friends. We meandered on the trip there and back, did some photography, met some people. I returned to work to train a coworker in InDesign, which involves talking and instructing for 8 hours a day. I'm sure she is sick of the sound of my voice. After work, I do chores at Mom's house, take her to see Teri, give her a bath, give her dog a bath.

Repeat Wednesday.

Repeat Thursday.

I move through everything that must be done. These things, they are not entirely unenjoyable. Friends and family are fun. Coworkers are pleasant. Teri's in good spirits. Clint is...Clint (constant and wonderful).

And yet, when asked how I am, this week, I answer "I am not ok." I have never been so "not ok" in my life, and I've never felt so unapologetic for it. I cry in-between acts: on my lunch break, and when I'm driving down the road. I talk to Clint and cry at the dinner table.

Tuesday afternoon I had to get out of my workplace, after repeating the word "hospice" too many times upon my return. I drove to Di's house with the intention of having a good cry and a cold diet coke. I approached her driveway to have inform me, over the phone, that she was in Michigan.

I sat on her porch, and went about the cry anyway. I looked up to find a neighbor crossing the yard, asking "Honey, are you ok?" I told her "No. I am not ok. I came over here to have a diet coke with Diane, and she's not here."

"AND," I threw in as an afterthought, "my sister has cancer."

"Awwwwwww, did you just find out?" she asked me. It was a question that sent me back into uncontrollable sobbing, all the while observing that I had the handkerchief that I had bought for Clint to carry at Jennifer's wedding in my hand. How did this happen? I don't know, but it's nice, a handkerchief, for crying.

I returned to work, wiped out. Exhausted, I was, that afternoon, when an un-named for now television producer phoned me, asked if he could have a sample of my writing, and inquired about my possible interest in script writing for a future show.


It was a phone call that might normally make me say something stupid, but I was, simply, spent. I was tired, and in turn, calm and smooth. I told him about breaking up with someone in high school after getting a high-maintenance, Farah-esque haircut, and opting to do my hair through lunch period, thus letting a boy think I no longer liked him. Yep. That's what I talked about. I'm sure glad I didn't say anything stupid.

So.

Up-down, up-down. How do I sound like I'm doing? I've lost 7 lbs in 7 days. The mere thought of a certain diner breakfast we had on the way home makes me want to toss my cookies; the only thing I want to eat is watermelon. Watermelon is so watery and clean and not-greasy.

I feel bouncy and unsure, but I've decided not to worry about what I should or should not be writing here. I've decided not to apologize. I'll be back when I'm ready...30 minutes or 8 weeks from now. I'll be fine, or I'll be a mess. I'll be what I am at that point.

Hold my hand. Bring me watermelon. Pray for us.

12 comments:

  1. It's okay to not be okay now. No apology is expected. Let the tears come as they may...it's better that way (I'm an expert tear-maker myself - leaking a few now). Do what you need to for you and yours, and know that we're here for you when need us. That man you got is a strong one - he'll be there for you too. We love you and hurt right along with you. {{{}}}

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  2. I'm virtually holding your hand.

    I'll send you watermelon. What is your address?

    I'm praying for you. Always.

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  3. Anonymous6:49 AM

    Lori, it's ok to cry. I am crying right now. I know that I am not the same as Aunt Dee, but you know where I live and if you want to come cry over here you are more than welcome. My prayers are with you and your family. Love ya, Kelly

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  4. Oh friend, I am weeping right along with you. Crying out to God to help you through this. Love you.

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  5. Oh Lori, I'm so so sorry, and I'm crying right along with you. Loving hugs to you and yours.

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  6. You're doing o.k. You should be crying when you have to....

    I am thinking of you and wishing I could ease your pain but the pain is there because you love so much...

    give me a call anytime....398-9252...

    I know honey....I know....

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  7. The unnamed television producer is looking for authenticity and you have it. The "I will be what I am," attitude permeates your writing and is what makes all of your internet friends love you so much. Sometimes life sucks. Your sharing of your tears, as well as your laughter, makes all of us think maybe our lives aren't so sucky after all. (Stay away from Hollywood. They don't deserve you.)

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  8. Carol9:46 AM

    Although I hardly know you and vice versa I will be thinking of you and your family. I just wish there was someway I could help you the way you helped me through Chris's deployment. You have an incredible support network and that is a blessing.

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  9. I think acknowledging your true feelings is fabulous. It will make you free. Best wishes and sending some virtual watermelon your way.

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  10. Anonymous5:44 PM

    Be and feel however you need to at any given moment. Do not apologize, life is a roller coaster, full of surprises both good and bad. Your reactions are normal, healthly and even better for you to share. You may not know all of us, but that is ok. We can hold your virtual hand and send much needed thoughts and prayers your direction. Do what you can when you can and the rest will eventually fall into place.

    {{{{{{{{{Lori}}}}}}}}}

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  11. Sending you strength vibes and virtual hugs.

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