Because who doesn’t want to see photos of a Great Pyrenees puppy with freckles and badger marks?
So during the pandemic, I, like many people, added a dog to my household. This might not have been the most brilliant idea because I already have two other dogs, one quite big and sometimes mistaken for an Irish wolfhound, but she’s just a super shaggy labradoodle.
Anyway, that is what I did. I got another dog. His name is Calvin and he is what you call a “giant breed” puppy. He’s 16 weeks right now, and he’s weighing in at over 30 lbs. He’s going to probably weigh 100 lbs when he is an adult. I call him “Baby Huey.”
Although I’ve gone to PetSmart to buy high-quality large-breed puppy food for him, I don’t like to go out very much. I’ve been quite observant of the social distancing guidelines (and as a result find myself having lengthy conversations with my dogs, and I don’t think this is entirely mentally healthy). But, he likes to chew, this puppy named Calvin, and is destroying my home and shoes. So to deal with the chewing issue, I went onto chewy.com for the first time and looked for some sizable and sturdy chew toys for Calvin.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I am not completely oblivious, and I noticed some weird stuff about the dog chew toys.
I don’t know, guys. Look at this stuff. Weird, right? Not your average Nylabone(R). It seems to me I’ve seen things like this in sex shops on South Street in Philly. If that hard plastic white thing on the right isn’t dildo-looking, then there must be something wrong with me. And that black thing, that is a butt plug. An enormous butt plug.
Does anybody else see what I am seeing here?
Do you think since pet supply stores lost so much business when everything was closed that they have also gone into the sex toy business to expand their market? I suppose this would be a good business model. (Diversification, folks. Diversification.)
So I guess if you are home alone a lot during the pandemic and are feeling lonely, but weird about using your credit card to buy sex toys off evesgarden.com or think that your box might get damaged and the post office is gonna go through your mail and Donald Trump will know you ordered sex toys and then tweet about it, then what the hell. Go to http://petsmart.com and buy a chew toy for a giant breed puppy. And that pink g-spot thingy. Go for that, too.
As I write this, my labradoodle is about 8 feet away and drinking water out of the toilet. I do not live a glamorous life.
Stay well and fine during these times, folks. Love to all.
When the last season of “Breaking Bad” aired in 2013, my kids and I waited for every episode and watched together. Like all shows I ended up loving after 2008 or so, my kids introduced me to it. “Dexter,” “Breaking Bad,” Game of Thrones,” “It’s Always Sunny…”; they all were made known to me by my kids.
In those days, we were watching every week. I remember my feeling of satisfaction at the end of “Felina,” the final “Breaking Bad” episode, as Walt killed the neo-Nazis who were holding Jesse hostage, and then, even though he had gone to their home to kill them and Jesse both, seeing Jesse having been reduced to a slave, dirty and pathetic and forlorn, having a renewed love for his character and saving him, not killing him. And watching as what I hope would happen did: Jesse killing his dead-eyed captor Todd with the very chains that Todd and his family used to restrain Jesse. What I wanted to happen, happened. And I was happy, and my Scorpio-vengeful-love-to-see-people-get-what-they-deserve side was happy.
Another show my kids kind of introduced me to was “Game of Thrones.” My daughter started watching it in 2011 when it debuted. She enthusiastically told me about this queen and her brother being caught having sex by a little boy, so the brother threw the little boy out the window and now he was crippled. I was horrified. “I do not think a 14-year-old should be watching a show about incest and child abuse,” I told her. I assured her I would never watch it and told her I didn’t want her to watch it, either. Fortunately for both my kids, there was on-demand television that could be accessed while I was at work, and my daughter continued to watch, the lucky child of a distracted single mom…
When she went to college and I was an empty nester for about 2 weeks before my son moved back in and ended my isolation, he started to watch “Game of Thrones,” now in Season 5. I was futzing around the house one day as he started the series, vacuuming, doing dishes, whatever, as he watched the first few episodes. (When I think of it now, it was one of the few times I can recall making myself busy by cleaning.) By about the fourth episode, my hearing what was going on in the background while I went about my business convinced me that I should go back to the first episode and watch for real. I wanted to find out what was going to happen to Ned and Arya and unconscious Bran.
So my son and I sat down, and we binge watched this show through the current episode. We watched the end of Season 5 in real time, and we continued to watch the show in real time until the end of the series.
A lot of people hated the end of GOT, and I admit that I did, too. I thought it was rushed and illogical. It made no sense that Jamie loved Brienne and all she stood for, but then went back and died with Cersei after all the evil she’d done. Jon should have been king, not Bran, who was pretty much deranged at that point. I always thought Daenerys was bonkers, so her derangement at the end was no surprise to me, but Jon putting up with it as long as he did when his moral code was so high, that made no sense. And why was the battle of the undead and the living done so quickly? That should have gone on at least 2 episodes. Yes, Arya is talented, but that was just too tidy.
What about the family?
So there was a lot to be aggravated about, but what bothered me the most about the ending of “Game of Thrones” was not what bothered most. It was this: after losing their father, mother, and 2 brothers, after scratching and scrambling for years to reunite, after being together in a joyous few months at Winterfell, why did the Stark children separate? Why did the show runners have each not only go their separate ways, but do so without question or hesitation? I could not wrap my head around Arya, despite her adventurous nature, leaving her beloved Jon and the sister and brother she’d waited years to see again. I could not stand Bran as king, but away from his sisters and brother after fighting wights and evil and monsters to get back home? And Sansa, who hugged her brother Jon so tightly and wept when she first saw a member of her family after years and losing so many, and then apologizing to him for being such a bad sister, how does she just leave him? He loved her, he protected her, they were never close as children, but now they were.
How do you do that to a family that has done everything to reunite? And that pained me, it stuck in my craw. I was hurt. I wanted them to be together. In my head, I imagined Jon would go back and see Sansa from time to time, that Sansa would visit Bran and Tyrion and Brienne in King’s Landing to check on them, that Arya would not be gone forever and would one day come home to her sister. I had to do that in order to be at peace with a show that I had loved for years.
My yearning for a complete family makes a lot of sense. I come from what most would deem a dysfunctional one. This past January, my dad died from advanced cancer nobody knew he had, and it crushed me seeing him suffer so much at the end of his life. I was with him in the room when he died. I talked to him for a while after she stopped breathing before I got the nurse to let her know he was gone.
My father’s last few weeks were spent crying in pain and not knowing he was dying from bladder cancer, and my mother and I had to decide to put him on hospice care because his kidneys were failing, he was in pain, he was not going to get better and he had been saying, “No more.” My mother has memory loss (she has never been officially diagnosed because of shitty doctors, the same that let my dad’s symptoms go unaddressed, but most would refer to it as moderate dementia or Alzheimer’s), and she was unable to make the decision on her own. She did not fully comprehend what was going on. When he was awake he was crying in pain, but when he was mercifully asleep she would try to wake him because she thought it was boring to visit him if he wasn’t even going to talk. We’d stop her and then she would want to go to the cafeteria.
When we were talking to the nurses about setting him up on morphine, my mother said to me in front of everyone, “If I get sick, I hope you don’t kill me, too,” and the friends and nurses in the room winced along with me. It did not make that painful decision any easier, and I have guilt about the decision I made, anyway. It’s hard to decide to let a parent die, even one who is not going to get better and is in pain. And although my mom has memory loss, she’d have said similar before that happened. The bombs that come out of that woman’s mouth.
My sister was not involved in the hospice decision. At that time, I was the healthcare proxy along with my mother. My sister had been acting out at the hospital and had been confronted by security a few times. For 6 years at that point, she had intermittently been sending me very disturbing text messages. She has some undertreated issues, and when she gets angry or thinks she has been dissed, she lashes out. In 2014, I stopped talking to my entire family for about 3 years after she sent me texts and voicemails saying I was a bad actor, my family knew I was garbage, I care about no one but myself, my boyfriends know I am shit so they dump me, I’m ugly, and at the end of the last voicemail before I blocked her number, hoping that the police find me hanging by my shower curtain rod. When I asked my parents about why she was doing this, my father said, “Well, you have been a bad sister.” This had been after years of her throwing me out of her house in anger, her calling me a bad mother in front of my kids while she was hung over after a night of my babysitting her kids while she was out drinking, her throwing me out of her community pool, her getting in a fist fight with her neighbor on her front lawn (the neighbor loosened several of her teeth), her over and over again telling me my kids hated me.
The scary texts began again in summer of 2019, but they no longer wished me dead. They said outright she was going to kill me. She accused me of conspiring with her former friends against her; these were women I had literally not spoken with in years. One text was so frightening, I left my home to make a police report and locked myself out. By the time the locksmith came and got me in, it was 4 hours later and I was calmer. I decided not to go to the police. It wasn’t the end of the weird and accusatory texts. On the first day of a new job, instead of going straight home afterward, I stopped at the train station near my son’s restaurant job and sat with him and his girlfriend and had a drink, and the day was stained by texts saying I was manipulative and evil because my parents had made me the executor of their will. They had done this because my sister had literally driven her car up on their lawn, burst into their house and smashed things and they were so scared they called 911 on her. But, facts never matter much to my sister.
So, as my dad lay dying in the hospital, my sister sent me a text saying she was going to slash my throat and spit on me. In the hospital, she started making scenes. She jumped me in his hospital room as he lay sedated because my mother had decided to change his doctor, and I had agreed. She felt we had done this behind her back, and she got in my face and started screaming and putting her finger in my face. I screamed for help, but the nurses already had called security. I went down to the lobby to get away from her, and when she got off the elevator, she did the same and the people at the front desk called security yet again. That night, I got a restraining order, which at the time my mother agreed was necessary, primarily because her friends supported me and told my mother so. They have a daughter who had gotten scary texts from my sister and had held on to them for years because they were so frightening and she thought she might need to take them to the police someday.
After my dad passed away, I had a lot of guilt and sadness. My daughter reminded me of the many times he had screamed at all of us and called us names. She did not do this to make me feel bad, but to put things in perspective. People do not become angels just because they get sick and die. My mother had called me many times saying he was going to divorce her, and even though she had memory problems he would drive away from the house and leave her alone or call her names that were horrible. In his defense, my mother is a very difficult person at times, and the things she says are hateful, and she couldn’t remember anything and would accuse us all of lying about things that had happened because she could not remember them.
People are complicated
My father also took her to numerous doctor’s appointments and put her medicine together but put up with her inane conversation and accusations. My mother needs to be entertained constantly and does not like to be in the house, and he was 87 years old and driving her around each and every day, even though he was exhausted. I was at their house with him asleep on the couch and my mother waking him up to take her out for a cup of coffee, then telling us my father was falling asleep at the wheel at stoplights. It must have been hell for him. She wasn’t easy when she was all there; imagine when she was not.
So my daughter tried to make me feel better by reminding me of how I had called the police to check on them to ensure my mother’s safety when he was screaming or how I had to drive an hour to her house when he left her alone. And how I would feel bad for my mother being yelled at or left at home, even though this was the person repeatedly told me what a bad person I was or defended my sister against the horrible things she had done to me or who told me that, yes, my kids were beautiful but my sister’s kids, they were really something special. A lifetime of this from both of them.
So everything is grey, really. You can grieve your father and be sick that he is lying there in pain and terrified and crying, but you can still realize that being called names and being yelled at much of your life has had a terrible impact and that maybe some of your sister’s shit comes from this kind of background. And that it’s sad that your mother can’t remember a damn thing and accuses you of all kinds of evils, but she called you names and accused you of things when she was lucid and you were 10 or 20 or 30 or 40 years old. And that when you were a single mom and raising your kids alone, and when your ex lied about his income even when you were struggling to pay rent and it affected your kids, and married a woman whose son physically hit your kids and your ex did not protect them, and the woman he married verbally abused them and made them feel small, that your mother in anger would say to you, “Those kids would be better off with their father.”
And that you went to a psychic once who said to you, “Wow, your mother says things to you a mother should not say,” and you knew that psychic was not full of shit.
And that in order to not become like your violence-threatening sister or your angry parents, you have been in therapy for literal decades.
What does this have to do with a television series or two?
I just finished binge-watching “Breaking Bad” again after 7 full years. I had not seen every episode; the episodes of Gale in the lab and Jesse with Andrea were fully new to me. I have not had a weekly show to love since GOT, and I don’t watch much television but I sure do love having that one thing a week I watch that I look forward to. And I wanted to rewatch something that I loved so much the first time. So I watched again, but instead of weekly, I was watching several hours of episodes a day. Twice I stayed up until 4 a.m. watching, once when I had work the next morning. I was really into it.
And watching this time stirred up a lot of feelings for me again. Not dissimilar to my reaction to the last season of GOT. I watched the last episode last night, and while the first time the thing that meant the most to me was Jesse’s liberation and the demise of Todd, the thing that struck me this time was the few moments Walt spent in the kitchen with Skyler, his ex-wife. Walt had started his grand drug-cooking enterprise because he had cancer and was going to die, and he could not leave his family with nothing. He wanted them to have money to live on once he was gone. And he became entrenched in it, he became more the drug lord than the loving father of a baby and teenage son. He spent more time away from them than he did with them.
What Walt loved, he destroyed. They lost their home, they hated him, he was the cause of the death of his brother-in-law and the rift between his wife and her sister, who used to be close. And in the end, he gets to spend a few moments with his shattered ex-wife in a kitchen of a small rental apartment and a minute with his sleeping baby daughter. He has to view his son from a distance because his son wants nothing to do with him. What mattered to him most was lost to him because of what he did. And watching him in the few minutes in the kitchen with Skylar made me cry. She probably had no idea he wore his wedding ring around his neck because his returned cancer made him too thin to keep it on his finger. Despite being a shitty person, he loved his family.
I did not have the same joy watching “Felina” as I did the first time. I felt horribly sad. A family torn apart, the members hurt and sad and broken. It crushed me, like Arya and Sansa and Jon and Bran winding up far flung and away from one another, even though they loved one another. Like my dead father who called us all names and had temper tantrums and threw things, and a mother who called me “El Stupido” when I could not do my math homework, and a sister who sends texts that say she is going to slash my throat and that my beautiful children are fucking ugly. I cried over it. Because familial love is thick and ugly and painful and complicated sometimes. And ends up hurting a lot of people.
So I tried texting my kids after I watched. Both live within an hour of me. I wanted to hold them close. I have family members who have hurt one another and who have hurt me and vice versa. I have a sister who is going to jail for breaking a restraining order against me and a mother with a memory problem who blames me for all of it and who has told me she is rewriting her will. I cannot change any of that. I don’t even want to; I want to remain away from it because it keeps me saner.
But there is still a tiny family that is mine, and watching “Felina” reminded me that they are everything. And in the end, those 2 kids are all that matters despite whatever pain and difficulty we may endure. I want us to stay together, not physically because they are grown, but tied in love and trust. That means more to me than anything.
Now I need to find a happy show to watch.
Love and peace to all. Stay well.
Housebound with my daughter for the past 9 days during pandemic shelter in place days, and while flicking around on the remote we stopped to watch the hawking of hand-painted leather purses for $199.99 on the Home Shopping Netwirk.
In case any of you out there decide to douche at midnight during a blackout, I have got the product for you.
This is what you buy when you are detoxing off one of your antidepressants and are waiting for the doc to refill and you haven’t much to do at your new job and are feeling a bit like a useless appendage.
At home there are two dogs wrecking the house, aided and abetted by one five-month-old kitten to whom you are highly allergic but saved from a hoarding situation and have so far gotten her every shot imaginable and had her treated for fleas, extreme underweight, and an upper respiratory infection. There is a nice home waiting for her once she is cured of all her illnesses.
You survive the dander by hanging out in your room and not letting the pets in while they wreck the house on the other side of the door.
In two days is the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur and while you walk a fine line between Judaism and Catholicism, this is a day you take seriously. And you hope your saving this little baby will somehow convince God to give you a pass for your errors and trespasses of the past year, of which there were a few.
And if you remember, you will say a prayer for all those who broke your heart by not accepting you for who you are and not recognizing that that is what you tried to do for them, grouchy days, sorrowful days, flaws and all. But then you have to send them on their way. Because they won’t ever get it and it is not your charge to make them.
And there are Serenity Slurpees (Coke!) to savor, and scrawny kittens to rescue and cuddle, and prescriptions to be filled, and though it is hard to be misunderstood, you will fly far from the burning bridge visible from your rear view window, and you will ask God for a fresh start.
So, I just read this article that sums up some of what I have been feeling as someone who has “beaten” cancer. (I often feel as if cancer has beaten me, like with a stick, even though I was only Stage 1 and have been told I am free of cancer now.)
You’re left with fear, your single focus of fighting cancer and having doctor upon doctor helping you achieve that goal finishes and then you have to go back to ordinary life, but you are different and so is your life. Someone wrote this in HuffPost, and I hope some can relate.
I realize I started this blog out to be funny. And then life happened, and some things are funny. But some are not.
Love to all.
Here is the LINK to the Huffington Post article.
True story this: When I was a little kid, we lived in the city (THE city), and my Auntie Betty, the person second only to Jesus Christ himself for a good and kind heart in the history of this planet, used to take us on the bus from Staten Island to Queens or Manhattan, or from her apartment in Queens to Manhattan, all over. We were quite the little bus riders back in the day. And I used to get upset as a kid of about 7 when I saw the old people on the bus, and Auntie Betty wanted to know why, and I was sad because the old people on the bus were going to die soon, and that just broke my heart.
And to this day, my mother has my schoolwork from when I was a little kid, and for current events I used to being in obituaries. My mother has notebook pages with obituaries taped to them and scrawled first-grade pencil descriptions about the person who died. I distinctly remember one that said, “This man made hats.”
Some people are just born melancholy and morbid. If you work with me, you know I can turn a normal conversation into one about my neighbor being run down by a bus and leaving behind a whole house of foster dogs and then walk away leaving some group of formerly cheery individuals searching for a funny anecdote.
Nature, nurture, hello; my sister is not like this.
So, when you are attuned to all the negative in the world (I had to stop watching political shows and one night watched a documentary about Diane Schuler, who drive her car the wrong way on the Taconic Parkway in NY state, killing many; this is what makes me feel better than CNN), when the positive comes along, you should celebrate it.
So, my son recently went on vacation to Beirut. Here is why. He is going out with a young woman who pursued Middle Eastern Studies in college and who speaks Arabic. She is on an internship with the United Nations and working with Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. They are mostly women and children, and this work is not going to make her rich. But it is what her life’s purpose is: helping poor people who have been displaced and have no homes and are struggling.
So, the Mueller report won’t save us and Jeff Bezos should be helping these people, but is not, and Warren Buffett, it turns out, is big in ripping off people who are trapped living in mobile homes they have paid for on land that is not theirs so they have to pay whatever lot rate is thrown at them.
But, there is Amy. And others like her. And I can get up in the morning knowing this, even if riding the train to New York makes me sad for the old people.
I work at a drug company. A large, large drug company.
Bernie Sanders would say I work for “big pharma.” He’s right. I do. I’m proud to work in pharma, I don’t view it as an insult, and I think it’s a shame some do. We do good work.
While I don’t consider myself a mere cog in the wheel, I am not a muckety-muck where I work, just someone doing my small part at a big company. I read drug promotions for health care practitioners and patients. I hope my edits and insight add value to the materials I review and make them more clear to the reader. Particularly if they are a patient, as most patients start out with no knowledge of disease states, adverse events, and contraindications. Being diagnosed with something life-threatening is frightening enough without being confused about dosages and side effects and whether or not it’s okay to eat grapefruit while you are on a medication.
Not only is my company quite large, most of the things associated with it are large, too. I work in an enormous building that houses thousands of people. We’re in “open space,” so there are rows of individuals on each floor with no walls between them. Nobody has an office, so it’s egalitarian. But there are always a lot of people about. Hit the cafeteria between noon and 12:30, and you’re going to stand on line, surrounded by humanity, to wait for your meal. 11:45 and 1:15 are much better times to be hungry.
Our lobby, airy and open, can seem like an airport or some other huge space. A friend who used to work with me said once about it, “The only thing that’s missing is the set of mastodon bones.” They’d fit pretty well, too.
The parking lot goes out a long way, and if you arrive much past 8:30 a.m., you end up parking in what I refer to as “The Hinterlands” or “West Mesopotamia.” You get a good number of your steps in walking to the office from that parking area, but heaven help you if didn’t allot enough walk time to get to your 9:00 meeting.
I tend to work late, and I have often gotten to my car as the sun is preparing to leave the sky, and when I look at our building from a bit of a distance I see how pretty it really is. I’ve taken photos of it in that light, sometimes posting it on social media with a cutline as vague as, “You know, it really is a pretty building.” I would go so far to say it’s beautiful.
Though I enjoy people well enough, and many of my immediate coworkers are people I quite like, I’m not one who has taken wholeheartedly to the whole open space thing. Even after 2 years, I miss my cubicle of old, at the edge of our floor and by a window, where we kept lots of plants. Though I appear on the surface to be friendly and outgoing, I’m actually quite socially awkward and uncomfortable being around people all the time. “Unconventional,” “noncomforming,” and “quirky” are words used to describe people like myself. “Weird” has been thrown about a bit, too…
In this expansive work environment, there are times that my quirky, weird, awkward self would like to feel a bit smaller, maybe even invisible. In my own corner doing my thing with not many people about, even though they are mostly people I like. Because maybe with the sheer number of humans around to be smiled at or acknowledged, it’s easy to stop feeling like an individual at times. Perhaps it’s me, but sometimes my purpose gets lost in these waves of people and my rote and regular smiles and waves and nods as I go to get a cup of coffee. Sometimes I’m just not up for it, though I’ll never stop feeling obligated.
So, yeah, I guess the point of all that is that the place where I work is big.
Since my last surgery and the subsequent medications I’ve been put on to deal with the repercussions of it, I don’t sleep as well as I used to. The other night I woke up after a few hours of sleep; the antihistamines I started taking to celebrate the impending arrival of spring do not keep me knocked out the way they once did. Grabbed my cell phone, checked the time, went on YouTube to watch my typical Dr. Sandra Lee cyst-removal videos until I was tired enough to fall back asleep. Under the Dr. Lee video I was watching, YouTube had a list of suggesteds, and one was a video by a British cancer patient named Charlotte. I clicked.
Charlotte spoke of being 18 and frustrated that her cancer was affecting so much of her life. Her vision was bad, and her left eye wasn’t working properly. She’d gained weight from her treatment and felt bad about her body. Her mother had bought her a cane because her balance wasn’t good, and she’d been reluctant to use it but now knew she would have to. She was upset because she’d had a seizure when she was 16 and had been prevented from learning to drive for 2 years, and just when that 2 years was about over, doctors found new tumor growth. She didn’t know if she would ever learn to drive.
Charlotte paused for her words at times; sometimes she just stopped speaking for a while altogether. Her sad expression spoke volumes, anyway. She was dealing with a hell of a lot for an 18 year old. One thing she said summed it all up: “I just want this cancer to go away.”
My heart went out to this girl dealing with so much. I went to her YouTube channel and put the videos in chronological order, and started watching from the beginning.
They started out with a more petite, more lively, 17-year-old Charlotte. She’d found out at age 16 she had a rare form of brain cancer. It was the day of her prom.
She’d had chemo and lost her hair, and it was growing in. She looked lovely with her short hair and frequently combed her bangs with her fingers. She’d spent 5 days a week over the past year going to the hospital for treatment. She paused at times to think about what she wanted to say. Charlotte was unrehearsed.
Charlotte had been shy, but her cancer fight had given her the need to speak up and tell people about what it is like to be a teenager with cancer. To answer questions. She felt like most cancer videos were addressed to an adult audience, and she wanted to have something addressed to teens. And she loved fashion and makeup, and she loved cats. Of course, she did. Don’t many teenage girls love these very same things?
Subsequent videos, many filmed in Charlotte’s room, were about fashion and makeup, how to deal with hair loss. Showing off an outfit. Wearing a cute wig. Lamenting about not going to university and spending too much time inside. Explaining how going on steroids makes you put on a lot of weight quickly and that this had happened to her previously. And how it felt when she’d been in a car with a handicapped tag and people looked at her as if she were scamming for a parking spot. The joy of a new video camera for her YouTube channel.
And wanting to get back the time she’d lost, getting back the teenage years where she was being treated for cancer and not on vacation or doing things with her friends. She loved purses. She bought a lot of her tops at a placed called Top Shop.
Charlotte spoke about being reliant on her mom for so much when she wasn’t well. As a mother, it pained me to think of how her mom must be feeling to know her daughter was going through this. Is there a mother who wouldn’t put themselves in their child’s place if he or she had a brain tumor?
I continued to watch. Charlotte had suffered hearing loss from one of her early chemo treatments. She loved the Kardashians. She hated people telling her when she was bald, “Oh, your hair will grow back.” Yes, it would, but for the time being she was bald. She was a beautiful young lady, and she was beautiful bald, too. But no teenage girl wants to lose her hair.
There were a lot of videos to get through. I jumped around. Then I made a mistake, in my view, anyway. I was moving down and saw a video labeled as the last Charlotte made before she died. Had I been watching these as they were put up, I’d have been rooting for Charlotte in real time. I would want Charlotte to have a happy ending while she was hoping for it.
I did not want to see that video yet. I was not ready. In the earlier videos, Charlotte had so much hope and was so full of life.
I clicked on another further down instead. It must have been filmed after the very first one I watched. It was dark, and Charlotte was in bed. She was swollen up again, from steroids maybe. She says into the camera that the latest treatment is not working. She turns the camera off. In the middle of the night, Charlotte was telling the world that she was frightened. You cannot crawl into the computer, you cannot hug this person, and you couldn’t even if she were still here. You can’t make this frightened child feel better. There is nothing you can do. Nothing. And you want to.
In the last video she made before she passed away, Charlotte’s mother had to narrate. Charlotte was in a chair and only able to wave twice as her mother spoke of Charlotte’s hope, still, that medicine could heal her body. Charlotte could not even hold up her head.
The cancer that gave this sweet girl her voice to speak up for teenagers with cancer ended up stealing that voice, along with all of Charlotte’s other abilities.
Charlotte was hospitalized soon thereafter. She was 19 years old when she died. What killed her was a glioblastoma in her brain that then spread to her spine. It had developed from her original form of brain tumor that had appeared to be shrinking when the glioblastoma struck.
Her mother and brother still post videos to the channel; they have created a cancer charity in Charlotte’s name to help find a cure for glioblastoma.
In one video after Charlotte’s passing, her mother spoke of not wanting to leave the home they lived in because she felt like she was leaving Charlotte behind, but needing to replace all the bathtubs with shower stalls because the memory of Charlotte physically struggling to step into the bathtub was so painful for her. Something about her mother describing that was particularly unsettling and sad.
I want to watch all of Charlotte’s videos, but I cannot right now. It is hard to watch a young person have hope, get that hope dashed, and know that she will not get well.
When I think about what Charlotte wanted, to have those lost years back, was she really asking for anything so extraordinary? It seems to me a small request when a young girl asks for a year or two without cancer treatment to replace the ones where she’s had to endure it. It seems a small hope to wish to live to be 20 or 25 or 30 when you are 16 or 17 years old.
What Charlotte wanted really was not very big at all. I wish she had gotten it.
My large, large company makes cancer drugs, among others. At least one drug we manufacture is in clinical study right now, in combination with other therapies, for the treatment of glioblastoma. It’s an extremely aggressive cancer. The study will take time. Children like Charlotte do not have much time, but people are out there trying to give it to them.
This drug and others may have some success, may have some failures. Somewhere, I hope, is an idea in someone’s head at this moment that will pan out when implemented. That will shrink tumors and stop them from multiplying.
Somewhere out there right now is also a child who is carefree, but who in a few years will be sick with cancer. It is the sad and ugly truth, even though no one wants it to be. And when they are being treated and they say, “I want my years back, I want back those years I was treated and I want them to be free of pain and cancer,” I want a doctor to be able to tell them truthfully that their chances are excellent and that that is what is going to happen.
It won’t help lovely Charlotte. But it may help ease her mother’s pain.
And for Charlotte and her mother and her brother, I will fake my smiles and greetings and continue to put up with a parking spot in West Mesopotamia and a cafeteria swimming with humanity. It is not that big a thing to do in order for the next Charlotte to get her small ask and get her years without treatment, to get her time at university, to keep her head of hair, to get to grow up without being afraid that her treatment is not working.
Rest well, beautiful Charlotte.
So, about Elizabeth Warren and the DNA test that says she has a Native American ancestor from generations ago: she thought she was of Native American ancestry and it’s what she believed. It was lore that was passed down by family and over the generations it got older, but it is what she believed to be true.
And it’s personal for me because…I just had my DNA done. I am adopted by Jewish people and self-identify as a Jew, but I also have this Catholic-Jesus thing, so I call myself Jatholic. Now, my birth mom was Catholic, but one of her (my) relatives told me my father was Jewish, and that all fit for me. It was my ideal. Catholic and Jewish.
Then I get my DNA done, and I am 99.9% European, but only 0.2% Askenazi Jew. There are like 2 drops of Jewish blood in my body.
So this is sort of an existential crisis for me, but I am prone to saying, “Oy Gottenu” and “it’s a shandeh and a charpeh” and around my neck I wear two Catholic miraculous medals, a hamsa, a Star of David my daughter bought me, and the Icelandic Viking bindrune for the word love.
As far as I’m concerned, the two drops make me enough of a Jew to take Yom Kippur off and feel bad about all the shitty things I have done in the previous year.
And as far as I am concerned, Elizabeth Warren is Native American.
Remember what Cher said to Winona Ryder’s character in the movie “Mermaids” as she prayed before the statues of Mary and Jesus on her dresser: “Charlotte, we’re Jewish.”