the fabric of life is torn from me.
I cannot bind these strips of bleeding flesh with your tears.
circles are widening on the canvas.
I fill them with pale light.
the blackness around them wonders why.
I have no reply. just go away.
pretend I was never here.
make it mean something.
otherwise it was all just a nightmare.
It happened a long, long time ago. But it is also happening this very minute, like time travel. And I cannot make it stop.
I am 8 years old.
I smell the bacon as I pull on my dress.
I hate this dress. It’s ugly and it leaves scratches on my side. But she likes it.
I go into the kitchen. She is angry. I must have done something wrong. But I’m afraid to say anything.
She makes us eat breakfast every morning. I am queasy in the mornings and I hate breakfast. But she is a good mother and we are lucky. She wasn’t so lucky. She won’t talk about her childhood. She says it makes her sad.
She turns the eggs in the skillet. One of the yolks breaks. She sets down three perfect eggs, one for her, one for my brother and one for my father. She gives me the broken one. Now I know I have done something wrong.
My father comes to the table. He is angry, too. He and my mother don’t look at each other.
My brother doesn’t notice that anything is wrong. She speaks tenderly to him. He is the best thing in her life. I am just there to help with the housework. I wish I knew what made the difference.
So I ask her. She stammers and I never really get an answer. It’s a question I will ask her again when I am older.
“I was always afraid that you would be smarter than me,” she will say. “But I realized that since I am older than you, I will always know more than you.”
She doesn’t love me because I am smart? What do I do about that? I thought I was supposed to be smart. They fuss at me when I don’t make all A’s, even though they are happy with my brother’s B’s and C’s.
I already know I am not pretty. She is always telling me how pretty my friends are. She tells them how nice they look and she laughs with them. I wish she would laugh with me like that. But I am a disappointment.
I think if I were not around my parents would be happy. My brother is their true child. I wonder if I was adopted. That would explain why they don’t like me.
Maybe I can smother myself. I crawl into bed and put a pillow over my face. But I can’t do it. The air feels so good when I breathe it in. I would hate to die by drowning.
My mother comes into the room. “What are you doing in bed? Get up. You’re burning up.” My hair is wet from sweat. She thinks I went to bed because I am lazy.
She tells me to fold the laundry. I don’t know why she gives me this chore. I never do it right and she always complains. I’d rather be outdoors with the other children. But after this she is going shopping and I have to go with her. Dad is watching the game on TV and I will bother him. My brother gets to stay home and play outside. I do not understand this.
I hate shopping. It is boring. The store smells bad. But she loves it. I walk between the racks of clothing. I like the way the fabric feels. If I squeeze myself into the middle of a bunch of dresses it feels like a hug. Someone tells me to stop and behave myself.
My head hurts and I am tired. I just want to go home. But I don’t even know where home is anymore.
I’m so distracted I lost a shirt and my cup of coffee between the kitchen and the living room. I started a home project and couldn’t focus on what I was doing. So I’m just going to write it out.
My mother is dying. Conversations with family members invariably turn to memories of her.
Mine seem to be different from everyone else’s.
Utter one of her several bynames, and mindvideo from my vast collection queues up, my mother’s face distorted in anger, spewing criticism and humiliation.
This morning I am trying to see if I can edit those old tapes. I’ve never done this before and I can only make a start. But I figure anything I try can only make things better. And I have to trust the process.
Someone posts a photo of Mom on Facebook, remembering her with tenderness.
I see a woman about to explode with rage.
I step into the photo. Mom holds it together until she and I are alone. Then I will witness a barrage of frustration and vitriol. Granted, it’s not all about me. Maybe none of it is about me. But it will wound and deplete me all the same.
I’m trolling my mind for times when she and I laughed together. Those are the easiest ones to find. And the one that shows up is 50 years old. As other loves entered my life and vied for my attention, the laughter began to die. But in 1969, I was her best friend.
My father was 6 feet tall. Mom was 5’4″. When Dad was happy he’d come into the kitchen, where she and I were preparing supper. He’d hug her and then lift her straight up off the floor. He’d bounce her in his arms and she’d complain that he was hurting her boobies. But they’d both be laughing and I would be, too.
Mom loved to laugh and laughed easily, as did my father, when they weren’t fighting, which was often. When the two of them were laughing together, I knew my brother and I could relax for a few hours and they would be sweet to us and to each other.
Today I will play this mindvideo over and over to see if I can find footage before and after it, to look for details, like the pan of potatoes I was peeling or the dishes she was washing in the sink of our tiny kitchen. I will remember that I went to pick okra from the garden, washing and slicing it, dredging it in cornmeal and frying it in a cast iron skillet.
My mother is happy because I am helping her and I am good company and we are going to have a fine meal very soon.
As I write this, I’m aware that my palms are sweating and my heart is racing. I really don’t want to dig this deep. My friend, pain, is a festering abscess and I’d rather run in the other direction. But the only way to heal is to open the wound. And I’d rather face pain than live with bad memories.
It was only in the last couple of years that this type of abuse had witnesses. By then it was dismissed as a symptom of her dementia. No one believed me when I complained because she was consistently charming and kind to others. By the time I was 8 I was convinced I was just not worth loving.
What I do know is that hurt people hurt people and my mom’s story is full of pain. And through our family’s generations we have changed that trajectory. My grandson is proof of that.
This is limbic memory and no amount of positive thinking is going to change it. So I’m just letting the truth emerge as it will. And when it shows up, it looks like confusion, pain, anger, distraction, depression.
So I write. If the gods are with me, the stories emerge. I’m trying not to judge them as they do. What’s new for me is it no longer matters if anyone believes them. I know what happened.
My goal here is to tell my truth as I know it and to encourage others to tell theirs. It serves me nothing to perpetuate the myths of my family. If I do, I will never heal. And maybe through my healing, others will as well.
In one of my last conversations with my mother, I lay all my cards on the table. I like to think that I made amends to her but the only thing I remember is her saying, “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
That’s what this is all about. I’m sure gonna try.
10/14/2021 EPILOGUE: The reference to my grandson isn’t necessarily true, as I discovered recently. Denial is also a big component of family dysfunction. But the story’s not over yet. I’ll keep you posted.
I wish I could take credit for dreaming this one up. It’s actually a knockoff from a restaurant I’m boycotting (poor service). I really tried to hang with them for this salad. But I’m happier making my own.
My daughter introduced me to this salad as I was restructuring my diet pre-surgery. It’s packed with anti-carcinogenic, anti-inflammatory and anti-oxidant properties.
This salad is a good keeper. The small seedless cucumbers don’t become watery like their larger seeded sisters. Baby kale is easier to digest and chopping it actually releases more nutrients. So you end up with a compact bed of greens that oxidize much slower.
Finally, most of these ingredients can be purchased ready to eat, cutting way down on prep time. As a fibro warrior, that’s also really important: saves spoons.
This makes enough salad for me for 3-5 days. If you plan to keep it longer, omit the cucumbers and add them fresh at serving time.
SALAD INGREDIENTS
DRESSING INGREDIENTS
PREPARATION
IMPORTANT STUFF
The glucosinolates found in kale are utilized for DNA repair and help prevent cancer and slow the growth of cancer cells.
Along with the antioxidants found in romaine, the leafy green may also protect the body from cancer through its high folate content.
A study, published in 2015 in Gynecologic and Obstetric Investigation, found that individuals who consumed higher quantities of peanuts, walnuts, and almonds had their risk of breast cancer reduced by 2–3 times.
Quinoa contains a number of bioactive compounds, including polyphenols, which studies have shown can reduce the risk of cancer and cardiovascular disease. It also has a high concentration of protein and essential amino acids.
Cucumbers contain high levels of nutrients known as cucurbitacins, which may help prevent cancer by stopping cancer cells from proliferating and surviving.
This is a true story.
After dealing with LabCorp today and getting nowhere, I decided to run errands. It was sooo hot I wore a tank top and my tattoo sleeves.
I found a penny by the car, money side up. This has happened to me so often when I’ve been concerned about my finances that I’ve taken to calling it angel money.
In Tuesday Morning, I was a little annoyed at having to wait on the cashier to finish her story. So I eavesdropped.
She said to the customer in front of me, “And then this little boy sitting behind me pulled three roses out of the arrangement and handed them to three different women. I took it as a sign that meant everything is just going to be OK.”
In Kroger, I was a little annoyed at having to wait on a woman talking on her cell phone at the salad bar, who was dawdling over the romaine. So I eavesdropped on her, too.
She said, “She’s got about two weeks to go on her treatment. There’s a whole list of people praying and pulling for her.”
At least half a dozen people stopped to admire my tattoo sleeves and were shocked they weren’t ink. Young men smiled at me and stepped politely aside. Young women asked where they could get them for themselves.
A guy more my age followed me around the gourmet section and asked me on a date.
I told him I was expensive.
He said, “I’ve got Mama’s money until they cut me off.”
I laughed and kept walking, but in hindsight I should have asked him to pay my lab bill. I’m sure Mama wouldn’t mind.
This is what happens when people like you offer prayers and healing energy. A flock of angels arrive with messages of hope and joy — and even romance, or something like it. And they seem to be in no hurry to move out of my way.
Thanks for your contributions of love and money. I’ll keep you posted.
Forget not to shew love unto strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. ~ Hebrews 13:2, English Revised Version
Breast cancer? No problem. Get ’em cut off and then get radiation and chemo. You’ll do great.
But did you know that if you have fibromyalgia, you not only have a 20% higher risk of cancer but you are 80% likelier to die from that cancer?
Let’s look at the most common chemo drugs for breast cancer.
Anthracyclines: not recommended in patients with mitral valve prolapse or arrhythmia. Guess who has those?
Taxanes: not recommended in patients with arrhythmia or orthostatic hypotension. Guess who…
5-FU also not recommended in patients with heart issues. F.U. five times, OK?
Among Cytoxan’s side effects are pain, fatigue, hair loss, tingling in hands and feet and brain fog. Maybe I don’t actually have fibromyalgia; maybe I have Cytoxan.
Paraplatin is not recommended for people with a platinum allergy. How would you know?
So maybe I don’t do chemo. Maybe I just do radiation.
From macmillan.org: “Radiotherapy can change the cells lining the lungs. This can cause problems with breathlessness months or years after treatment. If you already have a chest problem, such as asthma, the symptoms can be worse.”
Guess who has asthma?
Javid Moslehi of Boston’s Dana-Farber Cancer Institute writes, “Radiation can cause not just narrowing of the arteries and heart attacks, but abnormal heart rhythms, malfunctioning heart valves and other serious issues.”
I already have abnormal heart rhythms and a malfunctioning heart valve.
I’m thinking nutritional healing is going to be my best option. I found the Annie Appleseed Project through Chris Wark’s website. I’ll be reading there from now on and maybe stop scaring myself so much.
One of the nicest things I did for myself in 2017 was to sign up with Blue Apron. Meals are for two, which means I get great leftovers, too. Unless it’s a shrimp entree. There are no leftover shrimp in my house. Ever.
It’s been just too hot for frying or roasting this week. So I made soup with some of my latest shipment and put the rest in this charm tomato & fresh corn salad.
I’m having it for lunch today on a bed of balsamic-dressed romaine with dried cranberries and almonds (and one wandering cashew).
8 yellow charm tomatoes, quartered
2 ears of corn, blanched and cut off the cob
2 carrots, sliced
2 ribs of celery, sliced
1 Kirby cucumber, sliced
4 garlic chives, thinly sliced
Toss with this dressing:
1 T olive oil, 2 T rice wine vinegar, 1 T sugar
S&P
Serves 4-6, depending on how you roll.
This morning I was trolling C.S. Lewis memes, looking for reassurance in quotes from “Mere Christianity” and “The Problem of Pain.” But as Google is wont to do, it proffered the words of another Lewis, those of the representative of Georgia’s 5th District.
I myself led a quite sheltered life in my youth. While I quietly protested the war in Vietnam in my own way, I was unaware of much of what was going on in America, largely due to media censorship, but also because I was too busy embroidering my jeans and trying to get a boyfriend.
It’s not like in the past 40-50 years I’d forgotten how truly brutally political and human rights activists were treated. But earlier this week I watched “Steal This Movie,” about the life of Abbie Hoffman. I’d been unaware that Hoffman was severely beaten for simply wearing a red, white and blue shirt patterned after our flag.
Wearing our flag was something many of us proudly did in the weeks after 9/11 and I’ll bet not one of us thought we’d risk a beating for it.
By his own count, John Lewis was arrested more than 40 times during his days of civil rights activism. I don’t like to think about how many of those times he was also battered or beaten. Yet today he stands before crowds and preaches a message of diligence and courage.
I am afraid. I am worried. I am angry and frustrated that America is still a land of great brutality and violence and political corruption. We’ve forgotten that some of us fled England for relief from religious tyranny. We do not remember how precarious it was for the Founding Fathers to write such a thing as a Constitution.
And we still allow those in power to sacrifice lives overseas for economic and political reasons, spinning war as a necessary exercise in defense of freedom, while they, like so many leeches, suck human rights and civil rights from the lives of ordinary citizens.
C.S. Lewis once wrote, “We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.”
He also wrote, “We read to know we are not alone.”
So I’m writing this morning as I struggle with understanding. And I will read this morning to find community and comfort, which means taking a break from Facebook and CNN. And I’ll post this and hope it helps someone else. It surely has helped me.
Desperation Bars are good enough to make on purpose. But I invented them in a desperate attempt to treat a severe chocolate deficit, using whatever I had on hand.
These are surprisingly chewy and stick to your teeth so keep a hot cup of coffee handy. Or make them without the marshmallows. But they won’t be nearly as much fun.
First, clean out your pantry. Put everything back except for:
* half a bag of stale marshmallows
* a jar of marshmallow creme
* half a stick of butter
* handful of whole toasted almonds
* 1 cup of shredded coconut
* 1 cup oat-walnut meal* (if you’re not avoiding gluten you can sub graham cracker or cookie crumbs)
* 1 can of condensed milk
* 1 jar Nutella
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and spray a 9″x 13″ baking pan with cooking spray, being sure to coat well the corners and edges.
If you have to stay tidy, just give it up now. Everything is going to be sticky by the time you’re done.
Melt the marshmallows, marshmallow creme and butter in a bowl in the microwave, stirring frequently. Scoop up the pieces that inflate themselves onto the turntable and eat them. Don’t burn your mouth. Give up trying to completely melt the marshmallows and leave big hunks in the bowl.
In the meantime, roughly chop the almonds and toss in a bowl with the coconut and oat-walnut meal*. Stir in the condensed milk and spread evenly in the baking pan.
Spread the marshmallow goo over this. Then spread the Nutella over the goo. You don’t have to use the entire jar but what the heck.
Pop in the oven for about 20 minutes. Take out and cool 10-15 min before cutting into bars. Sit on your hands or go outside if you have to. The chocolate aroma in the house is killing you by now.
the globs of unmelted marshmallow turn into bumps of gluey caramel
Store in a cool, dry place or refrigerate if you don’t eat the entire batch in one sitting.
Makes 16 *extremely* chewy bars.
*Oat-Walnut Meal: put equal parts oats and walnuts in a food processor and pulse into fine crumbs.
This one was easy. I had all the ingredients on hand that I’d bought for other recipes and didn’t use. The pico was on its last legs and was the inspiration for this. Makes a 9″ x 13″ casserole; serves 6-8, depending on size and appetite of diners.
INGREDIENTS:
Two refrigerated pie crusts, room temp
Six eggs
One can evaporated milk (or 1.75 c regular milk, half&half, etc.)
One 10-oz tub of pico de gallo (or a drained can of Rotel. Or your own chopped tomato, onion and jalapeno)
One cup finely grated Mexican blend cheese (or your own… well, you get it)
A big bunch of fresh spinach, torn into pieces (I used half a bag of bagged fresh).
Salt and pepper
Preheat oven to 425ºF.
Line a 9″ x 13″ pan with the pie crusts.
If they overlap, that’s OK. If they hang outside the pan, just fold them over the top of the casserole. Make them pretty if you want to. Obviously I like the asymmetric look.
In a large bowl, gently whisk the six eggs.
Add milk and whisk again.
Stir in pico.
Add the spinach and cheese and stir again.
Salt and pepper to taste.
(You may wish to S&P at table if pico or cheese is salty.)
Pour into pastry-lined pan and cover pan with foil.
Bake for 30 minutes or until set (filling doesn’t jiggle when you shake the pan).
Allow to cool for 10 minutes or so before serving.
Refrigerate leftovers (if there are any).
A pooling of efforts to illustrate, in color, all five of the Walker treasuries
The CatWirks 
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