Surviving Niki

bro·ken

1 violently separated into parts : shattered                 2: damaged or altered by breaking: as a: having undergone or been subjected to fracture <a broken leg> bof land surfaces : being irregular, interrupted, or full of obstacles c: violated by transgression <a broken promise>

marriage

1 a union representing a special kind of social and legal partnership between two people<some religions consider marriage a sacrament> Synonyms: match, matrimony, wedlock

depression

1 a period of decreased economic activity<during the 1930s the U.S. suffered a great depression> Synonyms recession, slump Related Words crash, panic; stagnation        Near Antonyms development, growth; advancement, progress Antonyms boom         2 a state or spell of low spirits<we threw our friend a party just to jar him out of his depression>— see sadness        3 a sunken area forming a separate space<the water generally collects in the patchwork of depressions in the city plaza>— see hole 2

relief

1 a feeling of ease from grief or trouble<my classmatesʼ kind words offered gave me some relief from the harsh criticism I had received from the teacher>— see comfort 1        2 a person or thing that takes the place of another  <I canʼt go home from my shift until my relief shows up to take over>— see substitute                3 reduction of or freedom from pain<the aspirin gave him some relief from the headache>— see ease 1

want

1 the fact or state of being absent<for want of a nail, the horse's shoe was lost during the race>— see lack 1               2 a falling short of an essential or desirable amount or number<there's a notable want of teachers in that rural school district>— see deficiency                3 a state of being without something necessary, desirable, or useful<those children are in want of some good discipline>— see need 1           4 the state of lacking sufficient money or material possessions<grew up in extreme want>— see poverty 1

sorry

Text: 1 arousing or deserving of oneʼs loathing and disgust<one more sorry stunt like that and you'll be expelled>— see contemptible 1         2 causing unhappiness<we have sorry news to report tonight>— see sad 2          3 deserving pitying scorn (as for inadequacy) <a sorry spectacle>— see pitiful 1         4 feeling sorrow for a wrong that one has done <sheʼs genuinely sorry for hurting his feelings>— see contrite 1                      5 feeling unhappiness <Iʼm sorry you feel that way, but you still have to pay the bill> — see sad 1                 6 expressing or suggesting mourning<was sorry to see the family farm being sold>— see mourning 1            7 deserving of one's pity<some sorry wretch had the task of putting all of those files back in order>— see pathetic 1

volley

Text: a rapid or overwhelming outpouring of many things at once<surprised by the volley of complaints>— see barrage

survive

Text: 1 to come safely through<the cat miraculously survived a two-story fall> Synonyms ride (out), weather                           Related Words outlast, outlive; pull through; abide, continue, endure, hang on, last, lead, persist; be, breathe, exist, live, subsist; flourish, prosper, thrive

So I'm sitting in the parking lot of a shopping strip this morning. Up until this moment the morning has been especially good as evidenced by the following facts:

1. I got up on time.

2. I got the boys to school on time. (no, really!)

3. Their hair was combed and they had their school books. (Bonus points for returning Ethan's report card after only five days!)

4. I had the newspaper, some tots, coffee and time to pull over into a parking lot and enjoy all three before work.

So you can see where this is going, right?  The universe is rarely this benevolent.  Now, if I had said I was running a fever of 103 degrees, having recently contracted Dengue Fever, or had been run over by a stray herd of moose while receiving a ticket for failing to yield to emergency vehicles in hot pursuit of stolen ice cream truck or something, you could think nothing of it.  That would mean that my universe was in it's normal state. 

As it was there was yet some balancing that needed to be done, as evidenced by these additional facts:

1. When I pulled off into a shopping center parking lot to enjoy my tots and the newspaper, I found I had no sugar for the coffee. (ick!)

2. I forgot my cell phone.

3. Oh yeah, and I left my lights on while leisurely perusing the paper.  So now I am fully informed of the local news as well as stranded in a parking lot with a dead car battery.  It is T-minus 1 hour and 15 minutes before any of the businesses near here open.  

4. This is the fourth time I've done something similar in the last year. (The last time left me stranded at the Opryland Hotel in Nashville where I had just left the only other person I knew at the airport. )

Not to despair, though, there is a bright side and I've decided to look upon it. (albeit with shades)

1. I am slowly beginning to realize I should probably do something about this habit of leaving my lights on.

2. I will get some much needed exercise as I walk in heels to the Autozone store I see on the distant horizon. 

Umm, so I have to go now; I have things to do.  Talk to you later.

If  I survive,

~Niki 

Her husband didn’t come inside with her and when she has to wait because I’m on the phone, she can only stand for a bare minute before she has to find the nearest chair.

 She about sixty and her faded red hair no longer goes with her complexion. Her skin and browned and yellowed with age and medicine, but her hair still has the pink undertones of the fair skinned.

She’s shaky and a little petulant. She’s more than a little suspicious when she asks about her account. She complains of a daughter a few states away who seems bent on insidiously taking over her affairs.

But she is here and warm and her heart still beats as she shuffles up from her chair and places her hands shakily on the counter. Because of this she is beautiful.

"Will my check go to my daughter?" she wants to know.  Her voice rasps with the effort.

A cancer pathology report reads much like a CSI episode one never wants to hear. The mitochondria have wandered away from the norm and are present in only a token three strip manner. The cell's color is gray; the membrane uneven. The cytoplasm dried up and the nucleus is off kilter.

This cell doesn’t do its work any more; it’s lazy. Your liver you thought you needed? This cell doesn’t help it, it’s on vacation; ask someone else to clean the blood. This carcinoma cell has other things to do that will take up its whole working life: divide and conquer. Divide, divide, divide. And thereby conquer.

Usually by the time you’re diagnosed there’s millions of cells.

She asks me, “What do I do?”

"Nothing," I tell her. "Go home. Rest. I will take care of this."

"You’re sure?" she asks, and I see her hand tremble and her husband waiting impatiently in the pickup truck outside.

As sure as I’ve ever been sure I’ll do anything.

Sometimes I forget. Many nights I'll fail to log off the internet. Sometimes I forget to sign my son’s permission slips. I’ve forgotten birthdays, phone numbers. Forgotten where I parked, once to the point where I called mall security to report the theft of my Grandpa's Ford.

I forget to take my medication, to wash behind my ears. I forgot to pick up my son from school on the day I first quit smoking. In third grade I forgot to do my math homework for four solid months. Some days I forget to sleep until the wee morning hours and instead read a novel in bed until my eyes itch. 

I forget why I chose to take this job at times.

For this woman I won’t forget. I just won’t.  

She thanks me more than she should. To my adjectives for her I add one more: lonely.

Later on the phone, when I tell her it’s okay, it’s all been taken care of, she asks me, “My daughter won’t find out, will she?” Her voice is the barest whisper like a child asking about the monsters under the bed.

"No," I tell her. "It will be fine."

I hope she believes me. I wish I could make it true.

Sometimes the afternoons are quiet. This afternoon at work, for instance. It’s pouring outside and the flood has come and I expect to see the animals canter by, two by two, at any moment. The rain has turned the window into an impressionist oil on canvas that could have been painted by Monet and entitled Parking Lot.  The few who scurry up the sidewalk and shrug into the door exclaim the rain and have a story to tell. This road's covered, that driveway's swelled up. My coat this wet--my umbrella this useless.

In my mother’s family they have a saying: “If the Good Lord’s willin’ and the creeks don’t rise.” When making plans, (You gonna' be over for dinner come Sunday?) you were supposed to frame your answer with a nod to the fact that yes, you’ll be there but only with the miracle that is the earth still turning, the moon still rising, and the ratio of water to land in your corner of the Earth remaining constant. They did not take it for granted that things would stay unchanged so that they could etch their existence into the land in a somewhat predictable manner.  They knew that plans were always prefaced with an "If."

Today, I understand why.

Rain changes things. Clients don’t come in the office. Phone calls die down. The people in my office--their voices have grown quiet. Books have been drug out of bottom drawers and sales leads have been dropped in the to do list instead of the front and center spot of the desk.

Discussion ran around the weather, through the business plan and swerved right past increase and retention into philosophy:“I think we are here to help people,” the sales manager intones in the middle of a talk around the table in the conference room.  The room falls silent and the lone window seems to glow in the din. (Salesmen are optimists by nature.)

The rain is supposed to keep coming for three days. The creeks will rise--the Lord is not willing. Clients aren’t stopping by, and for this moment, we don’t miss them. We are content in our study of the rain, the meaning of our work, and the cooperation of the very universe in our quest for survival.

My mother once wrote an essay for a writing class about having a difficult daughter. I thought it was in poor taste. When I wrote the essay, “I Have a Mother Who is Evil” I was a high school junior writing tongue-in-cheek and clearly in need of a good role model. I didn’t need someone taking pen to paper to complain about me at all.

I am the opposite of my mother. There were too many times growing up that I was waiting for her. Waiting for her to approve, to notice, to grow up, to pick me up, or to say something, even if it was, “No.” Now I choose to be nothing like her. I rarely make my own children wait, having learned from her example. Except when I am really busy, of course. Or working on something really important like my writing. I tell them no all the time. Why, just a minute ago my youngest asked, “Mom, will you read Calvin and Hobbes with me?”

“No,” I told him immediately, showing how much more attentive I am than my mother. She would have just ignored me.

But the older I get the more I notice the ways we are alike, and it disturbs me. We both like earth colors and art, although her art tends to involve too-fat babies dressed up like pixies or tightly drawn ivy. My art is big and bold and full of meaning. Hers is about being pretty, mine about making a statement or showing some whimsy. I don’t want my work to be trite. I want my art to be abstract like you see in all the magazines and the gallery fronts in the city. My mother paints small intricate details like leaves over and over. Who does that?

We both like to read, but she goes for Tom Clancy and Anita Shreve that she’ll return to the library without even remembering the titles. I have shelves full of classics, history, and poetry; books loving lined up by subject and by the author I stood in line to have sign it. I would no more forget an author than I would the name of one of my children.

But then again, she used to forget our names too. Standing on the front porch to call us to a fish stick and macaroni-and-cheese dinner she would run through all the names in close memory: Dav-Nik-Pepper. The children and the family pets would all receive a universal name of mish-mashed proportions.

We both like the Beatles, though. Although she’s a fan of the early work, while I like their later years. She used to shimmy around the house and ask that one, “Love Me Do.” I think that stuff is way too predictable and prefer Hey Jude, Strawberry Fields and Get Back. Mom calls that their druggy phase. (I can only Imagine what she knows about that.) When I shimmy around the house to do house work, I prefer Stevie Wonder and George Clinton, anyway. Something with a beat that vibrates the spine.

Our heights are even different. She’s a squat five feet tall with no inches to brag of. I’m five feet, too, but when measured my body claims a whole other half an inch leaving me in perpetual quandary over whether to exaggerate my shortness by saying “five feet” or presume a height I don’t have by rounding up to the next inch. “How tall are you?” the nurse will ask, and seconds will go by before I’ll reply. Sometimes, I tell her the exact priggish terms: “Five feet and one-half inch tall,” giving her the decision on what to write down. My mother never faced these questions, and it made her much more decisive, even though she’s the shorter one.

So see? My mother and I are nothing alike. I’m doing everything I can to make sure it stays that way, despite her questionable influence on my formative years. Why, just the other day, I found myself wanting to borrow her navy cardigan, but then I decided, no. I don’t want to mimic her in even that small way. I went and bought a red one, so we’re still nothing alike.

Art work credit: Incredible, Inedible Nate Williams