Forever 44.

Forever 44. Today would have been your 49th birthday.

Για πάντα 44. Σήμερα θα έκλεινες τα 49.

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20140218

20140218, a photo by flubberwinkle on Flickr.

Λυπόσουν να μην κρεμάσεις πίνακες και χαλάσεις τους τοίχους.
Τελικά αυτοί συνεχίζουν να υπάρχουν, ανακαινίζονται και θα συνεχίζουν ν' ακούν.
...
αχ, Ελένη μου

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When I was 43

When I was 43... I lost my best friend, to cancer.
Eleni and I were together for 17 years, the better part of my (so far) adult life. It felt as if a large chunk of my heart had been torn out with her passing.

When I was 43... my last living grandparent, my mother's mother, aged 98, passed away.
I am no longer anyone's granddaughter and my inner child doesn't like it at all.

When I was 43... Daughter#1, my eldest, spread her wings and flew away to another country for her studies.
It's a proud moment when your child is out on her own for the first time and doing very well in another country nonetheless.
It's a bittersweet feeling that as "Mommy" you're not in demand as much any more.

When I was 43... a homecoming took place that put my heart at ease and I was able to hug my father again.

Last night, a quarter past midnight, I turned 44.

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What Dreams May Come

When Helen, my best friend, watched this movie a decade ago she was deeply moved and told me her favorite scene was when Robin Williams' dead character reunited with his dead dog. Somehow imagining this scene of her and her Berkey meeting up again makes me feel better.

Dying is about the living adjusting to dying.

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Για την Ελένη

For my friend Helen who would have turned 44 tomorrow
(I apologize to my English readers, when I get a grip and stop crying I'll try to translate).


Είχε φέξει και βρισκόμουν σε εκείνη την περίεργη φάση που δεν ξέρεις εάν κοιμάσαι ακόμα ή εάν έχεις ξυπνήσει. Ένιωθα μία περίεργη γαλήνη, σαν κάτι καλό να μου είχε συμβεί στον ύπνο. Γύρισα πλευρό να εκμεταλλευτώ το πρωινό χουζούρι, αλλά δυστυχώς όταν έχεις μάθει να ξυπνάς νωρίς σ’ όλη την ενήλικη ζωή σου, δεν σου κάθεται να μένεις στο κρεβάτι. Περπατώντας προς το μπάνιο, θυμήθηκα και σταμάτησα. Η Ελένη. Η Ελένη είχε έρθει στο ύπνο μου. Είναι η δεύτερη φορά που την βλέπω από τότε που με άφησε, μας άφησε.
(Την πρώτη φορά -πριν 2 μήνες- είχε έρθει θυμωμένη και μου φανέρωσε κάτι σπουδαίο που έπρεπε να βρω στο γραφείο της και το βρήκα.)

Η Ελενίτσα στεκόταν όρθια δίπλα στο κρεβάτι μου, με κοιτούσε ενώ κοιμόμουν. Το σκηνικό του ονείρου, μου φάνηκε, ότι ήταν κάπου στη Νότια Αμερική. Κάποιος λέει της είχε κάνει δώρο γαμήλιο ταξίδι, ότι βρισκόταν εκεί με τον πρώην άνδρα της (δεν το είδα) και ενώ είχαν έρθει για μία εβδομάδα τελικά ο άνδρας της πλήρωσε για ακόμα 50 ημέρες επειδή της άρεσε τόσο πολύ. Έδειχνε ευτυχισμένη.

Φορούσε μακρυμάνικο, βαθύ μπλε, μπατίκ φόρεμα και μου χαμογελούσε συνέχεια. Είδε ότι είδα την κοιλίτσα της φουσκωμένη - ένδειξη του ασκητικού υγρού που τόσο την βασάνισε. Η φιλενάδα μου έγνεψε καταφατικά, "αυτό ξαναβγαίνει κάθε φορά που το αφαιρούν... αλλά είμαι καλά". Χαμογελούσε ήρεμα.

Ελένη μου αύριο είναι τα γενέθλιά σου. Αύριο θα έκλεινες τα 44.
Δεν ξέρω εάν σε δημιούργησα στο όνειρο μου ή εάν ήρθες εσύ, ξέρω ότι αυτές τις μέρες μου είναι δύσκολο να σκέφτομαι ότι για πρώτη φορά -μετά από πολλά χρόνια- δεν θα είμαστε μαζί στα γενέθλιά σου. Στο γνωστό μας τάμα, εκεί στον Αη Γιάννη Ρέντη.

Πόσο διασκέδαζες να λες, "η αδερφή μου με έχει τάξει στην Αγία Βαρβάρα και η Αθηνά στον Αγιο Ιωάννη Ρέντη" και μετά συμπλήρωνες... "στο Village Park" και τους έκανες να γελούν (γιατί αναρωτιόντουσαν πως μία άθεη, όπως εγώ, κάνει τάματα).

Εγώ, το αμερικανάκι, σου έλεγα ότι τα γενέθλια είναι πιο σπουδαία από ονομαστικές γιορτές και κουραφέξαλα. Πρέπει να γιορτάζουμε την ύπαρξη ενός ανθρώπου και όχι το όνομά του. Χαίρομαι που σε γιόρτασα όσο σε είχα κοντά μου. Χαίρομαι που ευχαριστιόσουν τις εξόδους μας με φαΐ και κινηματογράφο, που ζήσαμε τόσα χαρούμενα γενέθλια μαζί, με πολύ κουβέντα (αχ Ελένη μου λείπουν οι κουβέντες μας...., ακόμα και στο νοσοκομείο κλείναμε 8ωρα κουβέντας... που τα βρίσκαμε τόσα θέματα...)

Πέρυσι που πάλευες με τον καρκίνο (ναι, έτσι ήθελες να το λέμε δυνατά) ήσουν ευτυχώς έξω στα γενέθλιά σου και πήγαμε στα Village Ρέντη. Μόνο που μου ζήτησες να προσπεράσουμε την ταινία για να χορτάσουμε κουβέντα, για να με χορτάσεις. Κι έτσι κάναμε. Από τις 2 μέχρι τις 11 το βράδυ.

Φέτος θα πάω πάλι στον Αη Γιάννη Ρέντη μόνη μου, απέναντι από τα Village, στο Γ' Νεκροταφείο.
Εκεί στο κρύα μάρμαρα θα ακουμπήσω τ' αγαπημένα σου λουλούδια, ηλίανθοι, για να σ' ευχαριστήσω που ήρθες στη ζωή μου... αλλά φιλενάδα δεν είσαι εντάξει.
Νωρίς με άφησες.

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Words on a Wall

Words on a Wall, originally uploaded by flubberwinkle.

I took a photo of this graffiti at the entrance of my friend's, Eleni's, home.
When Eleni came to came to the door to greet me she saw me taking the photo with my cell phone and giggled, "You know who wrote this? I did!".

Eleni is no longer with us and neither is the graffiti.
When I went to Eleni's home after the funeral I saw that someone (probably the building manager) had painted over it.

There was a lot of profound and witty graffiti written in Athens during the December '08 riots and my restless friend wanted to add her voice to the protests of young Alexandros Grigoropoulos' murder in December 2008. Her battle with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma wouldn't allow her to take part in marches and demonstrations. But Eleni found a way to protest. I'm glad I preserved it.

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trying to swim to the surface for air

The grief sometimes gushes through me in the form of a tidal wave and sometimes in the form of bittersweet drops of memories. My eyes are always ready to cry. My heart is aching. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid that if the pain subsides I will begin to forget. I will not be able to remember. And then my best friend will be forever lost to me.

I can't get to the claring in the forest yet. I can't let the rays of light touch me. I just want to lay down and cry.

I thought I was all cried out during Eleni's 13 month struggle with stage IV Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Everytime I left the hospital, everytime I left her home, everytime I put down the receiver after our conversations... I would cry ...

tears of... anger.
hoping the doctors were wrong.
hoping for a scientific miracle.
hoping my friend would not suffer, would not know what was coming.

tears of... frustration.
43 years old. too young. too many things to do yet.

selfish tears.
what was I supposed to do without a best friend?
what would happen to me?
how would I go on?

My husband tells me I need to "come back" soon.
My mind knows he's right. I need to get a grip...
it's my heart that won't listen to anyone.

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Eleni

Ελένη, εκεί που πας κοίτα να είσαι ευτυχισμένη,
σ' αυτή τη γη η μοίρα σου ήταν γραμμένη
σ' άσπρο χαρτί με ένα κίτρινο στυλό
σα δάκρυ απο λεμόνι.

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"I'm sorry I wasn't a donor"

My friend, Helen has aggressive Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma (diagnosed last February) and several days ago finished her 14th round of chemotherapy and needed several blood transfusions (again) to get her red blood cell count up. Helen has blood type A-, which is hard to come by and much needed.

Helen's family, of course, brings in people to donate blood -regardless of blood type- in my friend's name so the hospital can keep supplying Helen with blood transfusions. The day before yesterday, the hospital gave her one bag of A- (she needed at least 3) and informed the family that they were out of her blood type and nothing they could do.

Helen's family had a niece with the same blood type on hold in case of an emergency like this, but luckily I was able to round up two bags of her blood type and they were sent to in Helen's name to the hospital she is being treated.

I went by yesterday to see how my friend was doing and if the blood had arrived because I had been warned by a blood donation worker that because Greek hospitals are in dire need of blood they may try to "cheat" us of our second incoming bag if we don't press them.

True enough, Helen was informed that a bag of blood would be transfused after noon but they had only one bag. I insisted that that there were two incoming bags and when Helen's sister, who had many times battled with the hospital's blood donation center, gave them a piece of her mind, the second bag of type A- magically appeared.

As I sat with my friend, Helen looked at the blood bag dripping life in her veins and said "May God bless the person who donated this blood. I'm sorry I wasn't a donor".

-"I wish you hadn't had to live this to change your mind", I replied.

I reminded her that two years before she got sick our workplace (we work at the same organization) had organized two blood donation drives at our offices.

-"You know how many people showed up the first time? 16! Out of 150 people only 16. The second time, six months later was even more tragic, only 2."

Helen and Zoe were among the many colleagues that hadn't even bothered to show up. Turned out that when Helen had been first admitted to hospital, 13 months ago, with what (then) seemed ovarian cancer, Zoe needed an operation and which required blood and went to our director asking for help.

Because our workplace's blood donation drive had not been a success and the blood collectors were from a hospital and disgusted with our turnout, they gave us a hard time about distributing our small blood collection to colleagues who needed it. (I can't blame them… because if you knew where I worked you'd be upset too.) Hospital teamed blood drives require some bags of blood to be handed over for hospital needs, so I had to officially authorize my donation to be transferred to Zoe, who was desperately looking for blood.

My colleague got her operation, is healthy and is still not a blood donor.

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#44 Feel-good Flick for Friday

Today is Halloween and IF we had Halloween in Greece, I would have liked to dress as Kung Fu Panda.

Dreamworks worked their magic again and the movie was great and so funny that my friend, Helen, who is in the hospital liked it so much she watched it twice in a row on her laptop.

Funniest quip with Jack Black's serious tone: "There is no extra charge for awesomeness and attractiveness".

Here is the Kung Fu Panda Music Video

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Wedding rice

Wedding rice, originally uploaded by flubberwinkle.

One of the popular customs at Greek weddings is to throw rice. The word rice is rizi, which is also the root word for "rizono" and it means "to grow roots". When Greek wedding goers throw rice at the newlyweds they are wishing them a deep rooted and stable life together.

My friend's niece (who was the bride) -similar to my wedding wishes 20 years ago-, had asked that rice throwing be limited and if possibly avoided. Greeks are natural born teasers so the wedding audience enjoyed watching the brother of the bride and other close relatives shower the couple with several bags of rice after they had officially been pronounced husband and wife.

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Bald is life

Last night my friend Helen and I were out on the town. She now sports a light fuzz of gray hair which will soon fall out again because she's doing chemotherapies once more.

As we stood in the line outside the theater, people pretended not to stare at her obvious cancer-stricken hair loss and the large white mass of gauze tape strapped across her jugular vein which holds the needle that shoots chemos in her jaded body.

We've been out before and I've witnessed the eyes of strangers darting back and forth her wonderful round, hairless head. She defiantly refuses to wear any bandannas or head ware. It is her way of telling people we shouldn't be afraid of cancer, afraid of the consequences of chemotherapy, afraid to say the word cancer aloud.

Last night was one of the nippiest autumn nights in Athens and we were in a rather long theater queue. I kept asking her if she was OK, worried she might catch a cold that could cause complications. I looked desperately around me for someone to gesture Helen to cut in line and head for the warm lobby as quickly as possible. No one did.

People couldn't mistake her health situation. However, it occurred to me that a cancer victim at a theater line was something people tried to ignore, because they were out for a good time. And the word cancer and good time rarely go together. I felt my insides burning with shame at how Helen and all cancer patients have to endure these stares.

I turned and saw Helen smiling that great big child-like smile of hers. She was excited to be there. And I realized that nothing else but her being there, being happy, being alive was what mattered.

Let them stare at my courageous friend, Helen. Bald means life.

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Sleep walking blogging

I was dog-tired last night and headed to bed early. I started reading the new Ken Follet novel but my weariness got the best of me and finally nodded off on page eight.

I opened my eyes in the dead of night, assuming it was almost 6 am because it was still dark but oddly felt "full of sleep". I leaned over and inwardly groaned when the bright, red numbers of the clock-radio glared only 2:37.

I tried to go back to sleep but it seemed my mind had irrupted with all sorts of thoughts and to-do lists. How had I allowed so many clothes to accumulate in the "need ironing" pile? The dishwasher was full. They should make larger laundry hampers. Why are my ankles so bloated? I need a haircut. Why isn't that java-script working out for me at work? Maybe I should perm my hair. Did Daughter#2 say she needed art supplies for school? The car's oil reminder thingamajig is red, memo to self about oil change.

In between these thoughts, my friend Helen is always there. Everyday is hopeful. Everyday is hopeless. Everyday is another day. Every day is a visit to the hospital; a perpetual feigning of normality. Every day I'm on my guard with other colleagues and friends so no one slips up and everyone keeps a stiff upper lip.

Meanwhile, Husband was snoring loudly and I kept bouncing on the mattress for him to switch sides, shut up and give me a fighting chance to get back to sleep and stop my mind from thinking. Then the blankets were too heavy. I threw them off me and then I was freezing. The second pillow was too high and then the single pillow was too low.

Alas, the battle was lost. After 40 minutes I gave up and just got up and headed for the family computer and the ever wide-awake Internet.

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Because my heart is heavy

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Helen

I began writing this post on February 23rd. And only today have found the courage to read, update and post it. This is a record of my closest friend's last couple of weeks.

Last night (February 21st) I stayed in the hospital with Helen, my closest friend, who has recently been diagnosed with advanced stages of ovarian cancer. I felt completely useless when I could not ease her pain. The ascites (fluid that has flooded her abdominal area and has grossly transformed her belly) is hindering her breathing, making it impossible for her to lie down.

As the night went on and her breathing became steadier thanks to the pain-killer cocktail, I couldn't believe how fast things had gone from grey to completely black.

Her tummy had started swelling gradually the last couple of months and despite our concerns to see a doctor, she waved us off ascribing her bloating to collites which she had been diagnosed several times the past years. She visited a physician/acquaintance and dictated that her collites was acting up again. He took her word (!) and prescribed a couple of de-bloating drugs and after tapping on her back, which she complained was hurting her, dismissed it as common neck cramps due to computer use.

She took the medicine for her swelling for a fortnight and finally on February 11th realized that she was still getting bigger, her breathing shallower and her back pain more excruciating. Only last night, while I was holding her hand to help her doze off, did she confide in me that for the last couple of months she had been sleeping in an armchair because lying down hurt more. Realizing her situation was getting worse, she visited a (different) physician who examined her and ordered several tests. When the test results came in the doctor ordered her to find a gynecologist at once. On Valentine's Day she walked in to a hospital, looking for a well-known gynecologist, who did a double-take at her belly and immediately examined her. He wasted no valuable time with my friend and told her cold out, "You have cancer. Ovarian cancer".

She yelled "are you nuts?" in anger, shook her head in denial and cried in despair. All this within twenty minutes and then logic and the need to survive overtook her and asked what needed to be done. The doctor explained. She went home that day and the cycle of anger, denial, sadness and stiff upper lip began as family and friends were informed of my friend's situation.

Six days later, on February 21st she was admitted to the hospital because the pain was overtaking her being, unable to breathe properly, sleep, eat. The doctor tried to have the fluid from her belly removed with syringes but the darn thing had turned to jelly and wouldn't budge.

Surgery had first been scheduled for March 4th and because of her hurting it was mercifully rescheduled for February 25th. The operation and full anesthesia , doctors told us, would be hard on my friend who was a heavy smoker and had been overweight most of her adult life (although she had lost weight with dieting during the last year).

That Sunday, the day before the operation, was one of the darkest days for those of us who knew.

The operation took place and my friend recovered from it soon, which is considered a huge success considering how all the odds were against her.

Tomorrow, Monday March 4th, she starts her first chemotherapy.

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