Oh, There WILL Be Blood!!! (L)

I just finished watching "There Will be Blood" with C. I can't remember the last movie we watched together and it took two nights to finish it. This is what I knew beforehand, Daniel Day Lewis had won the Oscar and it was supposed to be a long and dusty tale of greed and the beginning of oil in America.

It sounded boring. The title also made me worried me that there would be mafia street gangs covered in oil. But my mother had it on Netflix and wouldn't be watching it for awhile, so I snatched it.

As the shadowed light played over Danny boy's aging face and ridiculous mustache, his character a bit bent and hobbled by an early accident, I found myself longing for the Lewis of old who wooed and smelled of women or carved a canoe from a tree while wearing few clothes. My mind nimbly skipped over memories of his left foot. I once almost saw him as Hamlet in a London Theatre. I got as close as opening the program to see an insert that said "Due to an illness, Mr. Lewis will not be playing the role of Hamlet. It will instead be played by this wanker who nobody cares about." I later read that he had had a nervous breakdown from getting so involved as the character in "My Left Foot".

But we are all aging and getting more boring by the day, so I tarried on. I did stop to consider that he would make my top ten list of people that would make you uncomfortable to have for dinner. He seems too noble and modest. His magnificence is in his acting. He'd probably demur all questions and either be all British and smugly intelligent or incredibly socially awkward.

When I saw the first couple of people in the film get conked in the head with metal tubes that have something to do with drilling, I thought "oh good, there's the blood bit". Ha!! There was so little blood when he finally shot someone in the head, I didn't know the bullet had struck until he was burying him. I rewound it and like a fool watched to see if he'd actually killed him (Hello, he was digging a hole and rolling in a body!). But nothing could prepare me for the senseless bloody bludgeoning he delivered at the end of the movie, as he declared "I'm finished" and the credits rolled.

I was finished too, what a crap full of depression and uncharacteristic violence. Just when you thought he'd become decent, he'd do something even shittier. Why do people like this stuff? God, I had to top off my wine glass to get the taste of that movie from my mouth. If I ever do have Mr. Lewis over for dinner, I'm going to make him declare "I am a false actor! I make movies that no one should see!" and then I'm going to slap him in the face a few times and make him take off his shirt just to see if he's still worth it.

The Vulcan Syndrome (Marty)

Men in the South -- at least those whose mamas I have met -- are generally raised to keep their emotions to themselves. They are rock hard with a fabulous smile; stone silent while opening the door for you; will fight for you 'til the death...while never ever telling you exactly how they feel about you, or anything else for that matter. This exactly describes both my father and my husband, and about any other Southern raised boy I've ever met. They seem so strong and solid, chivalrous and charming. That is...until they get older. And then we have the phenomenon I like to call....The Vulcan Syndrome.

Those of you who are Star Trek fans will know exactly what I'm talking about. Vulcans are a race of humanoids who are bred to give logic all of their brain power while suppressing their more wishy-washy and manipulatable emotions. They are deemed unnecessary for a full functioning life. The consequence is that, as vulcans age, they are no longer able to keep full suppression on their emotions, and they come out in explosive ways. Outrageous mania, rampant rage, or full fits of uncontrollable bawling. The controlling mechanism effectively breaks, unleashing a river of lifelong suppressed feelings.

I've noticed this consequence in my 72-year-old father, and in other men of his generation. My father gets inexplicably and uncontrollably weepy at the most inopportune moments...he really had to have help to finish his toast at my wedding reception (yes, I know, fathers are allowed to shed a tear at their daughter's weddings, but blubbering like a schoolchild during the toast? Really?). He's done the same just having a conversation wtih me about life. Never, in my youth, would my father allowed me to see this side of him. It actually weirds me out a little bit.

I am not the crying girl. I am not the girl who bawls at beautiful wedding dresses, or throws crying fits to get her way with her boyfriend. I do not cry when I am "happy." I am not the girl who uses tears to manipulate other people. I am the angry girl...the one who will squint and puff out and very quietly (or very loudly, whichever is appropriate) but strongly encourage you to see things my way. This has worked out very well for me. Until my recent discovery.

Apparently, the Vulcan Syndrome age for women is....36. At 36 I found myself tearing up at "A League of Their Own" one day on television even though I had seen it a hundred times. The ending where all the ladies of the women's pro league were welcomed into the hall of fame, got to me. At 37 I found myself tearing up at a f**king Hallmark commercial. And by the ripe old age of 38? "A League of Their Own" will put me straight through a box of tissues. I cry when the people on "America's Got Talent" realize their lifelong dream of performing in front of a crowd and are, themselves, crying. After serving on a heartbreaking jury trial for 8 days in April, I came home with a 6-pack, a bag of Munchos, and a jar of Pepperocini and went through them all just before beginning my two-hour bawling session on behalf the people in the trial. That one shocked the shit ouf ot me. Hell...I teared up at Linda's last entry!

I mean, I can't even claim "hormones" as a factor. If you've read this blog, you already know I have no children, which is when a lot of women find that their emotions go haywire. So imagine my surprise that here I am--- a broken Vulcan. But at least I have learned something about myself along the way. I know that my experiences have given me appreciation of and respect for the unknown factor. I know that I will embrace whatever comes next. I know that the young twenty-something friend of mine starting life with her new husband loves that I share her happiness so openly on my face. And I know that tissues are expensive...toilet paper works fine.

Glowing (L)

Months ago, I asked F if she wanted to grow her hair out and donate it to cancer patients for wigs. In true middle child form, she shrugged her 7 1/2 year old shoulders and said, "sure". This past weekend, there was a Relay for Life in our area and they had a Pantene Beautiful Lengths collection for wig hair. I heard about it last minute and it never occurred to me to walk. Earlier in the day, I saw a girl who was going to donate her hair wearing a "Granddaughter of a Survivor" t-shirt. I said to F, "Oh, I wish I had thought to get you a shirt saying that, your Nannie had cancer (breast cancer), and she would like you wearing it.", F shrugged again. Suddenly, I realized, she could have "Daughter of a Survivor" on there too. It's hard for me to think of myself in those terms. I feel, comparatively to most, I'm a "mini" survivor. I got off easy with an early stage thyroid cancer, there is no radiation or chemotherapy to fix it, just radioactive iodine.

RI was what I was experiencing this time last year. The worst part of it, next to being crazy and depressed from the lack of thyroid hormone (they have to let it drop as low as possible for the treatment) was having to be isolated from my children during it, as I was "radioactive". Crazy, lonely, sad and radioactive in an empty cottage for nine days isn't much fun, but it beats chemo and radiation any day.

I remember the first time before my second surgery when a nurse referred to me as a "cancer patient", I almost corrected her saying, "No, you're mistaken, I have a cancerous tumor but I don't have cancer". In the past, cancer was not something I possessed, but something that was cut out of me. Suddenly, it seemed, I was supposed to be its owner. This tumor had done a little dance during pathology to show it could break outside the borders, and apparently when it's an actual gland that's affected, there's no unnecessary tissue or skin for it to spread to. When it goes, it goes for gusto to the necessary places. I had to wait until after the iodine treatment to see if it had wandered, it seemed it had not, and voila, here I am a mini survivor. And thus, here my F was, a daughter of one.

When my niece came over to borrow something that day, I said to her, "Hey, she could have 'Cousin of a Survivor' on there too!" My niece is a true survivor, but it was before her memory can access. She just smiled as she always does and said, "Yeah she could!". Three's the magic number right? So, out came the magic marker on the shirt. I was surprised to notice F on the floor highlighting all the letters after I wrote them, she was now past shrugging.



I was so proud of F as we stood in line to get her hair cut at the Relay for Life event. I also felt unexpected guilt at not walking myself as I looked around at all the people with their Relay t-shirts. But mostly, I felt a giddy comfort being in this giant space of carnival style celebration where the word cancer was not whispered or feared, where survivors were a sort of celebrity. I didn't feel a connection with that title here, both for the ease of my experiences and for my lack of participation in the event. The little narcissist in me did feel a tiny bit of pride that what I had gone through could somehow translate into increased light on F. Then I noticed the girl who we knew sitting in the chair waiting to have her hair cut. Her mother was beside her, face swollen with tears. Her grandmother stood behind her, post chemo hair coming through about a quarter of an inch. The crowd roared with applause as she cut her granddaughter's hair. I felt humbled.

The powers of the universe must have agreed, F was soon ushered into a chair to the side and back, where no one noticed her. The woman who sectioned her hair into ponytails asked me, "Do you know a survivor here?". I paused then nearly whispered, "yes, me". She asked me to wait for a picture and I heard her murmur into the photographer's ear "mother, survivor, daughter" and point before she handed me the scissors. I think she took a picture, I only saw the flash of my husband's camera. The people who clapped were our little family. The photographer never asked our names so she could use the photo. I think she somehow sensed from the smile and health of my face and the lack of commotion around us, whatever our story was, it wasn't newsworthy. I've never felt so grateful to be ignored.






F's hair is cute and suits her. She may have shrugged indifferently when I asked her, but she's hugged me about 10 times a day since the Relay. There is a new light of connection between us, this simple act has been bonding somehow. I can barely keep my hands off the baby softness of her new bob, she seems to fit better in my arms tucking surely under my chin. I'm pretty sure if you saw us, you'd notice a faint glow.