home is burning

My sister, Tiffany, and I often have to drive my Mom to and from her doctor’s appointments. She had one recently, an endoscopy to widen the hole between her stomach and her intestines. To us, these appointments are more of a routine than anything. When your Mom has cancer for 17 years or whatever it is, you get desensitized to the whole mess. We don’t get worked up or nervous. We just view it as a chore, like taking out the garbage, or picking up dog shit, or taking out the garbage full of dog shit. When we pull up to the Huntsman Cancer Institute, we the only thing we feel is boredom. To entertain ourselves while the doctors take an inexplicable amount of time to make an appearance, we often like to give our Mom shit about this or that. She, for years, has hassled us about our personal life.

“When are you going to get married?” “So who are you fucking these days?” “Does it suck not being loved by someone you love?”

We could never give her any shit back. What would we have said, “Shut up Mom. Why don’t you mind your own business and go back to fucking our Dad.” But now she’s a widow, a single widow looking for companionship. She has found that with a friend of hers, a female doctor friend of hers, which means we can now give her shit, and let her experience some of the uncomfortable awkwardness that comes about when dealing with discussing decision driven by our genitals.

Tiffany: Why don’t you want to date a doctor or something?

Mom: Claire is a doctor.

Tiffany: No, a male doctor.

Me: Mom wants to do the fucking. She doesn’t want to get fucked any more.

Mom: Stop it you guys.

Me: Hey, I’m all for anyone who wants to deal with all your bullshit. If this doctor wants to, that’s fine with me. Maybe she can start driving you to these bullshit appointments.

Tiffany: You packed a lot of “bullshits” into that last statement.

Me: Thank you.  

Mom: I’m just looking for companionship.

Tiffany: Yeah, when are you going to get married?

Me: Gays can’t get married in Utah. Fuck, we’re lucky they let non-Mormon’s get married. 

Tiffany: Maybe you could get married in Vermont or one of those states that don’t hate gays.

Me: Yeah, I could be your best man.

Mom: Just leave me the fuck alone. I’m about to have fucking surgery and you’re giving me shit.

[Long Pause]

Me: So have you purchased a double-sided dildo yet?

Death is sort of an awkward subject. No one really wants to talk about it or read a blog that is based around it. Anytime I bring it up people have a few different reactions.

Me: My Dad is dead, just died last year after I wiped ass for a year. And no he didn’t die from me wiping his ass too much or too roughly.

Person: [Silence]

Or

Me: My Dad is dead, no longer living, gone forever, in heaven jacking off on supermodel’s faces.

Person: [Silence, then] So what did you think of the new Quentin Tarantino movie? Pretty badass right, the Jew Bear and all.

Or

Me: My Dad is super, duper dead.

Person: Dude, do you have to always bring that depressing shit up? I mean, we’re standing here drunk and you have to talk about that? Can’t we just talk about pussy and how us males have a natural inclination to want to fuck it?

Since no one wants to talk about it, or listen to my fat ass bring it up, I have sort of roundabout ways of broaching the subject. Example:

When introducing my gay brother, Greg:

Me: Hey everyone, this is my gay brother Greg. Be nice to him because he just lost his Father.

When describing my Mom:

Me: My Mom is hanging in there, sort of adjusting to becoming a widow, battling cancer, going to the movies with friends.

When someone else dies:

Me: Poor Teddy Kennedy. Well, now he knows how my Dad feels.

When seeing something exciting on TV:

Me: Wow, what a dunk. Lebron James is amazing. My Dad would have loved that.

Picking out clothes:

Me: I wonder if they have this is light blue. I just want something that matches my Dad’s urn.

Asking for directions:

Me: Excuse me, do you know where the closest gas station is?

Person: Yeah, take your second right, then there’s one on the left hand side.

Me: Okay, wow, that’s super close to where my Dad’s funeral was. Anyways, thanks. 

My Mom is a big card writer, meaning she likes to write a lot of cards, not that she writes on huge cards, which would be comical, seeing her tiny little cancer hands scribbling on really enormous paper. Card writing is her preferred mode of communication. Growing up, we were told she loved us and was proud of us more by her hand than by her mouth. To this day, most people that are in contact with her are through written letter. Most probably haven’t even heard her voice in years, maybe decades, maybe centuries if they are super, super old. So naturally, when I first spoke to her after moving to Los Angeles she didn’t ask how my place was, or how I was adjusting to the new environment, or if I’ve found any pussy to fuck. She simply asked, “What’s your address?” assumably so she can start sending cards.

Mom: What’s your address?

Me: Why?

Mom: So I have it so I can send you cards.

Me: You still do that?

Mom: Yeah, it’s how I keep in touch with old friends.

Me: So now I’m an old friend.

Mom: What’s your fucking address?

Me: It’s 6071 Harold Way

Mom: Harold?

Me: Yes, Harold, like Harold and Maude.

Mom: So it’s Harold and Maude Way?

Me: Know, just Harold, just Harold Way.

Mom: So why did you say Maude?

Me: I thought that it would help you, like saying ‘B as in Boy’.

Mom: B as in Boy? What does that have to do with your address?

Me: Nothing. Never mind. So you got the Harold part.

Mom: Yep, Harold and Maude Way.

Me: No, just Harold.

Mom: Oh yeah. Just Harold. Harold Way.

Me: Los Angeles, California.

Mom: I thought you lived in Hollywood.

Me: I do. Some people say Hollywood, but you can just put Los Angeles.

Mom: So you don’t want me to put Hollywood?

Me: You can. It doesn’t really matter.

Mom: I’m going to put Hollywood because it sounds more famous.

Me: Ok, then the zip is 90028.

Mom: Actually, should I put Los Angeles?

Me: It really doesn’t matter. Yeah, just put Los Angeles.

Mom: West Los Angeles, or just Los Angeles?

Me: Los Angeles is fine.

Mom: Ok. Zip code? Do they do those out there?

Me: Yeah, they do. And it’s 90028.

Mom: Okay great. I got it. Well, I love you. Expect a card in the mail soon.  

No one knows marriage quite like an 18-year old high school student who has never been finger-banged. My little sister, Chelsea, proved this when she started to analyze Tiffany’s situation. Tiffany is currently 28-years old and has been dating the same guy for the last three years. When people date in their late twenties for longer than six months, the topic of marriage undoubtedly pops onto the radar, but hasn’t seemed to with those two. Chelsea, my Mom, and I discussed over lunch recently.

Chelsea: Tiffany’s clock is running out to find a husband.

Me: Nah, she has at least three years or so. 

Chelsea: I know, but once you hit thirty aren’t you not in your prime any more?

Me: Yeah, I would agree with that. If you are a girl, you kind of want to get married before you’re thirty, or around thirty.

Mom: Why?

Chelsea: Because dick gets harder to find. Guys start going for younger and younger girls. That’s why Tiffany should get married soon. Her clock is ticking.  

Stana read over the flier for the race we are conducting in on of my Dad, which came as a surprise to me because she apparently can’t read. The flier said:

“Bob Marshall was a local resident, businessman, and runner who passed away in September, 2008 after a courageous battle with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease). Bob qualified for the 2007 Boston Marathon prior to learning that he had ALS and then amazingly ran and finished the marathon despite suffering from muscular degeneration at the time. His story was featured on the CBS evening news with Katie Couric.

“Bob’s family and friends have dedicated this race to Bob with all race proceeds donated to funding programs for Utah’s ALS population. We would appreciate your financial or in-kind contributions to further the efforts to provide assistance to ALS-diagnosed individuals in Utah.”

She looked up slightly teary-eyed and said, “Maybe everyone going and running and bringin’ back Dad to home.”