Written in the Stars (Blog #999)

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Today’s blog is #999 in a row, and I can’t tell you how excited I am about it. For one thing, I’m one post away from 1,000. (Two including this one.) For another, it’s Christmas Eve. For another, my favorite number is 9, so this blog seems–I don’t know–sacred or something. Maybe I should call it The Holy Trinity of Nines. Regardless, although it’s just one in the grand scheme of things, it feels special.

Okay, hang on, I know what it is.

999 days ago I started this project, and at some point decided I wanted to write for at least a thousand consecutive days. (Later I upped the goal to every day for three years, which is an additional three months, but I’m considering anything after tomorrow “a bonus post.”) Anyway, for 999 days in a row I’ve written. Even when I’ve been dog tired, sick with a sinus infection, miserable with a headache, or burning up with the flu. Even on the day I was in a car accident. Even after I tore my ACL. My point being that–to be clear–there have been hundreds of days I didn’t WANT to blog or spill my guts on the internet. Hundreds of days I didn’t know if I had it in me. Because God knows I’ve set goals before and didn’t stick with them. Yes, I know what I’m feeling.

I’m feeling like–WOW–I’m going to make it.

Earlier today I heard Caroline Myss say that if you want to heal or improve your life in some way, JUST DO SOMETHING CONSISTENTLY. It doesn’t have to be complicated, she said. Stop wearing your least favorite color–forever. Go for a fifteen minute walk–every day. Her point being that any action consistently taken (read: any discipline) will force you to confront not only your saboteur, but also every other part of you that doesn’t want to heal, grow up, and change. Like your inner child (who will throw tantrums), your perfectionist (who will insist whatever you’re doing isn’t good enough), and your control freak (who will want to manage how others perceive you and your project), to name a few.

Notice that addictions, which are also consistent actions and address our inner need for congruency, likewise address these points. However, they do so unconsciously, not consciously.

In my experience with this blog, this wisdom about consistency is spot on. Indeed, many of the categories or themes that have developed here, I believe, are ones that any person undertaking a regular discipline will encounter. Things like balance, boundaries, patience, self-acceptance, and transformation. Take balance and boundaries, for example. Earlier tonight some friends had me over for dinner and invited me to stay late to watch a movie while they stuffed stockings for their kiddos. And whereas I would have loved to have lingered and continued to stuff my face with Fritos and cheese dip, I knew I had this blog to tend to.

So I said, “Thank you, but I can’t.”

This is what I’d recommend to anyone working on a goal–make no exceptions. Now, I’m not talking about your typical goals. I want to lose fifteen pounds or whatever. Especially if all you want to do is stop eating cheesecake. In that case, have a cheat day. But if the real point of your goal is deal with your crap, get in touch with your soul and spirit, and find out what you’re really made of, THEN I suggest making no exceptions. Then I suggest being an absolute hard ass with yourself.

If you do decide to be a hard ass with yourself–about anything–my guess is you’ll uncover a part of yourself you didn’t know was there before. Personally, blogging every day, every damn day has taught me that not only am I stronger and braver than I realized, but I’m also more honest and open-hearted than I realized. Since I started this project, a number of people have said, “I could never be that honest, especially on the internet.” Even my therapist has said, “You’ve clearly got really big balls.” And whereas I don’t know about all that, I do know that if I can be strong and brave and honest and open-hearted, anyone can. Because it’s not THAT hard. Yes, it’s hard. It’s scary and terrifying and exhausting and hard.

But it’s not THAT hard.

What I mean is that it’s not impossible. Whatever it is you’re scared of–and anything you’re scared of counts, even if other people don’t think it’s a big deal–humans have been facing their fears and slaying their dragons for centuries. My point being that you’re not alone. Knowing this–that it’s POSSIBLE to transform yourself for the better through the practice of a consistent discipline–the question becomes, why wouldn’t you? A thousand days ago I would have pulled out my favorite excuses. I can’t. I’m not good enough. I’ll fail. I’ll embarrass myself. Someone else is already doing it better. But having come this far, I now know these are just lies, stories. So if the answer to “Why won’t you do something to improve your life?” is that you simply like the stories you tell yourself about who you are and what you’re not capable of, fine. That in itself is some level of honesty. But don’t expect me to believe your excuses just because you do.

Because I know from experience–all of us are capable of WAY MORE than we think we are.

This is one of the greatest gifts my therapist has given me–she’s staunchly refused to believe my excuses. No matter how many times I’ve campaigned for them, she’s never voted for my limitations. Now, she’s honest. “You’re almost forty,” she says. “I don’t think you should be an Olympic gymnast.” Still, within reason, she’s never stopped rooting for me. With respect to my talents, career, and relationships, she’s always been in my corner. The result being that–between her and this discipline–I’ve gotten back something I didn’t know I’d lost–myself.

Also, I’ve learned how to hope again.

Last year for the Winter Solstice I blogged about how, from the Summer Solstice until the Winter Solstice, the sun rises and sets more and more toward the south in the northern hemisphere. (This is the cause of our progressively shorter days from late June to late December). However, for three days, from December 22 (the typical date of the Winter Solstice) until December 25, the sun appears to stop moving toward the south OR the north. To the ancients, this was terrifying because they thought the sun had died.

Don’t worry. The good news is coming.

On December 24 at midnight (ish)–and you can check this for yourself–you can follow the three stars in Orion’s Belt (sometimes referred to as The Three Kings) to Sirius (the brightest star in the sky), and they’ll point the way the eastern horizon. There you’ll find Virgo, The Virgin. (See above.) Overhead you’ll find The Beehive Cluster (not labeled), sometimes referred to as The Manger. Next to it, Cancer, whose two brightest stars are often called The Two Asses. Six hours later, The Manger and The Two Asses will be on the western horizon, The Virgin will be straight overhead, and the sun will be rising not just on the eastern horizon, but also toward the north. (See below.)

Hooray! The sun didn’t die.

For as long as we can remember, men and women have feared. We’ve watched our days get shorter and shorter and felt our nights get colder and colder. We’ve thought, We can’t do this. We’re not going to make it. Our hope is gone. And yet we’ve consistently persisted. We’ve kept at it, hung on. And time and time again, right out of our darkest night, the light has reappeared. The light reappears. From Christmas until the Summer Solstice, our days get longer and longer, brighter and brighter. This is a universal law. It’s written in the stars. Just when we least expect it, things start to turn around. Life comes flooding back. Letting out a sigh, we think, I’m going make it.

Just like that, our hope is reborn.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Go easier on yourself.

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Be Here Now (Blog #920)

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Every day for the last week I’ve talked about having a sinus infection. And whereas I wish I could say that I’ve been healed (and therefore talk about something else), I haven’t been. Despite the fact that I’ve tried most everything I know to do, nothing has worked. Last night I saw mild improvement but still ended up coughing myself to sleep. Today has been more of the same–gross. Honestly, I’m not sure that what I have IS a sinus infection. Maybe it’s a cold. Maybe it’s allergies. Dad says ragweed is higher than it’s ever been. Although last year I was tested for over fifty allergens including ragweed and didn’t react to a single one of them.

Take that, ragweed. You can’t get a reaction out of me.

Rather than being my usual take-charge self and flitting all over Van Buren and the internet in search of an immediate cure, I’ve spent most of today watching Netflix–in bed, in a chair, on the floor. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve watched four movies or documentaries. I’ve also done some reading. And some laundry. I’ve really tried to take it easy. To just be frickin’ sick and stop trying so hard. To stop being afraid of what might happen if I don’t. If I let go.

This is really hard for me to do.

It’s tough to know when to try and when not to try. For example, if I had’t scoured the internet for home remedies a year and a half ago, I never would have learned about the probiotic that’s been so helpful to my sinuses. But there’s obviously a point when it’s best to call uncle, to let your body rest and decide what’s best. Even if that means being sick.

One of the documentaries I watched this afternoon was called Be Here Now: The Andy Whitfield Story. Andy was the star of the television series Spartacus: Blood and Sand. This means at one point he was strong, healthy, and looked great in a loincloth. However, when he was in his late thirties, before the second season of Spartacus could begin, Andy was diagnosed with cancer. And although he underwent chemotherapy and radiation and even traveled the globe to supplement his treatments with Ayurveda, acupuncture, and yoga, he eventually died, leaving his wife and two small children behind.

The documentary mostly features Andy and his wife discussing their journey with cancer. And whereas for a year or two they were both convinced that he’d overcome his disease, there’s a point at which Andy starts thinking he won’t. The chemotherapy’s not working, the radiation’s not either, and the cancer keeps spreading. Andy says, “I finally thought, Maybe this is it for me, and it was a relief, to stop fighting.” His wife says, “I kept thinking that I needed the cancer to be over so we could get on with our life, but the cancer is our life right here, right now.”

Wow. How many of us think that our life will really start when? When we get over our illness. When we meet a lover. When our ship comes in. I know I think this on almost a daily basis. And whereas I hope many of my dreams will come true, even if they do, they’re simply fantasies now; they’re not my life. Now my life is living with my parents. It’s going to therapy and writing this blog. It’s getting a sinus infection (or cold) now and then. So I’m trying to remind myself that it’s up to me whether or not I embrace these things, whether or not I make the most of them, whether or not I choose to–as Andy had tattooed on his forearm–be here now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That's life. In the process, we find out we're stronger than we thought we were, and perhaps this is healing.

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America, My Mom, and My Memories (Blog #586)

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This morning I got up early, like at seven, because my mom had a thing at the hospital. And whereas I’d planned to make breakfast then leave with my parents, I decided to vote instead. That’s right, America–I VOTED–instead of eating. You’re welcome.

In all honesty, I skipped breakfast because Dad said we could eat Chick-fil-A later. (Yes, I’m a gay man who eats at Chick-fil-A–it’s delicious!–get over it.) Plus, since I wanted to vote SOMETIME today, this morning’s situation worked out perfectly. I was there just after the polls opened in Van Buren, in and out in thirty minutes, and back at the house on time to pick up Mom and Dad. From there, we picked up my aunt, and the four of us were at the hospital about 8:30.

Over a year ago, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and this last January she had a double mastectomy. Things are better now, over really, and today she had surgery to have her port (where they administered the chemotherapy) removed. Anyway, everything went great. The prep, surgery, and recovery all happened in about four hours, during which time my dad, aunt, and I visited with each other, read our respective books, and harassed total strangers in the waiting room. Well, Dad harassed total strangers in the waiting room. It’s sort of his thing.

Like, he asked Mom’s hot doctor, “Can I just leave her here with you?” Then after he wrangled the guy into looking at my aunt’s scratched/infected forearm and the guy left, my dad said, “I was TRYING to keep him over here because you’re single and he’s rich and good looking.” My mouth dropped open just as my aunt said, “Don’t you think he’s good looking, Marcus?” (So she was in on it too.)

This is the price you pay for talking to your family about your private life.

Since Mom felt all right after her surgery (they used a mild anesthetic, apparently), afterwards we ran a couple errands and went out for Mexican food. Then we came home, and because I’d spent the morning exhausted from being up early, I went straight to bed and took a nap.

And no, I did not dream of the hot doctor. (He’s married–to a woman–and I have boundaries.)

This evening as Mom and Dad watched the election results, I worked more on my photo-organizing project. Specifically, I sorted the rest of my summer camp photos into years, then placed several “strays,” about two dozen physical photos that I’ve managed to collect over the last couple years. (Everything is digital these days.) Here’s where I’m at so far–four full storage bins of photos and one full storage bin of negatives and index cards (cards with miniature versions of the photos on the negatives). The minimalist in me thinks this is a lot of photos, but overall I’m thrilled because I had eight full storage bins of photos and negatives before this project started.

Any progress is good progress.

Once everything was sorted into large-ish groups, I arranged my index cards by date (some of them, but not all, have dates on them) so I could get an idea of WHEN all these memories actually took place. I’m hoping this will help me formulate a timeline later. Like, Oh right, that summer I dyed my hair blue was the same summer I took that photography class. Or whatever. I’m not sure why this is important to me, to get all these memories organized and labeled; I just know it is. Plus, I’m not great at guessing ages–even my own–based on photos, so if I don’t do it now, it’ll be tougher later. Like tonight I had several photos of my nephew out, and I had to ask my mom and text my sister to help me decide how old he was in each one. Thankfully, they knew. Now all those are labeled. Phew.

That’s a relief.

The end.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No good story ever ends.

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Suddenly Feeling Warm Again (Blog #404)

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Just shy of a year ago, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. For a couple months I didn’t mention it on the blog, but then I did, in this post. For several months last year, Mom underwent chemotherapy, then had a double mastectomy this past January. As I understand it, at that point she was cancer free, but for the last six weeks she’s been getting radiation five times a week in order to increase her odds of staying in remission. Well, today was her last treatment. Other than taking a pill and (I’m assuming) the occasional checkup, she’s done.

What a year.

At the end of this last February, my dad went to the emergency room for his own set of issues, most of which had to do with his heart. In the hospital for a solid week, he’s been slowly improving ever since, largely due to the fact that my mom has taken over his diet. She counts his carbs, measures his sodium, keeps track of his calories. (Dad calls her The Food Nazi.) Also, Dad’s going to cardiac rehab, getting some exercise. Well, in just over two months, he’s lost 55 pounds. Isn’t that wild? Personally, I never thought I’d see the day. Like, I would have placed bets against it.

I’m just being honest.

As long as I’ve known him, my dad has been a big guy. He had a heart attack when I was in my early twenties, and, by his own admission, it didn’t scare him a bit. However, it did scare me–I started jogging that same day. Then I started going to the gym, and I’ve been off-and-on obsessed with my health ever since. For a while–a long while–I gave my dad a lot a shit about his weight. We’d go out to eat, he’d order a cheesecake, and I’d shoot him “the look.” Sometimes I’d even say, “Are you really going to eat that?”

He’d often reply, “You know, you’re not fun to go out with anymore.”

At some point, I quit trying to convince Dad to eat differently. I mean, I’d tried everything–information, logic, guilt–and nothing worked. Once he said, “You can’t say anything I haven’t thought myself,” and eventually I let that sink in. I thought, It’s his life, not mine. Then I started acting like it. It took some time, but I dropped all the food conversations. I got rid of the look. Slowly, there was less tension between us. Consequently, not only did we get along better, but I also liked him better. He hadn’t changed, but I had.

When Dad saw his primary care physician the week after his hospital stay, he said, “Doc, what I really want to know is–when can I have a cheeseburger?” In the past other doctors have said, “Never, Mr. Coker. You will NEVER eat a cheeseburger again.” (As Dad likes to say, that went over like a fart in church.) But this guy said, “How about you lose fifty pounds, AND THEN you can have a cheeseburger?” This strategy actually worked with Dad. For the last two months, he’s weighed every day, and has often beamed as he’s shared his results. Just a few days ago, he hit his (first) goal weight–he lost fifty pounds.

A storm can leave your life just as quickly as it enters it.

All this to say that today our family went out for cheeseburgers to celebrate. After Mom’s last radiation, she and Dad met Dad’s two sisters (my aunts) at Freddy’s Steakburgers in Fort Smith, which Dad’s had his eye on ever since they recently opened. (As I’m eating Autoimmune Paleo, I ordered my burger without the bread–but kept the cheese. So sue me.) And whereas we looked like everyone else in the restaurant–just a family eating burgers–it was a big deal–a ritual, really–an acknowledgment that big, scary things can and do turn around. For me it was a reminder that a storm can leave your life just as quickly as it enters it, that you can spend years in the darkness drenched and shivering, and then one afternoon the sun can break through the clouds. Perhaps this is what hope and healing are, suddenly feeling warm again as you watch the waters that nearly drowned you disappear into thin air.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

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Come to the Middle of the Seesaw (Blog #299)

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Today Mom had a bilateral mastectomy. The surgery lasted a few hours, and she had a hot doctor. (A hot, hot doctor.) Like, a very hot, hot doctor who went to and graduated from medical school, probably knows the difference between “your” and “you’re,” and didn’t have a ring on his finger. (I’m just sayin’.) In other important news, the surgery itself went well. The cancer had NOT spread to Mom’s lymph nodes. The anesthesia seemed to wear off fine, and when I last saw Mom this evening, she was being given “the good” pain medication. One of my aunts is staying with her tonight, and she should be home tomorrow. So, thank you, Jesus.

One of the good things about having a family member who has cancer, or who used to have cancer, is that people bring you food, and not a little of it. (If there’s a silver lining, I’m going to find it.) This afternoon my friend Bonnie brought my entire extended family chicken nuggets (and fruit and cookies AND coffee), with a variety of dipping sauces. I mean, if there’s any way to make sitting on your butt in a hospital waiting room for five or six hours any better, this is it. Oh, and she brought even more food to the house for dinner, the most important item being homemade cinnamon rolls. And whereas Mom is the one who actually has (or had) cancer and can’t have any solid food until tomorrow, I personally have been quite comforted by all the calories.

In addition to eating delicious food and visiting with family and friends, I spent most the day in the waiting room sending emails and Facebook messages. I’ve recently been brought on board as the marketing director for a large dance event, and my first goal is to get feedback about the event from those who have attended it in the past. So far it’s going well, but at some point today, my eyes started to glaze over. Like, I can only reach out to so many strangers and say, “Hello, I’m Marcus. Here’s what’s going on. Would you be willing to talk to me?” before it doesn’t feel genuine anymore (even though it is). I told Bonnie I felt like a door-to-door salesman, saying the same thing over and over again–

Unlike everyone else on Facebook, I’d actually like to hear your opinion!

This is something I never had the courage to do when I owned a business or ran my own dance event. Being so involved, I would have taken any negative or constructive feedback as purely destructive feedback. I would have taken everything too personally. But I don’t have that hangup with someone else’s event. I can listen to people’s stories–the good, the bad, and the ugly–as a neutral party. So far I’ve talked to about a dozen people, and it’s been fascinating. I’ll spare you the details, but as much as some people have been over-the-moon satisfied, others have, well, not been. Having professional distance from their personal experiences, I’m able to sort their feedback into two basic piles–This Problem Needs Fixing, and This Person Needs Fixing.

I think this is what a good therapist, even a good doctor, is able to do–step back and see what’s really going on. Once my therapist told me, “I’m basically just an observer of your life.” I can’t tell you what a difference this has made, having someone who’s not attached to my outcomes. As much as I love my friends and family, they weren’t “getting the job” done when it came to my mental and emotional health. First of all, it’s not their job to help me grow in that way. Second, most of them haven’t been trained with the proper skills to do so. Lastly, they’re simply too close to me, the way I’d be too close to them if we were talking about their personal growth. You know how it is when you’re too close–you interrupt each other, boss each other around, don’t believe each other’s compliments. You think, “I’m not beautiful. You’re just saying that because you’re my mother.”

This neutral party has been on my mind lately. (I recently blogged more about it here.) Obviously, that’s what mom’s hot doctor was today–a neutral party. Not that he doesn’t care about his patients, but he’s not so wrapped up in their personal stories that it affects his job. And whereas a patient or a family member might sweep a health problem under the rug or ignore a problem, a doctor would (ideally) be the last person to do that. Like my therapist or me in my role as marketing director, not being wrapped up in personal stories allows him to see clearly where the problems are and what can be done about them.

Even storms pass away.

I’m currently thinking of a seesaw. If you’re on either end of a situation, one minute you’ll be up and the next minute you’ll be down. But the neutral position is where you’re unmoved by whatever life throws at you. It’s steady even when the world isn’t. Additionally, if you stand in the middle of a seesaw, you realize that what’s up for one person is down for the next and that nobody stays up or down for very long. You see that life is always changing and everything circles ’round. I think this is the lesson of Jesus walking on the water. (Don’t try this at home, kids–it’s symbolic.) The storms of life raged all around him, but he wasn’t affected by them. Not that he didn’t see them, but he knew that “this too shall pass.” Even storms pass away. And because he’d found that neutral, steady, centered point within himself, then–and only then–was he able to reach out his hand and help another. “Keep your eyes on me,” he told Peter. In other words, “Come to the middle of the seesaw. Don’t be distracted by things that are always changing. Give your full attention to that which cannot and will not be moved.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Of all the broken things in your life, you’re not one of them–and you never have been.

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Everyone Has Pus to Deal With (Blog #245)

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Currently it’s just after midnight, I’ve only been awake for ten hours, and I’m worn to a frazzle. I honestly haven’t done much–I went for a walk, attended improv class, bought groceries–but my energy level is squat. (Squat, I say.) Since I tend to obsess about my health, this only concerns me–a lot. Logically I can say that my body feels so much better than a week ago and that my cough has disappeared, so I must be getting better. But logic doesn’t do much good around here–in my brain, that is. All I can think of are the hundred and one reasons why something must be wrong. Maybe I’m not taking enough vitamins. Maybe I’m taking too many vitamins. (That could be it.) Maybe I’m pregnant–my sister says being pregnant can really drain a person.

Honestly, I want to slap myself. Get a grip, Marcus.

I’m not sure where I got the idea that I need to figure my body out. I mean, I think it’s a good idea to be educated about a few things, take a vitamin c every now and then. But in my experience, my body seems to be able to handle most problems on its own. I mean, for an entire year I ran around with little warts on my face, trying everything under the sun to get rid of them. (The internet said to try duct tape!) I think my dermatologist was half-convinced I had HIV because my immune system wasn’t recognizing the invaders on my pretty face. Well, I got tested and was negative. Then one day the warts just went away. Who knows what happened? Maybe my body was just waiting for me to quit trying so hard.

I can just hear it saying, “Would you stop looking over my shoulder and let me do my job, please?”

I guess I have a really hard time with that, letting go of control. I really think a rational human being would say, “Of course I’m tired–I’m healing–that takes energy. I know–here’s an idea–I’ll sleep more!” Like, it could be that simple. Instead I want to complicate things, spend an hour on the internet trying to diagnose myself. This, of course, is a terrible idea. Tonight in improv class I noticed my brain was offline. I felt kind of foggy and couldn’t think of a single funny or witty thing to say. (I still can’t.) Anyway, if you Google “tired, brain fog” and click on more than one article, you’ll walk away wondering how you’re even alive. It’s like I have to tell myself, Step away from the internet, Marcus.

Step away from the internet.

About ten years ago I saw an acupuncturist and Chinese medicine doctor who gave me a magic powder that was supposed to “lock in” health. “Take this on a day when you feel really great,” she said. Well, I never took it. Maybe I just have high standards, but I kept thinking, I could feel better. (I still think that.) So I guess if I weren’t worried about feeling tired, I’d be worried about my allergies, or my high cholesterol, or the fact that my ears crackle and pop sometimes, even though my ear, nose, and throat doctor said, “You’re normal. That’s the way God made you.” Quite frankly, that’s a hard pill for me to swallow, the idea that I’m normal and okay, that it’s normal to always have something going on because the body is forever adapting to an ever-changing environment.

I know we all worry about our health. Both my sister and my mother have been worried about their cholesterol lately. My mom is battling cancer. As of today, my dad is dealing with allergies or a cold, and he has a whole list of other problems as daily struggles–diabetes, high blood pressure, you name it. But if you were to ask him how he’s doing, he’d smile and say, “If I were any better, I’d be twins.” Then there’s his son, who takes to the internet each night to fret about being tired. Honestly, I’m not sure which is better–sweeping your problems under the rug or airing them out on the front porch. Once again, it’s probably a matter of balance.

I’ve been thinking a lot today about community, thinking I could use some more of it. I recently finished re-listening to a Caroline Myss lecture, and she said that the process of growth and self-empowerment first looks like separating from people (in order to find your inner strength), but later looks like reconnecting with them (because life isn’t just about you). Personally, I know I try to do a lot on my own–figure out my problems, whatever. I’m rather independent. And whereas that feels familiar to me, it’s also exhausting, and I’m starting to believe that’s because we’re simply not created that way. Rather, we’re tribal creatures–we’re meant to connect with each other.

This afternoon I ran into our next door neighbor Carree. She pulled up in her Hyundai as I was going for my walk, and since I have a Hyundai too, I couldn’t help but start a conversation about our vehicles. (Incidentally, we both love our Hyundais.) Anyway, we started talking about the blog, and things got real pretty quick. I said, “I’m not sure why I’m so dedicated to it, but I really believe it’s the most important and transformative thing I’ve ever done. Still, it’s hard, working through all your shit every day.” Carree said we all do what my dad does, put on a face and say we couldn’t be better. “But we all have things we’re working though,” she said. “We all have wounds that fester, pus that bubbles up. [Carree’s a nurse.] You either deal with it now or you deal with it later.”

Then she said, “If you ever want to talk, I’m right next door.”

Our burdens are lighter when we share them.

Personally, I don’t think it was an accident that I ran into Carree on the same day I was feeling a little isolated. (I mean, we never run into each other.) I guess it’s easy to assume everyone else has it together, to see your neighbors in their new cars or the celebrity on television and assume they don’t have any problems, that they never have days when every part of them feels like throwing in the towel. And yet everyone has something going on. Everyone worries, struggles, and falls apart at times. Everyone has pus to deal with. But I’m reminded that we truly are all in this together and that our burdens are lighter when we share them. What’s more, there are people out there who want to connect with us, people closer than we think.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Kindness is never a small thing."

The Mystery of It All (Blog #181)

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When I first started blogging almost six months ago, the average blog took anywhere from four to six hours to complete. I’d sit at the laptop staring at a blank page and just wait for an idea to show up, sort of like I do now with boyfriends. It was exhausting. Thankfully, the process has gotten a lot easier. Now the average blog takes two hours–about an hour and a half to write, maybe thirty minutes to edit. Honestly, it’s still tough, trying to take an average day and turn it into something funny or profound. Sometimes I’d simply like to eat a damn cheeseburger without having to turn it into a mystical experience. Recently I turned down the opportunity to spend the night with a delightful man so I could come home and blog. Tonight I had dinner with perhaps the most honest friend I have, and he said, “Couldn’t you just take off one night in order to get laid?”

I mean, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it.

Still, I’ve come to love the experience. More often than not, I really have no idea what I’m going to sit down and say. More accurately, I have no idea what’s going to be said through me. But I’ve found that if I just start typing, something shows up. That’s why so many blogs start with, “It’s one in the morning, I’m tired, and I can’t stop smelling my armpits.” I’ve found if I just start with the facts–the honest truth–then it’s like a roller coaster ride. Suddenly I’m off and running, and the twists and turns are just as much a surprise to me as to anyone else. Yes, it still scares the shit out of me. I constantly think, What am I going to say next? Despite this fact, I’m learning to trust the process, the mystery of it all.

There’s something about the end of September. For six years, I hosted Southern Fried Swing (a Lindy Hop convention) at this time of year, so all the memories are popping up on Facebook. I can just feel it in the air. It seems like I should be decorating the venue, picking up instructors from the airport, meeting with the band, eating cinnamon rolls from Calico County, and–of course–dancing. It’s the way I used to feel every summer, that I should be at summer camp, teaching kids to canoe and singing “Picking Up Paw Paws.” Now it feels like something is missing, something that I really loved and was good at.

Today, instead of working on Southern Fried Swing (or, as one friend calls it, Chicken Pot Pie), I drove to Fort Smith to pick up a bunch of “cancer hats” for my mom. Since she’s bald, she’s been wearing a sailor’s hat at home to keep her warm. Honestly, it’s not cute–she looks like Gilligan. Anyway, my sister talked to a family friend who’s had cancer, and she and her mom (also a cancer survivor) rounded up some more fashionable options for my mom. As the gay child in the family, I’m not sure why I didn’t think of this first.

After picking up the hats, I went to Walmart to get gas for Tom Collins (my car) and decided I needed to replace my wiper blades. I mean, the ones I’ve had have been “okay,” but not great. Well, anything feels like an expense these days, but I’m going on a road trip in a couple weeks, so I figured it would be a good investment. So I bit the bullet and got two for the front and one for the back. Y’all, either I’m getting smarter or wiper blades are designed better than they used to be. Usually it takes me half an hour, a manual, and a gallon of holy water to change wiper blades, but I changed all three of those suckers in less than five minutes this afternoon.

It really is the little things.

Tonight on the way to dinner, I tested out the blades, and–wow–they were worth every penny. I can see clearly now. When I got home, Mom checked out the hats I picked up this afternoon. She tried a couple of her favorites on, then Dad came in the room and tried a couple on. Ever the selfie opportunist, I threw one on too and took a picture of us. It just lasted a moment, but–at least for me–the whole cancer problem seemed lighter. Maybe I just felt closer to my family.

Also, maybe I should start wearing pink more.

Naturally, I have a lot of plans for my life, things I’d like to see happen. The truth is that life, like writing, is a mystery. You start out having no idea how it’s going to go, or maybe you think “this” will happen, but things simply unfold as the do. Maybe you spend six years doing the same thing every fall, and then one year it’s over, nothing left but memories and old photos. Sometimes I think it’s easy to get stuck in the past, to wish for what was. But whenever I do that, it feels like looking through a windshield that won’t quite come clean, as if looking backwards prevents me from seeing clearly what’s right in front of me. Maybe what’s in front of me is a mom with cancer, or maybe it’s an ordinary day. Either way, life does seem to be getting easier, and I’m coming to see every day and even myself as a black page, full of possibility.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Getting comfortable in your own skin takes time.

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A Mixed Bag (Blog #174)

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Yesterday morning, after three days of yard work and finding a possum in my bed the night before, I called waste management in Fayetteville to schedule a pick-up for all the tree branches piled by the curb in Ray’s front yard. Stuff like this makes me nervous because I usually feel as if I’m an imposition. My side of the conversation always sounds like, “Uh–I’ve got these–tree branches–I’m sorry if having trees makes me a bad person–but these branches fell and are dead–and could you–maybe, possibly, if you’re not busy–come get them?” At least that’s how it feels on the inside. Anyway, the nice lady at the trash department said sure, they’d come get them in a couple days, so long as everything was by the curb and nothing was over twelve feet long or more than so many inches wide.

Check, check, check.

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said. “There can’t be anything ABOVE the pile for fourteen feet.”

I thought, Shit. There’s a tree AND a power line over the pile of branches–the REALLY BIG pile of branches that’s not going to move itself.

Did I say shit?

After all the yard work/hard work, the thought of moving that pile was more than I could handle, so I decided to run some errands and give it a minute. Since I had sinus surgery in February, I’d been meaning to drop off a cookie cake for the doctor and his office. I mean, they were amazing and my life is a hundred times better than it was before. Y’all, if you haven’t tried breathing, you should–it rocks. Anyway, I’d been trying to come up with a cute saying or something clever to put on the cookie cake. Like, I did this once before for my dermatologist’s office after the little warts that had been on my face for over a year FINALLY disappeared. That cake said, “I’m happy to report that I can’t find a wart.”

Cute, right?

Well, despite the fact that I’m a writer and an all-around creative guy, I couldn’t come up with squat for the sinus doctor. Uh, gee, it’s nice to breathe. Nobody knows noses like you do. (Strike one, strike two.) So this weekend I gave up and decided I didn’t have to be cute and that I should just go ahead and order the damn cake and have it say, “Thank you.” (Short and to the point.) So I picked up the phone, dialed the number, and–I’m not kidding–exactly as someone answered, the idea showed up.

I said, “Yes, I’d like a cake that says, ‘Thanks (exclamation point). You’re a breath of fresh air.’ And please don’t spell ‘you’re’ wrong.”

All that to say that after finding out those branches were piled in the wrong spot, I delivered the cake to my doctor’s office. Afterwards I was starving, so I stopped at Village Inn, ate breakfast, and drank a lot of coffee. Y’all, it’s amazing what pancakes and caffeine can do. I thought, Okay, that pile of branches isn’t so big. I can move that.

Fortunately, Jesse helped. We got it done in less than an hour. After we picked up the scraps and swept the sidewalk, it was like magic, as if the pile of branches had never been there in the first place.

Here’s the new pile, on the side of the house. Hopefully it will also disappear before the week is over. Also, if I never see a pile of branches like this again, it’ll be too soon.

Today I’ve been smelling my arm pits a lot. I decided to try again with better eating, so I went to Walmart earlier to buy groceries, and every now and then I’d sneak my nose over by my shoulder, lift my arm as if reaching for something on the top shelf, and sniff. As I’ve said before, they used to smell like–I don’t know–bleach or ammonia, anything but a turn-on. Well, I’ve been using a deodorant cream I read about online, so twice a day I’ve been smearing it under my arms and everywhere else that doesn’t see the sun. I don’t want to speak to soon, but I think the cream is working. It has boric acid in it, so as a bonus I don’t have any cockroaches on my–well–you know. That being said, the cream has its own distinct odor, so I keep trying to sort out all the aromas. Honestly, I feel like a child picking at a scab.

Leave it alone, Marcus.

The first time I blogged about my mom having cancer, I discovered a mouse in the house. Since then, we’ve all seen the mouse running around, putting his feet up on the divan, smoking cigars, and generally making himself at home. Mom says there’s more than one. We’ve had traps set out, but nothing has worked. I’ve been so overwhelmed by the whole thing, it’s been easier to give the little assholes a high-five than reset the traps or try something different. But tonight at Walmart I thought, I can do this, and bought new traps. Then when I got home–get this shit–one of the mice was actually stuck on a glue pad behind a chair in the living room.

And it was still alive.

Squeaking.

I’m just going to say it.

Dad pulled the mouse off the glue pad, the mouse bit Dad’s finger, and Dad put the mouse down the garbage disposal (and turned it on).

It was kind of awful.

I still have a mixed bag of feelings about it.

Dad’s finger should be fine.

Just a while ago my mom and I had a long talk about cancer and depression. She has both and says depression is worse. I don’t have either, but I believe her. All of it is tough to watch, but that’s life. Today our neighbor brought Mom a scarf to wear on her head, and Mom said she was planning to Google how to fashion it. Pulling the scarf out of the sack, I tied it around my head like a bandana. Mom said, “Or I guess I could just ask my gay son.” Then she laughed, which was wonderful to hear.

Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That’s life.

I don’t know why life works the way it does. You spend months with warts on your face, a smell in your arm pits, or a mouse in your house, and then one day it’s gone like a pile of branches that’s been picked up, cleaned up, and moved somewhere else. Or maybe you spend half a year trying to think of something to say on a cookie cake, and the moment you let go is the moment the thing shows up. I guess all of us deal with problems of all shapes and sizes. One minute we look at whatever it is and think, I can’t–it’s too much. Then we eat breakfast, maybe go for a walk, and we realize we can. Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That’s life. In the process, we find out we’re stronger than we thought we were, and perhaps this is at the heart of healing.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

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A Mouse in the House (Blog #104)

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For a while now I’ve been staring at this blank screen wishing I hadn’t made a personal commitment to write every day. I’ve also been wishing I hadn’t promised myself I’d be honest. Seriously, that was a stupid thing to do. Currently I’m tired (I know–we’re all tired–welcome to America), I have a headache, and I feel super bloated because I ate pizza on three separate occasions today, so I’m having a difficult time focusing. Additionally, I really don’t want to write about the thing that’s been on my mind all day, so I’ve been hoping I could get out of it. Like that ever works. Still, for over an hour I’ve been bargaining with the muse. Just give me something else to talk about–like the fact that I spent two hours tonight listening to Shania Twain’s Man I Feel Like a Woman, not because I’m gay but because I’m getting paid to choreograph it–that’s interesting, right?

But, “No, it’s not,” the muse says. “Tell everyone your mom has cancer.”

I don’t want to. I’m not ready to talk about it. 

“Do it anyway,” he says.

Oh my god, a mouse just ran across my parents’ living room! Let’s talk about that instead. Mice scare me. If only they were like the mice in Cinderella maybe I would–

“You’re stalling.”

Fine, damn it. But just so you know, I’m not happy about this.

“The mouse or the cancer?”

Either.

So yeah, my mom has cancer. They found it in one of her breasts several weeks ago, maybe as many as six or eight. This isn’t the first time I’m talking about it, just the first time I’m writing about it. (Mom said it was okay.) Originally she was told that it was small, localized, and slow-growing, so the assumption has been that the treatment would be fairly simple. I swear. I think the mouse just made one lap around the entire perimeter of the interior of our home. No wonder he looks so skinny. Anyway, I once worked for an attorney who worked out of his house, and I remember one day him standing in the kitchen with a block of cheese that had mold on it. Disgusting, right? But the man actually took out his pocket knife, cut the moldy part off, and ate the rest of the cheese. (He said you could do that because all cheese is basically mold, but I’m still grossed out.) Anyway, that’s how I’ve been thinking of the cancer treatment, something quick and simple that could easily be done in your own kitchen with a pocket knife if you were brave enough. But even if you wanted to let the doctors handle it–no big deal.

So apparently–big deal. Of course, things could always be worse (things could ALWAYS be worse), but we found out today that the cancer is a little more moldy–spread out–than previously thought. So two days from now mom’s going to get a port, which is basically a funnel they implant in your skin so they can pour chemotherapy into your body like motor oil for five months. After that, the plan is mastectomy, followed by radiation, followed by medication for five years.

As of now, that’s all we know. Also, I think we’re all overwhelmed, which is why we ordered pizza.

The fucking mouse just ran–no, sprinted–across the living room. It was so fast! Maybe I should call it Florence Griffith-Joyner. But I can’t think about that right now. I have so many other things to think about right now. Like FloJo gives a shit. I mean, a mouse just shows up in your home uninvited and does whatever the hell it wants. But of course, you’ve got to try to get rid of it. You can’t just let it stay. Still, I guess sometimes it takes a lot more work than you think it will. And maybe some days you wonder if you’re strong enough for what lies ahead.

Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes.

“With the mouse or the cancer?”

Both.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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