Wednesday, August 14, 2019
Unless the funeral is happening under tragic circumstances (when my brother drowned at age 23, for instance), there is a lot of celebrating to go along with the mourning. In this case, I got to spend time with sibs and their spouses I care about and also got to meet a crop of cousins who I also really liked. We spent a lot of time over the three days hanging out at my MIL's house, eating and talking. There was only one truly discordant note, which happened Friday at the visitation. But first a little backstory: My husband's ex-wife has a hatred of him which is inexplicable in its intensity. Never mind that she moved in a new husband almost immediately after moving him out. That fury has grown over the last few years and she has waged a campaign of brainwashing which has resulted in both daughters refusing to see or speak to us since January of 2018. It's particularly perplexing with the younger daughter, who used to spend time every single weekend crying on my shoulder about how her mother was mean to her, didn't pay attention to her, was always on her phone, and so on. I was sympathetic and let her talk, but never chimed in with anything negative because I believe that's damaging to the kids. And except in cases of abuse, I think it's best for kids to have both parents in their lives. So guess who waltzes in during visitation? She had brought the daughters, which is fair enough, but she had no business being there herself. The older one is 18, she could have brought herself and her sister. And, the ex even had her parents with her. And let me be clear, they weren't close to my husband's mother. Unfortunately, funerals are considered public events and you aren't allowed to throw anyone out. But what sort of sociopath comes to her ex-MIL's funeral under those circumstances? We were both livid. When I encountered her, she plastered a big fake smile on her face and greeted me. My one small consolation was the look of shock on her face when I gave her a dead-eyed stare and shook my head before walking away. We still had an hour of the visitation ahead of us so we slipped out and across the field to the tasting bar to regroup. This time we tried the Pappy 23 year. It's pricey, but seemed like the right occasion, and we were back in plenty of time for the service. As we listened to the show tunes that were included to honor her role in community theater, I like to think my mother-in-law would have understood our need to step out for a few minutes and would have appreciated that we toasted her memory. In fact, I know she'd have happily joined us if she could have!
Later in the book, Bjartur has remarried and is raising his new wife's sons along with the daughter who is not actually his. That wife, too, dies in despair after he kills her cow for no good reason, and one of the sons later wanders off and is found frozen the next spring. They all work 16 hours a day in miserable weather, ekeing out a barely adequate existence. Good times. At some point, Bjartur leaves the young teenaged daughter and the sons alone for the winter and sends a teacher to prepare them for confirmation into the Church. The teacher is wholly unsuitable - a consumptive alcoholic with a passle of children at home who seduces and impregnates the daughter. The passages where the kids are first encountering the Bible are entertaining: "The story of how He created the world aroused their interest immediately, even though they received no answer to the question of why He had had to do it; but they found it difficult to understand sin, or the manner of its entry into the world, for it was a complete mystery to them why the woman should have had such a passionate desire for an apple when they had no idea of the seductive properties of apples and thought they were some sort of potatoes. But less intelligible still was the flood that was caused by forty days’ rain, and forty nights’. For here on the moors there were some years when it rained for two hundred days and two hundred nights, almost without fairing; but there was never any Flood. When they begin to question their teacher more closely about this riddle, he replied, perhaps not without a trace of irritation: ‘Well, I don’t vouch for it in any case.’"
The daughter was enamored of the teacher and struggled to understand the Catechism:
"‘It says that God is infinitely good. Is He infinitely good too when someone is in trouble?’
The teacher: ‘Surely.’
Ásta Sóllilja: ‘Then He can’t very well be infinitely happy.’
He: ‘I know that, my dear’ - and suddenly losing his patience: ‘There’s not a word of it true. It’s utter rubbish. It’s meant for soft, neurotic people.’"
So that's where I am - sorrow for my husband's loss, outrage at his ex-wife's appalling behavior, and immersed in the dark world of poverty-stricken Iceland in the early 1900's. I'll end with this bit of wisdom from Bjartur to his youngest son:
"‘It’s a useful habit never to believe more than half of what people tell you, and not to concern yourself with the rest. Rather keep your mind free and your path your own.’"
Sunday, July 28, 2019
While I was at it, I read a compilation of Icelandic short stories from the 19th and 20th centuries that was a pretty comprehensive collection with an overwhelmingly grim vibe. In one, the subject was suicide: “When I was a young girl people often hanged themselves down there simply out of bad temper.” She goes on to say of her grandparents, “They were constantly scaring each other by threatening to commit suicide. Probably they didn’t know of any other way to get each other’s sympathy and to keep their love alive, and it lasted them all their lives long. I never noticed any other sign of affection between them than this.” Yeesh. The majority of the stories seem to have the following plot: The main character is either a desperately poor person or a well-regarded person in the village. Bad things happen to them, including being mocked or tormented by other villagers. Often there is violence done to them. The story ends either with the person dead or weeping on the side of the road. Feel-good stories, basically.
Sunday, July 21, 2019
Saturday, July 13, 2019
Him: "And you need to eat more than you probably think you do."
Me: "I already eat more than my husband."
Him: "That's good, keep doing that. If he ate as much as you need to, he'd gain weight. You're a hummingbird."
So there you have it, my diagnosis is "hummingbird."
I'd told him I wasn't interested in taking a bunch of supplements, so he suggested I add a teaspoon of spirulina 3-4 times a week. I struggled with how to take that with something warm. I'm here to tell you that you do NOT want to mix spirulina into oatmeal. That's just nasty. Finally, after some experimentation, I discovered that if I dissolve a little miso in hot water and mix in the spirulina, it makes a tasty broth. Spirulina is blue-green algae and jam-packed with nutrients, apparently. And also, I'm to eat a sheet of nori seaweed every day, to help lower estrogen. No problem there, I love seaweed. And for lifestyle, he gave me a handout and then wrote in my plan to also "Continue your awesome PMA (Positive Mental Attitude)" and "Keep Living out your Mantra :)" I'd shown him my appointment book where I'd written this years mantra for me: "I am fierce. I am strong. I am healing. I am grateful for this day." He LOVED that. And at our second and final visit, he hugged me, and said he loved me. He has a real young hippy vibe but you know what? It's sweet and you definitely leave feeling cared about.
Saturday, July 6, 2019
Tuesday, June 11, 2019
Eye exams notwithstanding, there aren't regular tests or scans to see if the surgeries or chemo or any other treatments worked. You just wait for symptoms of metastasis. It's kind of like getting your house treated for termites and then after that, the exterminator just parks, looks at your house from the street, and says, "Nope, don't see any termites from here so we're going to call that 'termite-free.' But call if your house starts to fall down!"
Yeah, you know it battled me.
But it did not win,
I'm still standing, don't you see?"