Dusan was right. And I'm fresh out of pudding.

One for me, and one for my homies.

Picture it: Sarasota, summer 1987.  Our hair is huge, our income is 100% discretionary, and our only rule besides "stick together" is "don't get caught."  Elizabeth's parents foolishly decide to head to Europe for  a few weeks, leaving 16 year-old her - and by extension, Hope and me - at home alone.  Those of you who secretly call John Hughes your personal lord and savior know what happens next, right?  Elizabeth promptly installs Hope in the spare bedroom; I make frequent guest appearances; and most of our classmates end up at Elizabeth's house for a classy soirée.  You know how I know it was classy?  Because I was the one chugging the cold duck straight from the bottle (and there's a reason you only ever do that once).


Anyway, the good times are rolling, the hot tub is turning weird colors, and it looks like someone is heating up a carton of pour-a-quiche in the microwave (as one does). Elizabeth, Hope, and I are debating exactly how to deal with the police when they inevitably arrive (and they do), when Dusan wanders over.


Dusan is of Korean descent, incredibly smart, a musical genius, rather tall, not someone we usually run with, and ALLEGEDLY a fan of the Mary Jane.  He is normally mellow, but tonight - daaaaamn.  His eyes are doing that pinwheel-y thing that Bugs Bunny's eyes do when he takes one to the melon, thanks to Daffy's shenanigans.

Not actually Dusan.

Dusan oozes coolness - and just a tiny bit of condescension - as he leans in to the three of us and says, "You know, guys... I never said it was gonna be easy."  He waits a beat, then asks us to open his pudding cup (in all fairness, they're tricky under the most lucid of circumstances).  We oblige, and he ambles off, mumbling "This is the BEST pudding..."  


Hope, Elizabeth, and I are stunned into silence.  What the hell is he talking about?  When did he tell us this?  Is he even more ALLEGEDLY stoned than we thought?  Or is he a prophet?  And where did he get that pudding?  Is there any more? And really, what ARE we going to do when the cops show up?

Why yes,  as a matter of fact, I DO own the road.

Fast forward to fall 2011, and it looks like our pal was a
prophet.  It is not easy - life in general, yes, but more specifically, living with cancer in our family.  And that makes ME not easy to live with, and that's why I have been off the radar for a while.  For the last several weeks there has literally been nothing that anyone could say that was the right thing.   And when I am like that, I cannot stand to think that I am going to bite off some dear friend's head for saying the wrong thing, so I have just made myself scarce.

I know what you're thinking.  "*I* would have known what to say.  You could have let me know what was going on."  No.  No, I couldn't.   I assure you, no matter what you were going to say, it was going to be the wrong thing.  Ask me how Nathan's doing, and you're an insensitive jerk for not allowing me to have a life outside my son with cancer.  Ask me about anything else, and you are an insensitive jerk for not asking me about my son with cancer.  Tell me how strong I am and how you can't imagine how I manage, and you are an insensitive jerk for not realizing that I am not managing, that I am a hot under-medicated mess.  Tell me that God never gives us more than we can handle, and you are an insensitive jerk with shitty glib theology.  Tell me how lucky I am that Nathan is doing so well and how so many parents don't get the kind of good news we have gotten, and you are an insensitive jerk for turning suffering into a competition.  Tell me how awful it must be to have a kid with cancer, and you are an insensitive jerk for ignoring all those parents who don't get the kind of good news we've gotten.  Tell me that it could be worse, and you are an insensitive jerk for minimizing the pain and horror and grief and anxiety and fear, both high- and low-grade, that we have lived with since he was diagnosed in March 2006. And God and John Hughes help you should you decide to give me advice, because that will be a bridge way the hell too far.

In short, you cannot win.  Because I just want this to be over.  I do not want to be strengthened by my struggles or admired for my positive attitude.  I do not want to be an inspiration to anyone anywhere. I don't want to be "that family" any more.  I am not a good sport.  I am a tired, ungrateful wretch, and I want my life back.

Would be a one-of-a-kind tramp stamp.

Which is right up there with "oompa-loompa" and "date with the guy who played Tuco on Breaking Bad" (don't judge) on the List of Things I Deserve But Am Unlikely To Receive Sometime Soon.  My time in Camp Suck-It-Up is half over, sort of.  Nathan will finish chemo in July 2012 (screw the Mayans), and we will for sure pack up and vacate the cabin ASAP, but I suspect that no one checks out without commemorative camper tattoos.  


Nathan will continue to have MRIs every 6 months for the rest of his life, and we will continue to hold our breath and wait for the doctor's follow-up call.  And the odds are that he'll have further NF-related complications at some point, and that we will be shattered all over again.

So, why did I climb out of the hole and back in your face?  Because I taught my 5th graders last week that we have to be willing to unpack some yucky places in ourselves in order to connect with the characters in the books we read as well as the ones we encounter in real life.  Because when I mentioned that I could think of one of those yucky places right off the bat, a very wise 10 year-old looked dead at me and said, "Maybe you should write about it."  And because I may be a lot of things, but a bullshitter is not one of them, in the classroom or anywhere else. 

So, no. I am not getting what I want.  Probably not ever.  But I am learning to live honestly with what I have - ungraciously, kicking and screaming, pudding-free, and with my meds clutched in my hot sweaty hand.  Bless your heart for putting up with me.

Love you -

MA