From My Heart To My Toes

Sarge’s eye-view.

Last Saturday, Sarge and I got up early to see our wedding venue decked out for a wedding.  The sun was out and I could picture next year, our people in that room.   ‘And we’ll announce you from here,’ said the events planner person.  And I cried.

We headed toward breakfast and I wondered again why I order pancakes anywhere that isn’t my Dad’s house.  Sarge finished them off for me, and I made him shoot some cherry blossoms on the way to a coffee-shop, where I drank coffee, read David Sedaris and eavesdropped on some tourists.  I couldn’t help it.  They were loud.

We went home and had dumplings while watching Manhattan.  Life is good.  I said so on Facebook.

Dad and Anne picked us up on Sunday and we went to the bridal shop so I could pet my dress.  It was hidden in the back of the car before Sarge came out of hiding.

We take them back to the venue; Dad sits at the top of the room.  Has a moment.  ‘Well done,’ he says.  ‘It’ll be a beautiful day.’

We have a late lunch, and are the last to leave the cafe.

‘Want to come up for coffee?  We can kill some zombies for you.’

I expect Dad to say no, but we all troop up to the flat.  This is Interesting, because they usually just go home.

Dad is on the couch, Anne is next to him.  I’m parked in front of the books, Sarge next to me.  ‘I have some news,’ Dad says in his This Is Interesting/Sit Down voice.

‘What?’  I actually gripped the frame of my chair.

‘Now…’

‘What?,’ I say.

‘I’ll definitely fit into my kilt for the wedding, that’s the good news.’

He explained how he’d had a sore throat and then there was a lump.   And he’d gone to the doctor and had to wait for results and I’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense because all I heard was cancer.

And then Dad said, ‘Please don’t break because if you do, I will.’

Anne is saying he’ll be alright and Sarge is trying to hold me and forgive me but I’m pushing him away, because I’m trying to focus on what Dad’s saying.  Because it doesn’t make sense.

‘Once they get it it’s gone, and it isn’t going anywhere else, and if you moved up the wedding I wouldn’t enjoy it, so next year is fine, better even,’ he said.  ‘I want four whole hours for my speech at the wedding and I’d like to name all my Grandchildren, thank you.’

He’ll have to shave his beard and he’s on morphine with more energy than ever because his chronic back pain is gone.  His diabetes and hypertension will go away.  ‘Maybe this is my next lesson,’ he said.  ‘This’ll mean I’m healthier in the long run.  It’ll give me my life back.  Chemo is my liposuction.’

‘It’s a pain in the ass way to do it, though.’   I said.

‘Actually it’s a pain in the neck, sweetie.’  He hugged me.  And then I broke.

After they left, Sarge asked how I was doing.  ‘I can’t feel anything from my heart to my toes,’ I sad.

I get up the next day.  And I’m surprised the world is still happening.  I stay off the computer in order to avoid Google.  I try to write in a journal Dad gave me.  But there are no words.   If I had any, I would say that I know cancer is treatable, or else there wouldn’t be treatment.  After the treatment, people get better.  People laugh and go to weddings and have Grandchildren.

People get through it.  But this is my father, my best friend.  He has to go through this.  My Dad will get better.  We just have to get there.

On Thursday, I went to the cancer centre and met one of his nurses.  The place was nicer than at least one of the wedding venues Sarge and I looked at.  I asked questions and cried and hugged a stranger.  But she isn’t, really.  She’s one of the people looking after Dad, and that makes her awesome.

And because I’m me, I got stuck in the bathroom.  To make it homey, they put a rug in there.  It got caught in the wheels and came with me through the door, along with a basket of towels and a small table.

I backed out of the room.  ‘Hey you guys, I’m stuck.’  Sarge reached me first, and then laughed and said to Dad, ‘oh, you gotta see this.’

My Dad’s laugh is the same as always.

He’ll be in remission by October which also marks three years of me and Sarge.  Stellar month.  We’ll get there.

My mission today is to find Dad a beard hat.

Dad and me. The last time he was without a beard.

Always Choose To Dance

Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa had his own tattoo by this point. And my Dad has a version of the same one.

I spent much of my first year at University pulling all-nighters with my friends.  We would raid the vending machine down the hall, try to stuff each other into the washing-machines and make plans to go bungee-jumping.  I also had them draw me a hideously clichéd tattoo.  Of course.

Some more time was spent figuring out how I might get inked without actually climbing the walls.  The Plan involved getting drunk and stoned.  What was the plan?

Anyway, my point is this.  You can say I’m grateful for my heightened fright reflex.  It has kept me from hideously clichéd, teenaged tattoos that seemed like ‘an amazing idea’ at the time.

I’d like to think my taste has changed.  I used to be attracted to men who said ‘the sky’ when I said ‘what’s up?’  I thought they were sages.  I’ve learned they were assholes.  My point is, I’ve matured.

And so has my idea for a tattoo.  For years, I’ve been thinking of getting a WWMD? on my wrist.  Not for Marilyn.  For Madelyn and Molly, my Grandmothers.  And for me.

They were both Big Deals in my life, and their earthly absence has changed who I am and how I do things.

Every decision I’ve made, I’ve wondered what they think.

Don’t quit school, you’ll see.  Thank God, he’s gone.  He couldn’t even use a fork.  Use a fork!  We like that one, he’s the one.  But I’m not sure about the cheese thing.  Oh, go on.  And always choose to dance.

I sit in front of Madelyn’s picture and ask her to guide me.  To be with me.  I have Pizzaiola for my birthday, but it’s never as good as Molly used to make.

I wish every day that all four of my Grandparents knew Sarge.  They’d love him.  A little weird, but so are you, they’d say.  And so, good for them, they’d say.

I’m loving this wedding-planning thing.  Really, I am.  But every decision Sarge and I make is something else my Grandparents can’t share.  And that’s hard for me.  Really, it is.

When I chose a dress, I asked Dad, ‘Would Grandma like it?’

‘What would Nana think?’ I asked Mom on the phone.  ‘Have you considered beading?’ she asked.

See, I haven’t been planning my wedding since I was six, but I always thought Madelyn and Chuck and Molly and Pete would be there.  I made them promise.

I know that they held on as long as they could, that incomprehensible things made those pinky swears impossible to honour.

But the kid in me, the Granddaughter who lived to make each of them smile in their own ways, wants to cry: but you promised!

When I was a kid, I ploughed into them after playing Munckin Number 3 in the Wizard of Oz and then again after various talent shows.  How’d I do?  How’d I do?

Nana and Poppy, looking around. With some Aunts and Uncles. At a wedding, I believe. How apt.

I’d like to think, on my wedding day, sitting there with my husband, they’ll say:  You did good, Lorna.  You two keep dancing.  We’ll be here.  Now, about that tattoo…

Wedding Planning With Skype

Skype Technologies S.A. logo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And so, my birthday dinner was also what we liked to call the In-laws Summit 2012.  (Trust me, I have done braver things.  Like eat cheese in the presence of my future husband.)

In the spirit of togetherness, Sarge suggested we bring Hemingway to dinner so my mother could tune in via Skype.  We did not.  But it made me laugh thinking about it.  And Sarge got major points with Mom when I mentioned it to her.  She also thinks it’s a good idea for a Skype commercial.  (Contact me for my rates.  Ha!)

While this post is not product-placement, I have been using Skype a lot more since The Engagement.  I showed my mother my ring by flashing it in front of the screen.  She then showed me her not-so new dog, Dolly.  Dolly spends her time eating socks and terrorising Mom’s other dog, Daisy.  But that may be another post.  One that I might call ‘Lorna Has Two Sisters’.

My mother and I have another appointment while she knits a shawl that I may need to camouflage my football-player shoulders in what may turn out to be a strapless wedding dress.

It was Skype and hot beverages on our respective continents  for a three hour conversation with a friend to discuss what she might sing at our reception.  And Benedict Cumberbatch.

I also used a screen to tell one of my bridesmaids in New York that she, along with the others, can choose their own dresses/suits/clown costumes.  Because really, on the day, all I want to do is show up and get married.  And in terms of shopping, I have no desire to recreate the food-poisoning scene in Bridemaids.  Although, I did have bad Chinese food once.  But that may not be another post.

Getting back online, my mother thinks I should take Hemingway dress-shopping so she can suck in her breath at all the right moments.  We shall see.  Or Skype.

In the words of my mother, isn’t technology wonderful?

Have you ever planned an event using Skype?

A Birthday Card From Dad

And click here to see the second thing to make me cry happy tears today!

Thanks, Dad.

It’s Not About The Stuff

And so, I may be sitting here listening to music, getting ready to break open the Baileys and watch an episode of The Sopranos before we get the train to Glasgow tomorrow.  There was one last traipse around the mall today.  I came home with a headache and a realisation, as I do every year.  It’s not about the stuff.  I can’t wait to get where I’m going tomorrow, I need to give my Dad a hug, and laugh for a few days in a row.  I may cry, too.   But I’ll blame that on the Baileys.

Have a great holiday, people.  I hope you are with the ones you love.

 

Proof of Pumpkin

After Thanksgiving, I waxed nostalgic about canned pumpkin.  My friend who writes at Calypte’s Scanner Diary, told me where I might find some.  And today, Sarge comes home from Christmas shopping with two cans of this lovely stuff:

My boyfriend is the best.

 

I like how the light is shining on the can.  As if it’s been sent by the Gods of Canned Pumpkin.  Or my Nana.

Proof of Hat. Because Dad Said So.

And so, I’m friends with my Dad.  On Facebook and in real life.  After I posted my post yesterday, he posted this on Facebook:

Me, St. James Park, London,1985, age 4 (not 8)

 

It pays to be friends with your Dad, people.  It means a lot.  It means, amongst many other things, that any baby picture of you he decides to share will be of the non-embarrassing sort.  You hope.

I love you, Dad.

The Thanksgiving Duck

And so, last weekend I started a healthy eating kick.  For me, this meant leaving the lettuce and onions and one or two peppers on Saturday’s burger, and not having sour sweets while watching Tin Tin at the cinema.  I took fruit-bars to work and came home to rice-cakes and grapes.  I may have asked Sarge to boil spinach pasta and then left the tomato chucks in the sauce.  I was doing pretty well.

And then Thursday happened.  I’ve told my mother several times that Thanksgiving is not a holiday in Scotland.  There are no turkeys ‘til Christmas, and you must hunt The Great Canned Pumpkin in specialty shops and then come home to your Actually American Girlfriend with Empty Scottish Hands.  Just ask Sarge.  I wanted him to make pumpkin pie, and then pumpkin pancakes, but there was no canned pumpkin.  I couldn’t even console myself with a Pumpkin Spice Latte.  But the Chinese duck on Thursday night was pretty good.  So much for the healthy eating, then.  But I can always pretend the holiday season has already started.

See, this time of year, nostalgia is a physical ache that I live with and indulge.  The tears start in early November and don’t dry up until January.  I don’t miss America, I miss what my America was.  Around the holidays it was the smell of Nana’s cooking and baking and the scent of the tree and the wreaths and incense at my Grandma’s house.  A few years ago, Dad got me a candle that was basically my Grandma’s holiday house in a jar.  After I broke down and sucked it up again, I decided that was damn-near the best present there was.

November is a lucky month, I feel my good ghosts every day, but they are louder in November.  I got some good news on Thursday, and I might have had a celebratory white chocolate chip cookie.  I then sat on Facebook and shared in virtual Thanksgiving.  I’ve always known that real thanksgiving isn’t only one day in one country.  And that spirit I’m going to share what I’m thankful for, every day:

My family and friends, wherever you are and whether I am 40 miles away or 4000, thanks for remembering who I am and reminding me every so often.

Sarge, again, for everything.  And your face.  And for only giving me half a strange look when I slip and call you Sarge in our living room.

My independence.  I’m grateful for every day I get to get up and rock the chrome and wheels.

My writing, both truth and fiction.  The sentences that narrate my life.  And the proof that you don’t need to be depressed to write good stuff.  Because I did wonder for a while.

The New York trip that Sarge and I took, and the love we felt while there.  I still need to write about that.

Good coffee, but not as good as New York coffee.

Good books, and bad ones, because I need them sometimes.

Good films and bad movies.  Because I need them, too.  But not as much as bad books.

The clarity that comes with writing in a journal.  Especially when you look up and see mountains out your window.

Stone cottages with no phone reception.

Streets that are not cobbled.

Tools and tire pumps.

Open fires and stars to wish on.

Judy Garland songs that aren’t sad, but I love the sad ones, too.

Everyone who reads my rambles and these lists that make sense only to me.

What are you thankful for today?

A Little Friendly Competition

And so, I’m ‘doing’ NaNoWriMo this year. We have always had a strange relationship. Past attempts have seen me bang out 20,000 words and then well, edit them. Note to self and others: Don’t. Do. That. I have a penchant for abandoning projects in favour of others which I think ‘sound better’, and I don’t finish anything. Except really short stories or ‘novel excerpts’. Novel excerpts are short stories that wouldn’t shut up.

See, I don’t like writing that sounds like writing. The minute I’m aware of words on the page, I stop and write another scene playing out in my head. I have a lot of computer files and notebooks and thoughts. Most are non-sequential. Really. Try having a conversation with me.

This year, I promised myself, and Sarge, and my Dad that I would see one single novel to the end of its first draft. Because everyone is fed up with the frustrated writer. I’d just love to be a writer.

First, I said I’d hit 2k a day. Not so much. Then, because my brain goes faster than my typing speed, I thought I’d dictate the thing. Not so much. Last week, I just parked it and started typing. And the phone rang.

It was my Dad. And this was the conversation:

Dad: You may be interested to know I am writing a novel. (That’s how my Dad speaks. I kinda love it.)

Me: Really? Cool!

(He tells me about his novel…)

Me: Really? Cool! (Inside: Aw, shit. Really? For real, really? I know we’re psychically linked, but this is like, ridiculous…this whole line of thought took 5 seconds. I told you my brain works fast.) Well, Daddy, you’re not gonna believe this, but…(I share my plot.)

Dad: Oh. Well. Every book is different. Good luck! (I’m paraphrasing. Or something.)

I couldn’t write any more that afternoon. Because my mother called.

And when Sarge arrived home I was writing in actual notebook.

I told him about the conversations with my parents. And then the plot of my book.

‘Oh. That’s basically your Dad’s book. But not.’

‘This is what I’m saying,’ I said

‘Well. Every book is different.’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Would you be upset if your Dad finished his book before you finished yours?’

‘No, I’d be happy. Having said that, shut your pretty mouth.’

What I have now is a book that sits at 5,861 words. I also have a supportive boyfriend who keeps plying me with gingerbread lattes, new notebooks and other things. And a father who is writing a book, which may or may not compliment my own. The only way to find out is to finish it.

A note to my Dad, and anyone else who may be writing a book: Please don’t stop. And I won’t, either. Back to it.

Back before the Word Wars...

My Island Diaries: Mull

Wherein I get fresh air and new perspectives, remember promises and maybe change my mind.

Edinburgh – Glasgow, holiday o’clock.

Sarge turns on all the lights in our bedroom to make sure I am actually awake. We have cupcakes for breakfast.  They are neither red nor velvet.

I put on striped socks, a museum t-shirt and a Mom-made sweater. We take a taxi to the train station and get there with time to spare.

This time I actually booked ramp assistance. Someone in a suit and tie sets the ramp between the train and the platform, and we are officially on holiday.

The biker sitting next to us is reading his Kindle. My paper and ink book hides my curled lip. And I like bikers.

Glasgow – Oban

Our second train of the morning has facing seats, but we face no-one. We figure the people behind the names on the reservation slips have over-slept.

Sarge reads about 20 pages of Blood Meridian while I finish When God Was a Rabbit. I cried into my ham sandwich.

Oban – Mull

We got our unreserved ferry tickets and joined the queue. Aside from a family with twins, we were the youngest travellers.

We ramped onto the ferry and rolled into the bar for expensive coffee and on-tap lemonade with very little syrup in it.

Sometime later I asked, ‘We moving?’

‘We have fifteen minutes left.’

Once I realised this, I got woozy, of course. I might have used Sarge’s beard as my horizon.

As we docked, a rainbow appeared. We were on holiday.

Mull, Thursday.

The rain greeted us off the boat. We were on an island where time stretched before us. I used the last of my phone signal to tell The Crew (Dad, Anne, and Anne’s Mum) where to find us.

The coffee-shop had about five awkward steps, so we followed the signs to the pub. We were half-way through our fish and chips when The Crew arrived. I might have taken a photo of the map before I said, ‘Hello, I’m on the map!’

We got to the cottage where I snapped another map, and read the back of all the the books on the shelf before I took off my coat.

I took off my shoes and started Notes on a Scandal before the coffee was all the way brewed. Dad and Sarge started the fire. I gleefully switched off my phone, asking Sarge to take the photos so I didn’t have to look at it all. ‘Start with the lobster on the wall,’ I said. Because, well, there was a lobster on the wall. He didn’t. ‘You already have a lobster,’ he said. Yes, really.

The kitchen caught me in the throat, reminding me of the one I did most of my growing up in. We had pasta for dinner. I still find it funny I have to rely on my father for my Italian food fix.

We went back into the living-room and ended up watching a documentary on eagles. I fell asleep before they landed. I woke up long enough to ask if I’d been snoring.

‘Like a girl,’ Sarge said.

Fair enough, I suppose.

Iona, we thought, Friday.

I write and drink coffee at the kitchen table. I am in a time-warp while the others take showers and put on socks.

We get in the car and have ice-cream before lunch on the way to the Iona ferry.

Now. Because of some loophole, we can’t take the car on the ferry. So, Iona is closed to us, kinda. I hate loopholes. I made several mental notes, and the adventure of the day becomes navigating around the gift shop and hunting the elusive accessible toilet. There is one, but it’s Radar key locked. It’s a universal key that opens all the Radar toilets. Well, if you have a Radar key that is. I have two. Neither of which were in my bag when I needed one.

The other toilets were gated, with no attendant to be found. I tried to walk through, but even my skinny ass didn’t fit.

Sarge and I trooped back to the car.

‘What’s the problem?’ Dad asked.

‘It’s locked, and I don’t have my key.’

Dad took his keys out of the ignition and waved one of my Radar keys in the mirror.

‘That’s mine!’

‘Aye, and you gave it to me for times such as this.’

‘I’m so smart. Gimme.’

Sarge opened the door and honestly, I don’t remember much after that.

Back at the cottage, it was time to tackle the shower. Because my chair didn’t fit in through the door, I transferred to another one, brought in from the kitchen.

I looked at the step into the shower. ‘Well, that’s excessive.’ But I took Sarge’s hand, stepped up and launched myself in anyway. Onto yet another kitchen chair.

I took my own chair to the kitchen table, where we had scallops with apple and cream sauce and then played Poker for chips and Goldfish crackers. Let’s do the time-warp again.

On the road, Saturday.

We take a guided van tour around the island, in search of eagles and seals. We stopped at various points for fresh air and photo opps. The guide had straps that hooked onto the front of my chair, and I can now say that I’ve been dragged up a hill. When we got to the top, I said, ‘Thanks, boys. Can we do that again?’

I stayed in the van for the last stops, happy to have the doors open, sharing biscuits and binoculars with Anne’s Mum. Sarge was out at the very edge.  Dad circled back to van to ask me, ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Looking for penguins.’

We drove back through late rain and then sun to another card game before another night on couch cushions.

On the road again, Sunday.

No time for Dad’s pancakes, so we had cereal before the others packed the car. I stayed in the kitchen as long as I could, and as I left said, ‘Goodbye, house.’

I am not a city girl.

We stopped for bacon rolls before the others took the car on the Oban ferry and Sarge and I walked up. And talked of times that aren’t now.

The Crew found us on the ferry and I may asked for a shot of Anne’s Kindle. Maybe.

We got off the ferry, and had fish and chips next to the train station, before The Crew left for the drive back. I may have cried. Maybe. I hate endings. I much prefer hellos.

I finished Red Dust Road before we even got to Glasgow. I was too bleary-eyed to read on the second train. Reality was creeping in already.

‘Where should we go next?’ I asked as we sat with cups of tea in our very-city flat in Edinburgh.

‘Anywhere we want to go,’ Sarge said.

(Taken from my journal, written around a family trip to Mull, September 2011.  Our Raasay trip can be found here.)

Some of Sarge’s photos (and the one of me on the map), used with permission!

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