julia (July 2010)

A painting I did on a ceiling tile for for Felicitous Coffee House and Art Gallery.
Acrylic 4' x 2'

live your life, that you will regret nothing.

She is no longer here but I have her memory to hold on to.

The words sound so absolutely lovely. Endearing. In greeting cards, said by other people "In our memories, she lives on". Tear, weep, sob, sniff, tissue.
The problem that I have is that my memory of her is not the same as everyone else's. I see her screaming and flailing in bed. I hear her moans and her cries. I live with the last face I saw, one gaunt from dehydration, wincing in pain, and distraught from not being able to communicate anything; her world dark and disturbed, unable to see clearly or hear more than the muffles of too many background sounds making audible soup. The smell of death in my nose and on my skin for having spent over 30 hours at her bedside during the course of her last 3 days.

"Where are her sons? She has two, right? Where are they?"

My last week with her was the worst. Obviously. She was dying. Everyday, it was as though she fell off a cliff, into a new level of pain, discomfort and expiration. Monday she was eating. Tuesday, drinking. By Wednesday, nothing.
Well. That was the case once I intervened. We'll back up.

Prior to Wednesday, my visitation consisted of a 3 hour block around lunchtime. At first it was to delight her palette with the fanciful wants someone who knows the end is near desires. Lobster. Popsicles. Ice Cream. Salty french fries. We would joke at the nursing facilities version of food and enjoy imbibing together. A particular favorite of mine to pick up was sushi - not for her but because she enjoyed watching me eat with chopsticks. It amused her that I could use them skillfully and she was fascinated by this disgusting brand of rice wrapped fish.
"Eel, Julieann?"
"You going to try some today, it's super yummy, come on, try the eel."
"Bleck," she made a face to mock throw up.
And then she would giggle as I consumed yet another roll, "You are so good at that."
I had fought the week before to get her onto Hospice Crisis Care, a 24 hour bedside assistant assigned to help her with anything she needed, especially when no family members were around. By this time I felt it was a requirement, as she had no longer been getting out of bed to walk, sit in the wheelchair for strolls, or even use the bathroom. Her reach was limited and if there were not ice chips by her side table, or food placed properly for breakfast, I am not really sure of what she could have done except yell for help. Which she did on several occasions with no response. In a nursing facility, she is not the only patient with needs. Take a number, wait your turn. Combined with the increased pain in her stomach and the definition provided to me by Hospice, I stomped my foot, they stamped the paperwork and off we go.
I hadn't even wanted a full time person there, just one present during the hours when my sister and I were unable to visit, in the morning, before I arrived. After that it was smooth sailing, my visit around noon carried into my sisters visit during dinner. Nighttime, I felt was taken care of by the Ambien, which was another battle all its own, oh lawd call me Sheena for the dragons I slayed. How it is a bad thing for a dying cancer patient to be sleepy is beyond me. I will never ever understand this fucking logic no matter how many times it is explained to me.
They put her on Crisis Care for 24 hours, reevaluation taking place daily, to assess the continued need for such a status and for the staffed person bedside. Since she had been qualified under the term "pain" she was reassessed daily under this term as well. The problem being here is that she doesn't tell people she is in pain until it registers 9.6 on the Richter scale. So everyday, aides asked the question and every day, she denied the need. "I am fine, you can go," she would say, translates to "I can face this on my own, why don't you go bother someone else and take care of those in real need". A proud independent woman, stubborn as the day she was born, insistent to the end she could do it all by herself.
As she was in good health from the vast amount of exercise received prior to hospitalization, mixed with an active response to stimuli, it wasn't long before Nurse X deemed her fit for removal based upon the following things:
1. Good blood pressure reading.
2. Consummation of food and fluids.
3. Ability to stand with assistance.
I know this only because after I hip tossed a Hospice Aide into the hallway, I took her file, copied every piece of paper in it, and read that evening through every report written, to include the one about my grandmother being forcefed on three occasions, to include the one I was privy to. Which brings us back to Wednesday and why I will either: commit suicide before ever being admitted to a facility or crawl in a cave to die alone when no one is looking.
Never. Ever. Go to a hospital or a nursing home to die and make damn sure you have a competent advocate on your side with Power of Attorney and a will to make sure your wishes are carried out, dot your i's cross your t's.
FUCK.

"Where are her sons? She has two, right? Where are they?"

So we are back, to Wednesday.
I got the call in the morning that they were removing her from 24 hr Crisis care. After the update my sister gave me the night before, relayed through the nurse, of my grandmother flailing and fighting having been given a suppository. In this case, not every one shits. She was bucking so much in bed (remember, one week bed ridden at this point, feet swelling, mottled blood from poor circulation that system shutting itself down quickly) she was in danger of being on the floor possibly with a broken bone upon impact the aide relayed through words. They didn't believe in bed rails here. Confusion as to this conclusion one head Nurse X came to, I rushed down to the facility to not only see my grandmother for our normally scheduled visit but to advocate once again on her behalf. You see, unless she has her hearing aides in, she nods yes to almost everything. Yes, shut up. Yes, stop talking. Yes, get out of my face. Yes, I have no idea what you are saying but please find a way to bust me out of here.
When I walked into the room, she was alone. I didn't question but sat down to say hello. She was in and out of sleep. I let her know I was there and food had been delivered, did she feel like eating.
"No".
15 minutes later the Hospice aide comes in apologizing for having been on her break. She sees the tray of food and loudly begins to yell at my grandmother, that it is time for lunch. She grabs the bed adjustment controls, sits it full tilt up (my grandmothers preggo belly full of liquid, hurts with even the slightest elevation) and then starts chopping up ham, ignoring the moans and waving arms. And the no's. Also, did I mention, this was done from a dead sleep?
She began to approach my grandmother with a spoonful of chopped ham, even though she hadn't eaten anything remotely solid in days, probably more than a week.
I came to. "What the fuck are you doing?!"
She explained she had fed her this morning and the morning before just fine, she was even able to get her out of bed.
"You did WHAT?! She hasn't been out of bed for over a week and you got her out for what?! Just to see if she could use the toilet? Did you bother to look at her feet?! Do you not see the diapers? Do you not see the wipes because I see them, I see them plain as fucking day!"
This aides assessment the only positive one in the file, everyone else reporting a refusal of food and water, down to the only intake accepted - ice chips.
And that is how it begun.
Phone calls ensued, me to my sister, my sister to Hospice, me to her sons, me to Hospice demanding that she be seen again and evaluated while I was in the room. Amazingly, no one called me. They called her son in Boston, who had been gone since Sunday, the nurses justification explained to him; he relaying to me nothing more than, they are taking her off the 24 hr crisis watch.
Fuck that, fuck everyone. My sister called after-hours and rose all hell for another reevaluation; the new nurse taking one look at her condition and asking me "Why did they take her off?" A question to this day, I have still not gotten a logical answer to. I did not leave her side again, until I met the new shift nurses, aides and anyone else who would be touching her at any point in the night. I instructed them all. She gets this pain medication at this time, she needs this dosage at this time, dont touch her, dont roll her, dont dont dont dont dont fucking fuck with my frail grandmother you paperwork pushing, by the book, she must be woken up at midnight for a bath, fucks. I slept little, back before the sun was up to meet the new staff shift, make demands, instruct and ensure no one would hurt her ever again.
I was there until 10pm that night.

"Where are her sons? She has two, right? Where are they?"

Thursday presented a whole new set of issues and burned into my skull a set of images I am not sure how to get rid of. I was there from 7am to 8pm. Shift to Shift.
Friday, 8am to 4pm, my sister taking over sooner, that day having gone through much worse to stabilize her for the weekend when staffing was at bare minimum and changes to medication much harder to push through. I decided I could no longer stay and needed sleep. I went running down the hall at one point, finding her nurse, but unable to get across what I needed done due to the tears and undecipherable words falling from my lips. Ok. Time for a tiny break. MY sister is here, I can detach and try to store up enough energy for what might come the next time I was there before sun up.
I think she knew. I think she knew my sister left at 8 and that we would be back in the morning. I think she let go, to spare us anymore heartache. At 1:30am, she passed away. Before we could get to the hospital, having been called when she began puking bile from her stomach. She saved this last image from me and I will forever be grateful that when we did arrive, she was cleaned up, quiet, laying still, and most importantly, no longer alive.

"Where are her sons? She has two, right? Where are they?"

She shouted a word in Iranian once the ability to speak English finally left her. I later found out through research the word meant regret. But she did not regret anything. She might have been confused about how so much effort her entire life was put into helping her youngest and his continued inability to straighten his own life out. She might have been confused about how little she felt she heard from her oldest son up north, a subject she repeatedly brought up over the course of hours spent together when she was well. But she did not regret what she had done for them. When she was shouting, it was as though issuing a curse. Momma, she began. Momma regret. You will regret, what you have done to me. You will regret what you have done to your mother.
On countless occasions, with every visitor that arrived, with every new nurse, aide, doctor, always the same question:
"Where are her sons? She has two, right? Where are they?"
Boston and MIA became my standard answer.

This was not my job. This was not my responsibility. This was not my role as her granddaughter. To make these decisions, to be sitting at her bedside nonstop, to be advocating and fighting the system with my hands tied behind my back; while other enjoyed going to shows, going out to see the coast, distance making it tolerable, absence an easy pill to swallow.
But this was my conviction; to do everything in my power to take care of her in these last days, to be sure she was in no pain, to ease her suffering in any way possible.
I shouldn't be the one with the nightmares. I shouldn't be the one who cannot sleep, who tastes and smells death still.
If I knew last week what my journey would entail, what it might leave behind, the way in which it would not only affect but change me, you bet your fucking ass, I would accept the task again.
It might not have been my job, responsibility, or role but somewhere, somehow, I was the only one who could do it.

I forgive you both for what you have done to her.
I forgive you both for what you have done to me.
I hope one day, forgiveness finds you as well.

Grandma, I love you.
After a lifetime of love you gave to me, I fought hard to make your transition peaceful and pain free. I did my best for you, things I did not know I was capable of. I know you love me. And I know if you were here, you would thank me.
Let peace be finally with you, where ever you may or may not be. Let the burdens of a long, hard life, melt from your memory. Let the love we shared radiate through the centuries.
For if I am able, I will find you again.
Always and forever.
Your granddaughter,
Julieann.

she is the coolest person I will ever know. she is my grandmother.

My mothers family is from Sicily. My fathers family, my grandmother, from Iran. I look Iranian, which is apparent to both Middle Eastern people and others, anytime I am in a room with a relative, these Middle Eastern genes extremely strong. When I was little she would cup my face and tell me that I was a Persian Princess, the most beautiful of women to be found in all the world. Even down to these last silent days, she puts her soft hand to my face and smiles.
It was not until I was in my late twenties that I met another Iranian outside of her, my father and uncle (whom I barely know, one absent mostly, the other living in Boston and visiting here and there). My grandfather disappeared when my father was a teenager, so we have never met and only recently have I come to gain any knowledge concerning him.

She is this incredible wealth of broken English stories about far away places in distant times. As a youth she was a total hellion. Leaping from school house windows to run home when bored and destroying everyone's material in sewing class during final exams having not paid attention to any lessons on shirt making; her jokes, wit and humor disrupting studies often though always a favorite among peers and teachers as charm repeatedly outweighed any punishment for her actions; diabolically sabotaging internal heating pipes, so that school would close for the day while workers cleaned up soot. She once pulled this little trick in order to come rushing to the aide of a distraught teacher, battling the rooms smoke like a true champion to fix the pipe she had earlier wiggled loose, thus saving the day and becoming the hero of the classroom for a day. Yes. This, is my totally awesome tiny Armenian grandmother: Badass Knucklehead Squared.

During WWII she remembers German troops occupying her town and the relief they all felt upon waking up one day to find the British had seized control of the area. There was happiness and celebrations in the street she said.
As a young woman, she attended nursing school, one of the first in the area. She crossed the Euphrates river in a boat that resembled a circular bathtub to get married in Iraq.
She was a guest in the Iranian Kings palace on the Caspian Sea for two weeks after my grandfather saved the Kings brother by landing a plane safely with him on board. Paris, London, New York, and many others large cities throughout the world she had visited before she was even in her thirties.
She can speak over eight languages fluently, and understands even more than that.
When revolution came to her homeland, she had been on vacation in America, unable to ever return home again. She lost everything but was grateful to the US Embassy and all the hard work they did in order to get her mother out of Iran during this time. I have a picture with my great grandmother, when I was just a little girl, a woman, who I am told, survived the Armenian Holocaust when a Doctor friend of the families helped them escape and relocate to Tabrese, Iran where my grandmother was eventually born.
In America, she lived in Kansas City, New York and New Jersey, until her husband disappeared and she migrated to Lake Mary and then Orlando, one of the first people to work for Walt Disney World, as a floral designer. She is an amazingly competent artist, pictures of large sculptures she created in New Jersey in her spare time, shocked me with their intricacies and beauty.

The environment she created for my sister and I growing up, contained peace like no other. We danced and sang, and listened to her tell us stories of being a little girl and laying in hammocks under trees to watch the stars, her homeland the most beautiful and mystical place on earth. Lunch was always a smorgasbord of fresh fruit and vegetables, cheeses and finger food, laid out on gorgeous china platters usually reserved, in other households, for adult company only. We had tea parties with real tea sets and suitcases full of clothes, silk scarves, hats and jewelry in which to play dress up with. Dinner would cook for hours while she laughed and played with us. Her home swirled with the most amazing smells.
As adults, she reveled in being able to do it all over again with a new set of great grandchildren. Age made her a bit slower but even in her late eighties, she would cook a favorite Iranian dish we call Sabsi for hours, just to serve us all dinner and be surrounded for the evening. Our children, have been so blessed to have spent so much time with a relative so full of life and love.

Up until she went into the hospital last month, she was an extremely active woman of 90. After retiring from Disney, she volunteered full-time at a state run childcare facility in Winter Park, taking the bus to work at 6am and returning after 4pm, 5 days a week. When that stopped, due to government paperwork beyond her control (the staff and kids were devastated to see her go after so many years), she joined a local Seniors group in her 80's, traveling to meet friends for coffee, arts and crafts, trips around the city and then lunch, 5 days a week. Last year alone, she was on the Casino cruise three times. I haven't even been once. She has lived in government assisted housing, behind a grocery store for the last 20 years doing her own shopping and paying her own bills; if she could walk there she did and if not she learned what bus could take her, and went that route. Active in her church as well, she has worshiped every Sunday and joined countless groups through them, helping when asked and even, when not asked.
A few years ago, she learned how to play solitaire on the computer. Curiosity and a need to keep learning, she figured out how to navigate the internet and send emails. She was an avid reader before macular degeneration began to take her eyesight, later buying books on tape in order to listen to The Bible and other religious teachings.
This was not a feeble, frail woman in front of a television the last years of her life. In fact, last year she broke her foot (her first broken bone) when she leapt out of a van instead of waiting for the driver to get her a stool so she could step down with assistance. Temporarily stuck in a wheelchair as it healed, she maneuvered on her own around the apartment (her arms very strong) like a caged rat waiting to be released. And when the doctor approved her boot, she was off, visiting, moving, and living, once again.
She never complained about being poor, and never wanted for much, other than to see everyone she knew happy.
Adapting to time and circumstance, while retaining an incredible sense of humor and sharp as knife wit, my tiny Armenian grandmother is a testament to everyone who has ever had the pleasure of meeting her.

When I see her now, curled up quietly in the nursing home bed waiting for death to finally take her, I have to remember that this person I see, right here, right now, has only been like this for the last 30 days.
She has lived for 90 long years, whatever the circumstances, through war or peace, when rich or poor, to its absolute fullest, seizing every day and all it had to offer.
She is the coolest person I have and will ever meet and how lucky I am to have been her granddaughter.
And when she is finally gone from this earth, her soul departing on its next glorious adventure, I am going to miss her so very much.

Never straight, always forward.

When I attended high school, our house was too close to be assigned a bus route and too far away for my mother and step father to trust me to walk home by myself, even though unawares to them, I had walked further and in less desirable places. Not being allowed to do things was sort of my MO until I ran away from home at 17, but well, that's a whole other 34,026,397,246 blog posts. This walking fear was my default unless I was forgotten about and the 3+ hours I had sat on the steps at school enraged me to the point of not caring if I was to get in trouble or not by actually footing it home.
I remember not understanding how it was that no one realized I was not around; my whereabouts those days tracked like I was in a penitentiary. Yet, no one said a word. I just, walked into the kitchen as if coming straight from my room.
To be forgotten is a hollow feeling. I didn't talk about it with them, confusion overwhelming the moment, and then fear of the repercussions for having revealed I came home on my own. It happened again, but each time, it just sort of hurt less and less. Pain is interesting like that. If you are physically hit with a hand, belt, spoon or paint stick, it's only the first 3-5 smacks landed that actually hurt. After that, you grow numb; to the stimulation, the situation.

To many who know me, it is no secret my biological father is not a member of the Upstanding Citizens Brigade. After my parents divorce, there were large chunks of time during my childhood where my sister and I did not see him and in those times that we did, my grandmother was the one who established that link. Had it not been for her, we most likely would not have seen him ever again; the lengths he took to hide from my mother and the mostly short arm of child support enforcement, were beyond normal cut and run tactics utilized by the average bear. He is a smart, cunning and very resourceful man. A virtual stranger to me; one who shares my deep set eyes and razor sharp sarcasm.
I think his disappearance and aversion was the easiest way to psychologically handle the divorce while having young children. I was five, my sister only three. His own father had disappeared during his teenage years, which was a turning point in his life as relayed through other family members. Childhood revolved around science and athletic promise for him but quickly degenerated into disruptive behavior fueled by anger, resentment and a quiet but basic need to simply, have ones Daddy back.
I can guess as to how he must have felt because these war of emotions has ruled my own life, off and on, for the greater part of 30 years.
At 34, I can still not say an unkind word to his face, though my head swims with contempt upon even hearing his voice on the other end of the phone. In his presence, I feel like a five year old desperately trying to impress an enigma I will never fully comprehend.

My mother knew about these secret visits, and rather than put a stop to them, allowed it to happen even though it was against what paperwork said he was legally allowed to do. We would be visiting my grandmother and then *poof* he would magically show up; long enough to jumble a small, confused mind; short enough that etched memories, built up over time became these colossal events with skies of rainbows and sparkles, his image in our heads elevated to God like stature.
But it was just another day. And he only, just a man.

To a child, everything is so simple and larger than life.
Love me. Hold me. Don't forget about me.
Parents become Kings and Queens of the Universe, stronger than Superman and more powerful than the law.
We grow up and our perspective widens; rhinestones no longer sparkle as beautifully as diamonds.

There comes a point in life, or in death, when you are definitively judged.
It was easier to have forgotten about us, than to have fought (the situation or himself) to be a significant part of our lives. Ever. No matter the excuses, or the reasoning, this is what it boils down to in the end.
With her passing, there seems to me, the promise of personal release I had not understood before this month began. I no longer feel an obligation to run to his aide in order to give her peace; a scenario that has been played out these last few years on more occasions than I care to admit to. In the last month, indeed, things have still not changed. But I have. A lot.
For years I have been carrying this torch for him, hoping there would be some modicum of effort to establish more than the very basic back and forth niceties, when I wasn't playing along like a child unaware of the manipulation and lies swirling behind her back. Countless initiations, declined and excused. My sister and I doing our part as adults to move past the scars of adolescence.

In saying goodbye to her, I am saying goodbye to him. The need to communicate is no longer present, what remains, like Elvis, soon to leave the building.
For a past we speak little about, it will be another step in healing for us both.
As once a good friend always signed his letters:
Never straight, always forward.

the sky was all purple

When leaving the nursing home, I usually have the music cranked up in my car, disappearing to the beat, singing at the top of my lungs trying hard to shake off emotion before returning home to be "mommy". Today we met with Hospice and leaving, I just wasn't in the mood. I drove in silence for a long time, finally turning in to the drugstore parking lot and running in for a pack of cigarettes.
Yea. I did. Shh.
Rushing back out to the car a certain level of defeat washed over me from having caved in; resigned to say "fuck it" and allow myself the crutch for the time being, I started the car. When I pulled up to the stop sign to exit the parking lot, I decided a little Prince was what I needed to make these gray skies blue, so I hit CD on my stereo, the disk having already been in there from last nights karaoke car ride. As the music kicked to life, a man rolled up to my left on a motorcycle, stopped, smiled, and waved for me to enter, giving me plenty of space to ease into the line of waiting traffic at the light. And Zeus strike me down for lying, he looked like an absolute carbon copy of Prince himself.
I drove back to work jamming out and strangely enough, every left and right turn Prince made with me, all the fucking way back, he was either in my rear or side view mirrors, I shit you NOT, my rock fucking star escort.
*beam*
So gonna bust out a beret when I get home.
I only wish it were raspberry.

lobster, laughter, and how we were married.

Austin? Austin, Texas for your honeymoon?
Yea. And if you knew anything about me, you'd understand. But most people don't and I am absolutely fine with that.
We were married with a rubber chicken, stuffed pig and teddy bear present, had a wedding reception for friends that resembled a mini carnival complete with belly and burlesque dancers, magician, fortune teller, lion tamer and lion.
Somehow Austin doesn't seem all that out of the ordinary when put in proper context now does it? But I guess since I haven't even talked about any of this or that in awhile... most people are kinda clueless to the random order of my personal universe (yet shouldn't be, since chaos has always abounded).
To understand, however, one must gather the entire situation in one's glance.

My tiny Armenian grandmother's body has decided it is time for it and her to pass from this earthly space and since then there has been a lot of things in my life up for evaluation. Thinking: it's what's for dinner (breakfast and lunch). Of all my grandparents, her passing is affecting me the most. Maybe it's my age. Perhaps. Maybe it's how involved I am. Perhaps that as well. But I think it has more to do with who she is, where she came from, and what she has shown me about life and living. That smile... she is the light of the world. Truly. My sister and I are taking enormous lengths to care for her these last days; we'd do anything she asked right now, illustrated in part when my sister got a personal call from the nurse last week. My tiny Armenian grandmother had a dream about lobster (of all things) and wanted to eat some really bad, I mean, REALLY bad, enough to have a nurse summoned and directed pronto. So what did my sister do immediately? Get in line at Red Lobster. And everybody said: AMEN.
Genies: we get to fucking be them - SCORE!!!

When it came time to get our marriage license a few weeks ago, the majority of my time revolved around personal reflection (when outside of the hospital), having begun on this journey with my tiny Armenian grandmother the beginning of July. At the counter, the woman joked about whether or not we wanted to have the ceremony performed right then and there. We had been planning a nice evening at the beach with our family to exchange rings privately on the sand; simple, elegant, quiet.
He looked at me, bags under my eyes, dreary from lack of sleep, emotionally raw from what had been occurring with her just that day, not to mention that cloudy week. I looked at him, a big smile on his face.
"You wanna?"
I did. I have never wanted anything more in the universe. It occurred to me that it didn't matter, the place or the time. What was important was the commitment and I was committed, absolutely.
Straight out of a David Lynch telegram meets Howdy Doody oration with a sprinkle of Teletubbies infomercial, they marched us back to this tiny room with white curtains and an arch. The officiant, a short black woman with a huge smile, beamed at us, "I just love weddings," she said.
"Hold on, " said her assistant, an even shorter white woman who appeared to be not only a coworker but most likely a very good friend. She bolted from the room and returned with 3 things: A rubber chicken, a teddy bear, and a stuffed pig. My husband to be, scrunched his face, a mix of total manic confusion and what appeared to be absolute horror.
The two ladies laughed and one immediately got the impression, this schtick was a very old hat. The co-worker holding our "witnesses" bounced up and down and squeezed the rubber chicken, causing noises resembling a barnyard to fill the room.
Fucking awesome. This. Is. My. Life.
None of us could keep from laughing, except for my soon to be husband, whose face was still frozen, his brain unable to catch up with the fiasco now taking place in the white tulle encased Dungeon of Vows.
The entire ceremony was performed in this manner: cheering section squawking and snorting with every new line, our vows barely audible through the laughter at the complete and utter ridiculousness of the next 15 minutes.
We toasted next door with a Pabst Blue Ribbon and ordered some lunch to go. That night, we decided to go to dinner late where a friend was singing lead with a large band and backup singers. To a packed restaurant of more than 100 strangers and a few friends, he surprised us both by introducing us, upon arrival, as the new Mr. and Mrs. - the entire place going totally bonkers cheering. Late night, we did an Ouzo shot with my sister and the next evening my best friend showed up with a white bag of unbroken glass needing to be stomped, "Mazal Tov" and officially, we were now considered married.
It could not have been more perfect for us as a couple, this 48 hour progression of tornadic events.
And that's our story, this is how we were married. In the midst of tears, sorrow, sickness, lack of sleep, endless hospital visits dispersed throughout, we held our ray of sunshine, and laughed.

Weeks later, we still had our ceremony on the beach with family, the next night celebrated with friends mini carnival style, the day after took off for a week spent roaming the streets in Austin, Texas looking for art, music, and most importantly, a good giggly time. My grandmother taught me that happiness does not come from the places you visit, the money you spend, or the toys that you own. Today you might be a prince and tomorrow, a pauper, so best you are in the company of people who you can laugh with regardless.
It's not the where or the what, it's the who.
It's the smiles and the joy. The giggles. The fun. The life.
We cannot always choose the future but we can choose our attitude when living it.

Yesterday I saw my tiny Armenian grandmother at her worst; racked with pain, unable to breath very deeply, and waiting patiently for relief from a procedure to remove fluid from her ever growing prego-looking belly. I kneeled at her bedside and explained to her about the pain medication, which she had been refusing, and how it would help relieve a little of the discomfort until the doctor was able to see her that afternoon. She agreed to take it and I fed her a Vicoden by spoon with a tiny bit of applesauce, tears streaming down my face from the frustration of not being able to do much of anything other than rub her back, hold her hand and scream at doctors and nurses to expedite paperwork in her favor (it just never seems like enough). She swallowed the pill and then stuck out her tongue and closed her eyes, suddenly lying very still and quiet. She was playing dead and it took me a moment to realize before I began to laugh. We both did.
Today, a phoned in Genie request for lobster came again so for lunch I am bringing her a freshly steamed tail with lots of lemon. Like I said before... anything. Anything for that smile.

My life has changed drastically in the last month and I suspect it will continue to do so in the next few.
I don't know how often I will be able to write. To photograph. To create. Right now I am experiencing these last few lessons she has to give me. That smile knows more than any scholars book about the subject I have read in the last two decades. I will do good to remember that.
And to giggle, always.

Never forget the ketchup.

It looks as though my tiny Armenian grandmother's potential leprechaun birth, is actually just some lame tumors.
Cancer - Serving 3 bajillion and counting.

So. Yea. She's dying. It's even weird to type.
I don't like to talk about it. I am not sure what to say and when I do talk, it feels like I just spit out the same story, over and over again. To tell you the truth, I am getting bored with my own voice. Everyone wants to know what's going on, what's her condition, how she is doing, how I am doing. Fine, Everything is fine, you know, just like normal. I wake up too early in the morning, if I have slept at all, take a shower and cry my eyes out, face the day absorbed in my work, answer phone calls regurgitating information until I can go see her again and deal with the barrage of bizarre family issues surrounding her deterioration, back home to collapse in a heap of exhaustion and silence as my brain tries its hardest to process what's happening.
At night I feel like a zombie who has the flu unable to sleep for the nightmares.

I am sad, angry and very bitter; at the choices, judgement and assumptions, of which I won't speak to, lest my tongue lash lasting stripes on those around me.
Issues and memories like swollen nerves.
This week I am going to have to figure out how to wash this all away. There is not enough time, we never have enough time and I don't want to waste it, my choices more important than my feelings at the moment.

What matters most is that I see and talk to her as much as I can before she leaves. I am going to miss her so fucking much.
This amazingly strong, beautiful woman who provided my sister and I an unparalleled environment of peace amidst the chaos of a violent sea at war with a stormy sky.
She said to me last week there was nothing quite like being a grandmother. I disagree. Being her granddaughter has made me richer than a thousand Persian Princesses.
I'd give her the moon if she asked. But true to form, she is content with only salty, greasy french fries from McDonald's. With ketchup.
Never forget the ketchup.

NMFP x's 2 plus MFP equals Kangaroo Week FTW! (PART ONE)

At the top of the week I had the pleasure of adding "visiting someone in jail" to the list of things I have finally gotten to do. Orange really brings out people's complexion. I think my favorite part was the stomach churning, holding down puke right before entering into the visiting station portion. Or perhaps touching the "I don't really know where you have been, please smell like sanitizer" black phone.
Give me some window love, ButterNuts. I mean ButterStuff.

I knew this kid last year, who walked out of court FREE, on three different occasions, for weapons possession and assault charges while having: multiple parole violations, over ten traffic citations having been involved in 3 accidents, totaling 2 cars which included an overnight stay in the hospital where a drug screen pulled up so many tranquilizers he could have put down a small horse and all this while repeatedly driving on a suspended license and having multiple warrants out for his arrest. While attending classes ordered by the state for anger and drugs, he failed every piss test he took. And still, he sits, probably to this day, in some apartment, on the couch blown out of his mind on Oxycontin.
When they spoke of Kaiser Sose as being protected on high by the Prince of Darkness, seriously, this kid walked on some sort of Get Out of Jail Free Candyland brick road paved in cherub kisses.
But that kid, that wasn't this kid.
This kid spoked pot.
Go straight to jail, do not pass GO, do not collect $200.00.
I understand illegal. What I don't understand is the system.

I am trying very hard to help right this kids path. I am going to go down and visit the Naval recruiting office to see if I can get him far far away from everything he has ever known. He needs to go. See Japan. Try Sushi. Ultimately it is all up to him and how serious he is about changing. I don't know if it is going to work but no one else seems to have a fucking clue. Shouldn't have left me in charge anyway, AFRICA BITCHES, EVERY ONE IS GOING TO AFRICA ON A HOT AIR BALLOON TO FIGHT THE KRAKEN!

On the Mania Channel this week, we also have reality superstar Tiny Armenian Grandmother in the hospital giving staff a what for: "I don't need those pills. Doctors, idiots, they don't know." What's funny is she is kinda right. Never been in the hospital and she only started taking Ibuprofen as of last year for pain associated with a fracture. I swear she might outlive me.
Right now she just looks nine months pregnant. She's 90. Tests, they run them. Maybe she is going to birth a small leprechaun, but I doubt it. Still, one can hope, cause free gold, duh.
This poor woman cannot hear even with her hearing aids in, which I found out last night are broken (Trip B). We are taking some papers today to post on her hospital board:
VERY BAD HEARING & SIGHT, SPEAKS & UNDERSTANDS BROKEN ENGLISH, KEEP IT SHORT SWEET LOUD, THANKS.
Looks like I am coordinating phone calls to my Uncle in Boston, Dad in Never Never Land and Sister who I may hit up this afternoon to go halves with me investing in a new back alley Vasectomy business venture.
We got mad skillz. Mad being the operative word here.

Some days I have no words.
Some days I have so many words stuffed in my pocket they just fall out, scattering into some weird crossword puzzle treasure map sudoku chess game on the pavement.
Sorry, but 34 Down will rape you on Baltic Ave with the Spade of Parrots.

+

Trip A.
Queen Sedative is getting a new car today as Fiance of Goodness and Light (and renowned International Trendsetter) is meeting me to sign papers around lunchtime. Our first "us" contract.
Every dotted line he signs on equates to one blow job, because I am not above sexual favors; that's just old school baybee.
There's no school like the old school and I'm the fucking headmaster.
Getting rid of the VW Bug feels like a transition and that.... we will get back to after this, commercial break.

[RUN: Tiger Brand Coffee Advert]