No Line on the Horizon

I'm a fucking hypocrite. I had just called the Elder Boy out for playing the blame game when less than 24 hours later I was playing the same fucking game in my feeble ass attempt to ascribe blame for my mid July melancholy funk. The contenders? A. Farrah Fawcett, B. Otitis media, and C. My birthday (which is more about the person who gave me life no longer being around.)

Seriously.

God knows I've posted enough my poor Mom, the original Granny, was eaten up by fucking cancer, on this here BLOG.

The original Granny. That's what E called her. It made me laugh. Hard. Which made him look at me like I was nuts, trying to discern that age old question. Is he laughing with me. Or at me.

For the record, I was laughing with him. Like Fat Tony said: "It's funny because it's true."

What wasn't funny because it's true was watching a special on Farrah Fawcett with clips from Farrah's Story while I lay in bed feeling like shit because of a nasty ear infection. I'm not even sure how I ended up on the channel (read Lifetime.) Probably trying to escape the frenzy that was (is) Michael Jackson's death.

Watching that special was disturbing. I was transfixed by the juxtaposition of old photos and clips of the young, healthy Farrah with the clips, interviews and stories of those that were with her during her long battle with cancer. And at the end. Their descriptions of her last days a mirror for me to see the reflection of my own grief. A grief that can amazingly still rear its ugly head. I'm left wondering yet again, is there a limit of statutation on grief. Or does it depend on the way in which you lost your loved one? Perhaps a better question is this. Can you reset memory. Erase the final days of a loved one's life when you lose them in such a slow and debilitating way? And if you can. Would you?

Alas, even I, ever the dipshit, realize to eradicate the cancer riddled deathbed version of my Mom that I see when grief jumps out of the bushes and kicks me in the nuts would be to miss the point. Even if said point is a self created illusion on my part.

“You see this goblet?” asks Achaan Chaa, the Thai meditation master. “For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”

The Boy(s) and I stayed at Pops and Janie's house on a recent trip to Tulsa, which reminded me of a mashup song, only with furniture and household items.

We were sitting in the living room when all of a sudden Wy jumped up and took off down the hall calling out, "Granny..."

The empathetic expression on E's face as he turned to look at me, to gage my reaction was something I'll never forget. He said nothing so I said, "It's Ok, son. You guys can call Janie whatever you want to call Janie. She's Pops' wife. Your Grandma. Or Granny. Or Mimi. I'm sure it would make her feel really good if you guys called her one of those instead of Janie and Daddy is OK with that. I promise."

The answer was D.

All of the above.

Which is usually the case in this life.

Until I BLOG again...The songs in your head are now on my mind, you put me on pause, I try to rewind, love, and replay.