Border Clash

There was no foreign financed wall to stop us from leaving Canada.

But there was a border agent with a badge, sitting in a small, grey booth in front of a fancy computer.

Our passports were taken.

The husband, the children and I stared at each other, wide eyed, while sitting on a bench inside a building that was presumably, the bastion of first world border security.  I whispered to the children, giddy and with a smile, that this was, “so exciting!”  I knew it would be an experience they would remember.  

They were not amused and told me to be quiet.

We were surrounded by people who were there for random vehicle searches.  We watched them come in the building and attempt to explain why their hypertension medication was not in its original bottle.  We watched them explain their arrest from 1994 when they were 19 and careless.  We watched them worry about their fluffy white dog, waiting outside, who “never did anything to deserve this kind of treatment.”

We were not there for a random search.  

We were there because of the husband.

He was suspicious.

The husband spoke to a border agent.  The husband was polite and respectful.  They asked him if he had ever been questioned before.  He tried to explain why he crossed the border with a bunch of long haired, pot smoking hippies in 1988.  They told him he had a common name. He casually mentioned his years of dedicated, patriotic, naval submarine service.

They told him there were problems.

They told him to wait.

We all waited.

I cheerfully mentioned to the children that this adventure might be used in an essay for one of their classes this upcoming school year.

They were not amused and told me to be quiet.

They did not use their polite words.

I smiled and assured the reliable, patient husband that we’d be out of there in minutes. I made jokes about his “criminal past”.  

He laughed.

Nervously.  

The border agent stared at his computer, typed furiously, paused, and stared at the screen. He repeated this several times.  He grabbed a piece of paper that had just ejected from a printer and walked quickly to the back of the room.  He gathered all of the other border agents around. They looked at the paper and discussed super secret things about the husband.  They glanced back and forth toward our family.  After half an hour of this,  I turned my now nervous head toward the fidgety husband, cocked my head sideways and raised my eyebrows.  I made my skeptical eyes big and silently asked the husband, “Do you know what the heck they are talking about?”

He seemed unaware I was speaking to him.

Over an hour passed.

We were still being held captive.

All because of the husband and his dubious, hidden, unlawful identity.

I put on my strong woman, resilient, happy survivor face and told the children that, “We were lucky because not many people get to experience American border security at such an intimate level!”

They were not amused and told me to be quiet.

The did not use their polite words.

They seemed a bit angry with me.

I stared long and hard at the husband and began to fuel a senseless rage in my head, “Gosh darn it! We’ve been together for 31 years. I thought I knew him!  What has he done? What is he keeping from me?”  

Our captivity had gone on long enough that I began to anxiously, wonder, way deep down, if my life with him had been one big lie.

The border agent eventually returned, explaining that he had cleared all the criminal activity associated with the husband’s common name. He apologized for keeping us for such along time, but there were some bad guys with the same name as the unblemished husband's name.  He wanted to make sure the husband would have no trouble in his future border crossings.

The husband was innocent.

We were free.

As we continued our drive toward home, I turned an ever-loving eye toward the reliable husband. I grasped his strong, steady hand and was grateful knowing that he hadn’t been hiding a serious criminal habit from me.

I said to the children, “Well, that was fun!  How many people get to experience that?!”

They were not amused and told me to be quiet.

The did not use their polite words.

They seemed a bit angry with me.

They asked me how long it would be until they could get wi-fi.

It Was a Friday

It was 3 months ago when I wrapped myself in thin pastel fabric.  I laid down on a sterile table topped by a flat mattress covered in a crisp white sheet.  The lights in the room were dimmed. My stomach was jittery and unsettled. I could feel my heart beating. I stared up at the spongy looking ceiling tiles and tried to count the dimples in each square.  I looked around at the flat beige walls and considered the scuff marks near the door. The flashing login screen on the computer next to me gave my anxiety a consistent, controlled rhythm.

A knock on the door jolted me into a smile and a handshake.The technician had arrived with her warm gel, her ultrasound wand of magic and a neutral, polite face that was necessary for her profession. I had been through a lot, physically and emotionally, since I got a little bit of cancer. This one year ultrasound checkup was where they would tell me it had all been worth it.

Instead, they told me they found something.

Again.  

Nothing was certain.   It could be surgical “debris” or it could be the first sign that the cancer was determined to kill me.   A multitude of experts bantered about terms such as extensive scar tissue and significant swelling and probable cyst and suspicious immobile nodule. They all offered their opinions. We decided I would come back in 3 months.  

3 months later, on a Friday morning, I laid down on the very same table.  A quiet calm dominated the room, but chaos monopolized the inside of my head.  I had months of erratic thinking swirling in my brain.  The unlimited freedom, possibility and privileged gift of life was drowned out by frightening uncertainty and the weight of potential impending mortality. If the cancer was growing again so quickly, it would, most likely, be very difficult to stop it from taking over.

It was a Friday morning when they told me they couldn’t find that suspicious nodule. In another 3 months I would have to come back and lay down on that table again.  But for now, they couldn’t find any cancer. For now, I could start to breathe again.  For now, I allowed myself to think I might be alive to see my son graduate from high school.

I stopped at the grocery store on my way home that Friday morning.  Grade school children were fighting with each other in the checkout line in front of me.  They pointed to the politicians on the covers of the magazines.

“That one is a liar and is stupid and hates people!”

“No, THAT one is the liar and is even stupider and KILLED people!”

As the kids escalated their argument, their mother turned to me.  She shook her head and sighed out of frustration.

“Can you imagine ANYTHING worse than living in a world where either of those two people are president of our country?” she complained to me.

Yes.  

I could imagine something worse.  I’d been imagining it for the last 3 months.

Not living.  

Not living in this mostly good, crazy, beautiful, messed up world.

Yes.  

That would be worse.

I Showed Him

A ten year old boy deflated my confidence with his piercing arrows of trash talk.  The armor that had taken me months to build up around myself was full of holes before the 5k race even started. The chubby old people should have just stayed home, grabbed a bag of chips, laid on the couch and turned on PBS.  

This is what he said.  

The countdown hit zero and the admonishing boy sprinted out.  

He was gone.

I hit the start button on my watch timer.

I run almost every day.  This was not my first race.  

But,

it was my first race since I got a little

bit of

cancer.

As my feet started moving my head started barking orders and expectations to myself.

“You had darn well better finish this race. You need to run that secret goal time.  You need to prove that you aren’t dying yet.  And whatever you do--- Don’t. Stop. Running.”

  

I’d show that boy what old people can do.

I’d show that boy what cancer people can do.

I’d show him.

That ten year old boy threw up on the side of the road. We were less than one mile into the race.

I saw him.

He was miserable.

I slowed a bit. I watched. I mentally paused.  

I KEPT RUNNING.

It’s been weeks since I finished that race and I’ve been trying to write about it ever since I crossed the finish line.  I’ve been trying to tell the story about that demoralizing “gigantic” hill, the pain in my post chemo joints and how the race was much harder than I had hoped it would be.  I’ve been trying to tell the story about how I passed runners much younger than me and how I did manage to get my secret goal time. I wanted to tell a story about how I proved, at least to myself, that I was not dead yet.

.

But every time I try and tell those stories I keep seeing that boy throwing up on the side of the road, all by himself, with no one helping him.  No one asking him if he was ok.  No one offering him any comfort.

In the replay in my mind, I think of someone besides myself.

In the replay in my mind, I make a difference.

In the replay in my mind,

I STOP RUNNING.

Oh, I got off the couch and finished that race all right.
I showed that boy.

I’m just not sure I’m proud of what I showed him.

80

80(unedited)

She walked across the grocery store parking lot with a smile and a purpose.   

She said to me, “I love your hair.

Could you please

tell me how you

manage

to make it

look

that

way?”

My head said quietly, “I hate my hair.  Thanks for reminding me of it.  Please go away.”

My mouth said out loud, “Thank you!  Actually this is the post chemo hair I was gifted with.

I am trying really hard to be grateful

to have

it.”

She said to me, “Oh, wow.  It looks great.  I was wondering how you got those parts to look blue?”

My head said quietly, “Desperation.”

My mouth said out loud, “I put a little bit of temporary dye in there.  It’s super cheap and easy to do.  It distracts me when I look

in the

mirror.”

She was naturally joyful and kind.  She smiled big, with all of her teeth showing.

She said to me, “Well that is just fantastic.  My mother is looking for a new look and this might be perfect for her.  I’m so glad I saw you.  My mother just moved and has been a bit depressed.  I told her a new look might help her feel better.”

My naturally curmudgeonly head said quietly, “Please go away.  I hate my hair.  Everything sucks.

Leave

me

alone.”

My mouth said out loud, “Well, I usually feel like an 80 year old woman when I look in the mirror.  The blue dye has made me feel a

little

bit

better.

She shook her head in a knowing, sympathetic way, side to side and then up and down.

She said to me, “It’s sooooo fun-neeeeee you mentioned that!!  My mother just turned 80 and recently stopped dyeing her hair.  That and her recent move into a retirement home has her feeling quite old.  I told her her she just needed to add a little bit of bright color to her hair,  

like you

have!”

My head said quietly, “See, Melissa.  It’s proof, you really are an 80 year old woman.  You will never be the same again. That elderly lady is your peer now!

Commence

feeling sorry

for 46 year old self.”

My mouth said out loud, “Oh yes, this will help your mother a lot!  It will perk her right up!  You can get it at the beauty supply store.  Just a warning though, it takes really well on grey hair and will last much longer than the 8 days

the package

says it will.

Good luck!”

I got in my car.

I put the key in the ignition.

I sort of started to laugh.

And then I sort of started to cry.

I tried to empty my stupid head.

But somewhere from the black hole

of my head

way far in

the back

someone …...

……………………….whispered.  

“She needs you.

That 80 year old lady needs you.  She needs that funky blue dye to feel young again in that nursing home.  She needs to be noticed.  She needs something to keep her alive, even more than you do.

You served a purpose.”

The rest of my head screamed back, “No, no, no, this all sucks.  There’s nothing good about it. I’m a mess. There’s no way I could help anyone.’

And a whisper answered

back,

“You’ve

done

good.”

I started the car, the radio blared alternative 90’s rock,

and suddenly,

all the voices

went away.

For this moment,  radio blaring, I wasn’t 80.

I

am

not

eighty.

One Year In

One year ago today I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

It has cost $371,838.40 to “fight” my cancer this past year.

My insurance, for which I am grateful,

changed drastically in the middle of my treatment.

My out of pocket costs unexpectedly skyrocketed.

My insurance company won’t always pay for what my doctors say will keep me alive.

I am now the face of a previously uninsurable, pre-existing condition.

If I was diagnosed a few years ago, I might be filing for bankruptcy right now.

The national debates about Obamacare and insurance continue.

While you vote for yourself, I will deal with the outcome.

Social media has told me I caused my own cancer.

Agencies who decide these things have made sure I won’t get any pain pills.

The comment section is sure people like me deserve the karma we get.

The internet has told me I can cure my cancer with weed and turmeric and enemas.

Forum posters are convinced I am an idiot for listening to my doctors.

The TV news said the mammogram that showed my cancer is a useless tool.

The lady at the store said big pharma has the answer and they are hiding it from me.

People I don’t even know have advised me to chop them both off.

I’ve thought about cancer a lot this past year.

But I’ve also thought a lot about all of that other stuff.

The most stressful part of having cancer this past year wasn’t always the cancer.

Somehow, that just doesn’t seem right.

Who You Gonna Call?

I was sound asleep 

and peacefully unaware

the instant it all violently jammed into 

reverse.

My eyelids snapped back, my pupils went into full speed dilation and the whites of my eyes attempted to jump out of their sockets. My whole body tensed up. The hair on my arms stood up. I felt my heart.  It thudded in my chest.  My blood rushed.  I took a deep breath and it sounded like an airplane taking off.  My ears, they heard everything.  

They heard the voices downstairs.

I looked at the clock.  

It was 2:30.

The 2:30 that happens when it’s dark and no one but you should be in your house.

The husband snored a bit.

He heard nothing.

I found it reasonable to leave the bedroom.  I took the stairs at a snail's pace, foolish and terrified. The third stair from the bottom failed to creek. This gave me confidence. My head rounded the corner in full CIA spy mode. I scanned the front room where the men’s voices were coming from.

They did not like being bald.

They knew of a way to get more hair and more women.

I only needed to pay 3 installments of $49.95.

The infomercial blared on the television that was turned off when we went to bed.

The TV continued to turn itself on unexpectedly and repeatedly for weeks. Eventually, it started turning itself off as well.  I Googled the problem.  My expert Google friends had lots of suggestions.  The batteries in my remote were low and were sending out ambiguous signals to the TV.  My prankster neighbors were turning my TV on with their fancy computer skills.  My ignorant neighbors were turning on my TV with their garage door opener.  

Or it was a ghost.

I told the husband and the teenage boy that I was pulling the batteries out of the remote like my Google friends had suggested.  But, I warned them, it was entirely possible we had a ghost.  They raised their eyebrows and nodded toward each other with that superior look that made it clear they thought I was wacky.

Two hours later I flew out of the bedroom where I was reading and yelled to the husband and the teenage boy in the other room. “DO YOU HEAR THAT??  There are voices downstairs again! I just pulled all  the batteries out of the remote and I’m pretty sure our neighbors aren’t messing with us.  How do you explain that??”

The husband muttered a muffled, “Wow, yeah….ghost….yep.”

 

The teenage boy mocked me with a chuckle, “Yeah, mom...it must be your G G G GHOST!” And then he and the husband laughed a lot at my expense while they pretended to shoot each other on their computers.

I found it reasonable to confront the talking men downstairs again.

They were hunting ghosts.

They were sure there were ghosts all around us.

I whispered inside my head, “yes…....ghosts……”

I knew it.  

I turned the TV off, marched back upstairs in full wide eyed nutjob mode and made the boys pause their game.  I pointed my finger at them in a scolding kind of way. “Well, not only DO we have a ghost,” I lectured them. “But we have a ghost with a sense of humor.  The movie Ghostbusters was playing downstairs.  Ghostbusters!! Now how do you explain that?”

And as they stared back at me, trying not to laugh, we heard the TV downstairs turn itself on again. As the movie went to a commercial, I heard the Ghostbusters theme song blare out of the TV.

“Who you gonna call?” Ray Parker, Jr. asked me.

The lyrics quickly

floated up the stairs 

and enveloped me.

I swear that ghost was mocking me.