Jeffreybritanico’s Weblog

A few hours ago, I helped my mother write a letter to everyone that visited her in the hospital. Her dictation of the gratitude she felt was suppressed by the current coarseness of her voice. Also I’m sure her words were filtered because I was typing them for her. Even at this moment and the moments that have followed, my mom still has a certain about her. It isn’t disdain and not really modest—something in between, I’m sure.

Lets back track a little, shall we?

Last summer my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. The doctor’s said that We caught it early. I’ve been told that this was a good thing thousands of times prior to this.

How she broke the news to us was the only I’m sure she knew how. Bluntly. There it was — non-sugarcoated, blatant, unrelenting breast cancer. She said the phrase all up to God now or all in God’s plan. This concept has almost been tattooed to my ear drums even before I could even walk. Still, They’re tough to swallow.

I didn’t know what to say or do — or even feel. In retrospect I should. I see it on TV all the time. Sometimes there are flash backs; sometimes there are close-ups on single tears; sometimes a Fray song or a Fray-like song playing little in the background. I just wish I said something. Anything — not just sitting there looking at the ground.

In mid-November, my dad brought her to the hospital at 3 in the morning. It seems odd now that the morning itself was just like any other. That morning in particular I woke up earlier to coach junior basketball at my old high school in New West/Burnaby area.

I will remember the sudden vibration in my pocket.

I will remember running.

I will remember how my hands couldn’t stop shaking on the bus.

I will remember pacing back and forth on the Skytrain platform.

I will remember feeling like everyone was looking at me from Lougheed station all the way to Vancouver General Hospital.

I will remember the strange nuances in my behavior — wanting to both sit and stand, scream and shout, tell the world and no one at the same time.

I will remember wanting to set that waiting room on fire.

I will remember the synonymous reassuring phrases from Uncles and Aunties.

I will remember paying too much for hospital cafeteria food.

I will remember feeling alone within a circle of loved ones.

I will remember holding my mother’s hand while she was in a coma induced state.

In fact, I will always remember. This was the longest day of my life.

The doctors and nurse told us she had an infection. A bad one I guess. Because her immune system was down because of the chemotherapy, she could’ve caught any number of infections. Therefore they tested her for everything.

They put her in ICU Room 1. I’m not sure if the number has anything to do with priority but I remember a lot of doctors going in and closing the curtains.

Everyday from then was not as different as it was the same. I would come home and something was missing. Coming home alone was the worst, needless to say.

When I visited her, for the first few times, she wasn’t my mother. I just saw wires and machines. I can almost feel, even now, her skin being so cold.

I’d try to see her as much as I could when she was there. Even when she was asleep I’d go for just for five minutes after school. I think I just went to see if I could  I couldn’t sleep well on those days. I couldn’t help tracing in my head of the worst case scenario. With that said, I couldn’t sleep at all on days I didn’t visit her.

I remember being there when they brought her out of the coma. Her eyes opened just slight. I don’t think I’ll ever cry the way I did that night. Essentially, it was the most predominant sign I saw that she was becoming my mother again. This was when I started believing she was going to get better. In terms of actually believing not choosing my words selectively toward my family and select friends.

As the weeks went on she got better. I started to recognize her. Her smile was exactly the same as it was.

Okay. Now where were we?

The frailty in her voice did not match the reverence in the message to her visitors. I could tell she wanted to say more. I even caught her holding back a few words. Her analytical pauses deepened after every phrase. I’ve almost memorized where and when she paused, and her voice inflections in the letter.

I know we’re not exactly out of the woods just yet. Even still, she had a look in her eyes after I sent it out. It made me believe we would be. Like I said before, my mom has a certain way about her.

to every friend of a friend i don’t remember the name of

to my fourth grade desk neighbor who let me cheat off her quizzes

to that girl on facebook, which is probably a fake account but her profile picture is pretty

to the girls i don’t call back

to the girls who don’t pick up

to those girls, those girls who were only about that thing, that thing, that thing

to the wooo girls that don’t know when they had one too many

to those who’ve helped me paint a perfect, prophetic portrait of passionate penetration; giving and taking everything we can take and give on a temper-pedic mattress

to every train wreck of a first date

to every spontaneous conversation you only see in Woody Allen movies

to every headache i’ve ever had

to every heartbreak i’ve ever given

to every subtle smile i’ve gotten on the skytrain

from lipstick on the collar to minor remark

on my hands, in my head or craved right on my heart

positive or negative; big or small; you’ve made your mark

and i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.

i trace back in my mind to this inventory

of everything from slow dances to shared umbrellas to one single sad story

to scented scarf to slanderous hearsay to youtube clips worth five stars

to a small ounce of strength to cold showers to even this very scar

you’ve even made me muffins once. MUFFINS! two kinds! there was a cranberry one but i loved the double chocolate banana one the most

you gave me time and a piece of yourself even if it was just a small dose

and i took it for granted, probably. they were fragile moments, i wasn’t careful with these

i let go of them or they went ear to ear or let them catch in the breeze

to be never seen again

and i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.

Also I want to ask

what were you thinking?

every douche boyfriend you’re still with

every sweater you put on your little dog

every text message you send in mid-conversation with someone else

every time you get completely wasted… on a wednesday… afternoon… by yourself

every tramp stamp

every fake laugh you give because he’s cute

what were you thinking?

i know we’re supposed to strive for equality between sexes

as impossible as it is to define but Uggz and tights combo not helping

and also i want to say thank you

a thank you to every woman i’ve ever met in my life

because i like to think in one way or another, in the end you’ve helped me pick my wife

The idea that I’ve wasted my time as a fan of superheroes has dawned on me. I’ve read thousands of pages about people that can travel at superhuman speed, contact someone on the other side of the world, obtain some sort of environmental control, engineer economies, etc. Haven’t we – we ourselves; you and I – reached that plateau already?

Hypothetically, if I made a time machine and brought someone from merely one hundred years ago to our time, that person would be easily dumbfounded at the fact that there is electricity and plumbing in every household. Arguably, with that persons understanding of the phrase, “human ability” he would see us not as mortals but as gods. Of course, our person from yester-century would be wrong. But he or she would be no more wrong than we are about our superheroes.

Like we are to the people of yester-century, superheroes are not gods but are hope that maybe we can strive to be more than these stained mortals that we are so easily depicted as. Superheroes hold some sort of chance that maybe we can look past our personal gain and simply do what is right. Superheroes are our examples so that we can use abilities we – we ourselves; you and I – have so we don’t shrivel up when the times of injustice arise.

If with that same hypothetical time machine I went to the future, I would be dubbed the new person of yester-century. I would be stunned at my children’s children’s children’s version of Earth and most likely assume that it is Mount Olympus. Of course, I would be wrong. I would be looking at translations of our morals along with our shortcomings passed on from generation to generation. With that in mind, I believe we must keep these stories of impossible courage so in the future, people will still strive to be more than just human, more than mortal.

Everything I’ve ever said to you, more or less, I’ve said before. You’ve probably heard it all before too. In my life, girls exactly like you come a dime a dozen. In your life, guys like me are twelve for ten cents. For some reason it still felt new and refreshing with you. Looking at it objectively, it was the same dance I’ve danced before. Exactly the same; down to ever dip and twirl, so to speak.

I don’t know what we had. I don’t know if it was love, lust, want or the overwhelming notion of being lonely. I don’t know what to call it either. Unfortunately it seems once again I was the traveling salesman to another lonely housewife. Apparently it doesn’t even matter to me. Even if we’ve both experienced those exact moments, those few moments we had, they were very real. Hopefully you have it in you to say that they were not. I’d assume that it would be simpler like that. It scares me a little, to be honest. You walked in like you owned the place and I let you.

Even still, I miss it. All of it. I miss telling you things that would make you close your eyes. I miss the small of your back. I miss having nothing really important to call you about but still calling just to know you were there. I miss looking at you looking at me, in both a crowded restaurant on or just you and I in the kitchen as I cooked for you. I even miss missing you because when I told you I did, you said you missed me right back. Even if we just got caught up at times, those moments were real.

I don’t even know if you were my first anything even though I’m sure I told you, that you were a first a lot of things. It would be so much easier if you were my first heartbreak. I wish it was as simple as layering every memory of you with nasty labels. I wish I just got bored of you like I did with everyone else. As much as I would like to think that way, I can’t if I were being completely honest with myself.

I wish I could just regret you. I can’t even if you regret me. I mean, I knew what I was getting  myself into with you, for the most part. And I’ll assume the same with you; as transparent as I was with you, I might as well came with a cautionary sign stapled to my forehead.

I don’t believe in soul mates and I don’t believe in do-overs. I don’t even believe in tomorrows. I don’t know how exactly but when you said that goodbye combined with that maybe, it gave me hope. A stupid hope. A hope that I’ll be more than a bunch of nice words; that you’ll be more than a set of pretty eyes; that those promises we made once upon a time won’t remain a fantasy. That hope was a hope in something I shouldn’t even want anymore, logistically speaking.

Maybe your maybe will remain just a maybe. Until that day comes if it ever does, you know where, what building and what floor.

1. give blood once every three months
2. get a girl to buy me a drink
3. get one a plane
4. be able to cut down to the 145 division
5. be able to do leg lifts for three minutes straight
6. don’t get fat during school
7. flings, flings, flings, etc.
8. buy a grey suit
9. learn to make an “old fashion” and make one
10. win big at blackjack
11. take a lot of portrait pictures
12. don’t buy any more jeans
13. write more poetry
14. go to more concerts
15. go ballroom dancing
16. develop more pictures
17. do the ride to conquer cancer
18. upload songs/poetry on youtube
19. say, “i love you” and mean it, really mean it and say it before the other party