When you fall down seven times, get up eight. . .

Thursday, December 31st, 2009

Bob is home, for now. He was discharged this morning with a new list of meds and an appointment for next Thursday to meet with the orthopedic oncologist at the U of M. At this point, we don't know when surgery or other treatments will be scheduled. I went out for an early dinner with my friend, Julie, last night, to La Cucaracha in St. Paul. I think La Cuc has been slipping in quality; the past several times I've eaten there have just been asi-asi. It wasn't even busy yet at 5 p.m., so not sure what the excuse was this time . . . but, I remain hopeful. I don't get there but a few times a year, and I love the the colorful, shadowy surroundings, the vibrant mariachi music twirling through the joint. I even love having to park a block or two away and walk the city blocks of St. Paul to get to the restaurant, even at night. Especially at night. But the food seems so bland, so uninspired, so mass-produced, so, so . . . so American? But, it's more the company than the grub, so all things considered, it was a lovely night.

Bob wanted me to bring some food home for him, the Tres Colores Enchiladas. Mexican sounded really good to him after several days of hospital food. I called him when I was on the road, so he could time everything just right—take his meds, a warm shower, don clean sweats, wrap his leg—in preparation to stand for the several minutes it'll take to eat his meal. It felt good to watch him eat most of meal and really enjoy it, though he had to eat quickly, before the pain kicked in and forced him to lie down again. Many a meal has been cut short for him lately due to this unwanted, overbearing intruder.

I bought a bottle of champagne when I was out running errands earlier (actually, it was cava—Bob's recommendation—a dry, sparkling wine from Spain), thinking Bob and I would have a little toast at some point in the evening, to ring in the new year. He said he'd really like that, that he's okay with having one glass, even with all the meds he's taking. Not as if he'll be operating heavy machinery any time soon. I think we were both sleeping before 10 p.m., sans cava. We'll save it for another time, for when we have something to toast.

Friday, January 1, 2010

This morning, New Year's Day, we're all in the basement—Bob's lying on the couch catching some zzzzz's, sighing deeply now and then. TV's on in the background, not sure what channel, probably news, I'm in a chair under my quilt, typing away. Gaia is crashed on the rug near Bob's head and Rocco's been bugging the hell out of all of us, shoving his chew toy into our faces, trying to get one of us to play tug-o-war with him; actually just now, he trotted upstairs unattended, which makes me nervous (when I came home from the hospital late one night this past week, I found a hot mess in the living room—well, not literally a hot mess, because that implies a pile of poop . . . rather, Rocco decided to snack on the corner of the couch. Chowed right through fabric, padding, wood, all of which were strewn about the living room rug . . . as soon as he's through this phase, it's off to Ikea to buy a new slipcover to cover the decimated corner). Right now, at this very point in time, all is good in our world. Happy new year.

A friend and colleague of Bob's sent him an e-mail the other day with the Japanese proverb: when you fall down seven times, get up eight. Ahhh, the power of words. I "heart" this proverb. So simple, yet so intense; such courage in these words. Bob also loves this quote, along with the other one Joe mentioned, if you're going through hell, keep going (Winston Churchill). In my opinion, it's how he always lives. He's a fighter, a quiet warrior. He embodies it, personifies it, in every aspect of his life. Not that a simple quote is going to make everything puppy dogs and rainbows in his world, but sometimes a personal motto that has such intimate meaning can be that rope to cling to, the raft to carry you through tough times. Bob's not one to blame, to bargain, to barter or begrudge his lot in life, though if anyone has earned a right to do any of that, he has. But, it's not how he rolls. He just keeps on keeping on.

This Japanese proverb, for some reason, fills me with me strength and peace. More so than something like, everything happens for a reason. No, sometimes shit just happens. I have a hard time finding reason in why one person has to have this much crap dumped in him, and really can't dwell on that for any length of time. Or, God doesn't give you any more than you can handle. Now, I'm having a really hard time embracing that one, the concept of God playing games with our lives, as though we're all just little pieces in a holy board game. Isn't enough enough, already? God's can't be some sort of crazy, sadistic entity, sitting up in Heaven thinking, doling out good and bad things at whim, hmmm . . . Bob hasn't cried "Uncle" yet! Boy, he's a tough one! Let's kick it up a notch and see how he handles this blow . . . (insert maniacal laughter here).

Is it okay to make up my own ideas of what faith and God are about? I mean, isn't that what most religions are, anyhow . . .when you fall down seven times, get up eight. It's just what you do. You get up the eighth time in whatever way you can—through friends, family, prayer, meditating, screaming, kicking, in spite, out of spite, putting faith in the idea that we will get through this, somehow, some way, or without much faith at all, you just get up. Whatever gets you through the night, 'sall right, 'sall right . . . Without blame, without pity, or begging, or bartering . . . without crying uncle . . . or maybe it is with all of that, and a fifth of vodka, if it's what gets you up that eighth time. . .

Man, what the hell am I doing, philosophizing about God and faith and courage and life . . . I really need to shut up, because right now, the more I write, the less sense I make and I'm tempted to delete this whole post . . . reminds me of the philosophy class I took back in college. I actually liked the class, and was even encouraged by my professor to take more philosophy classes (probably based on my exceptional b.s.ing abilities. I always did well in classes dominated by essay tests. . . multiple choice, not so much). By the final, however, I just couldn't keep up the ruse any longer. On the final, I remember writing something to the effect of, "Who the hell actually knows anything, anyhow? None of this really matters, does it? We all have our own beliefs, and will make things up to suit our individual condition. The end." I think I got a "D" on that one.

I'm terribly under-qualified in matters of faith, God, strength and courage . . . not to mention that all this could all change daily, weekly, by the minute, even . . . makes my head and heart hurt. All I know is that Bob is a good person. The best human being I have ever met on this earth. I think that Bob, Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, St. Francis of Assisi and Winston Churchill (yeah, a bit of irony with that last one . . . ) would have all gotten along swell if they went on a man-cation together. Wait. And Chris Farley. Need a little comic relief with all those big hitters. Bob's a little bit of every one of those great men. He does not deserve any of this, yet that's not how he thinks. Or, if he does, he's not letting on. He just gets up, and keeps on truckin'.