WEIRDS VS. NORMS | BECKY

You are killing me softly with your chevron print. Your friend is also burning ray guns into my retinas … both with the orange synthetic fabric and the gold origami print overlay of her shirt dress. A third friend arrives while you talk about taking shoes in for repair and how amazing it is because they can “literally” <…raise both hands for emphasis when saying this word…> extend shoe life by like six months. Not. Even. Kidding. Oh. My. God. Seriously? … Seriously. Origami has long chandelier earrings, the same orange as her shirt dress. They are the Norms.  A ‘cling-clang cling-clang' sound announces the arrival of friend four. The massive bracelets on her yule log forearms shout to the world that she is here, and that Charming Charlie is her go-to for clunky jewelry.  She carries extra bodyweight. It is a recent addition. I can tell because her clothes fit weird. You, however, are neatly packed into your spanx, under your chevron print. Not a hint of dimple or moon crater. It’s all smooth under the chevron print, which drapes over your body like Fred Flintstone’s dino-print. Susie -- in the white capris with the unfortunate leg taper, suggests an appetizer. You all coo, ooh, and ahh and unanimously decide to have two of them in addition to your lunch entrees. Yup. The Norms. Hair, pulled back in a large clip. Origami and make up. Over-sized Michael Kors purses carry suburban ephemera.  Extra weight around the waist line. The suffocation of your spirit.. stuffed into a stretchy undergarment: a powder keg of misery and hope waiting to explode.  I’m not with the Norms. I’m with the Weirds. Tattoos showing. <..suns out, guns out..> My head is shaved. I’ve got blisters on my face.  Fever and meds. I’m not a junkie, but I probably look like one.  I take a moment to recognize how easy it is for me to move between the Norms and the Weirds. Everyone knows my heart is with the Weirds. But, all I have to do is put on sleeves, some make up, and well.. do something about my lack of hair… and poof: I’m a Norm … as far as the Norms are concerned. I can almost teleport myself to their table:  “Oh, no Becky… you don’t look fat. No, I promise. Chevrons are still in style. Really. They are. No! …. you do not look like Fred Flintstone! Why would you even say that?”  A cacophonous roar emits from a nearby table. Not from the Norms. The Norms purse their lips and roll their eyes.   I’m amazed at how exhausted I am. This is my first outing in ten days. I hope I’m not boring my lunch date because today I am weak. I blame the chevron and the origami ray gun. They've zapped the life right out of me. No, Becky … it’s not the chemo or the extended bed rest. It’s not my frustration at the length of this treatment, celebrating “good” days and powering through the bad.  It’s the chevron . … and the origami print. Becky, you are killing me softly … with both.   … Go Toward The Light Y’all.  

Ray Gun Becky - Killing Me Softly

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. GODSPEED TO PRINCE.

In a London hotel room, my eyes are wide open. It’s nearly 3:00 a.m. and I should be asleep but the world is heavy like a thick mist that refuses to rain. Large drops would be welcome. A lingering mist makes the heart a little anxious. The Queen’s birthday was yesterday. Prince died yesterday. My birthday is today. Two deaths and a birth. I saw a musical and ate a great meal with a dear friend to celebrate my birthday. I also dosed up on chemo in my hotel tonight. I’ll follow up in the morning with a chaser of steroid.  While the dose is significantly lower than it was weeks ago, it remains a harsh monster. I sometimes see my life in a make-believe view-master.  

I am flashing through the slides tonight. The Queen’s Royal image. Purple Rain. My legs. The impossible stairs in an NYC subway a  year ago. The very doable stairs in the London Underground… thanks to the chemo and steroids that help my legs work. Prince on the big screen playing in my home town theater. Diana marrying Prince Charles. Royals. Regulars. My teenage years. My angst. My love for globetrotting vs. my homesickness and pining for small-town Texas. My love for all things traditional and all things strange. Two worlds hard to reconcile with each other.  A Queen’s birth. A Prince’s Death. My legs taking me all over the streets of London. This time last year I thought I might not walk again. My heart should be heavier. My eyelids should definitely be heavier. I should be lonely, while I’m holed up in this room praying for sleep. But I am none of those things. I am living life and feeling every moment of it. No regrets. …God Save the Queen. Godspeed to Prince. Cheers to me. …. and to y’all I say a hearty… "go toward the light”. 

Blood Work Angels

Diane’s nails are always amazing. And she has never hurt me once while drawing blood, even when she does the hard-core all inclusive panels. She’s called me “baby” from day one. Her weave has gold tints in it, and her nails have a similar tone. They are not as long as Sheryl’s, which figures since Sheryl doesn’t mess with the needles. Her dentures click a little when she talks and her eyes are kind. She tells me where to sit each time, even though there is only one sitting option, I find comfort in the direction.There are two angels. Diane is a phlebotomist. She likes her spiritual time. Sheryl does the front desk paperwork. She’s mostly irritated. They never remember me, but I always remember them. They both wear wigs. Huge ones with no shame in their game. Like they barely had time to clip a weave in the car on the way to work. Sheryl is all business. I’ve seen her have bad days where she has to pop off at people to get them in line, and on days when the “system is down” and I know she wants to explode. She never does though.

 One day Sheryl didn’t wear her huge weave, she just had a cloth cover-wrap pinned on her head and I knew her morning must have been rough. Then her son called while she was checking me in and she tells him how much she loves him and she hopes he gets the job. Diane asks her who is keeping the baby. She rolls her eyes and says “don’t even ask.. that took all morning.” That’s the first day she ever referred to me as baby. Her nails were painted blue that day and the cloth wrap she had on her hair was tan.

On Good Friday we talked about Easter and she told me about everything she was cooking and who was coming to her house. Her niece was driving in from Temple as were her daughters from Houston. She goes to the early Service and is home before 11:00 a.m to get things ready. I always look at her gold crucifix. It matches her hair. Everyone at her Easter gathering has to leave by 5:00 because that’s her time to relax. This isn’t an “oh i’m so sassy” kind of declaration. Diane talks to me about her higher power. Blood travels from my arm to the tubes and it's a primal ritual. The vagaries of life swirl through pedestrian tenderness of two angels, and I wonder why it means so much to me that they call me baby. And each time I leave with feelings of redemption and misty eyes.