Friday, July 18, 2008

It’s oddly, nigh eerily, quiet here in lower Nuuanu tonight. Except for the calming sound of the rain, coming, going, coming, then going again. I really should be in bed, sleeping, preparing for the morning nonce’s pitfalls, but grander schemes, those necessitating words being put together with a magic white board and a shiny screen, call amid the rum clouds, beckoning. Ah, another spatter of water from the heavens. The humidity lightly blasts through the window, but I’m used to it, the jaded knowing malahini, amid the rubble and the rabble, I might look the shmuck, but oh sir, look again, see that something in my eyes, and keep walking, nay, run, into the nether and find your that which you call master. He/she may comfort you; I most certainly will not.

Thanks, Dad, for loaning us Mom. I really don’t know what we’d be doing without her. The three of us are like this triumvirate of powerful adhesive, holding the situation together, each leaning toward their strengths and making up for the dropsies and the ever so requisite emotionalaties of the others. I’m proud of her, of my wife, and of myself. But most of all, I’m proud of my daughters. The oldest puts up with hospital visits (of the extended and a few hours variety) and medicine and this line hanging out of her chest, and just a total reworking of her life and time, and the younger one, she adapts to this totally new situation, her sister’s gone, her sister’s back, she goes for walks, but her sister stays inside, their schedules are all a patter off in the nether, but through it all, the strength I see in these little people, this 2 and 1 year old, the determination to muscle their way through this, I stand admirably and lovingly as I stroke their heads and coo softly for them to drift away to the sandman for one more night.

The ability of the human animal to adapt to new scenarios is nothing short of amazing. When you’re thrown to the wolves of chaos, just the shortest and most ephemeral of moments with the gentle lamb of routine can be such a mystical spiritual remedy, that you wonder sometimes, almost sarcastically (if that portion of your being has survived intact, which mine has, I think it’s invincible, not sure that’s a good thing), what it is you were so up in a tizzy about in the first place. Then, obviously, you remember, that shit is real, that this child you love more than life itself, her life is on the line, this invisible monster, this cancer in her blood, is attempting to take her away, but there’s this infrastructure, this entity, that knows the answer, that can facilitate it, but they can’t do everything, and don’t think they can. The details, the day to day, the administration, the keeping on top of the situation, that’s all up to you & wifey, as well it should be.

Sigh. My beautiful silence. Broken. By some jackass yelling at a neighbor husband kid compatriot about what they did or what and now a slamming door. Welcome to my island ghetto. Welcome to a land where people just don’t know how to act, where they never even heard of how to act, where the knowedge of ack rite is so arcane a concept, where consideration to those around you seems like the rosetta stone to JD Salinger’s lab partner, where and when and how and why have all become like something of which you talk about when you’re talking about nothing, just deal, keep moving, you’re close to the hospital; location, location, location, Daniel san. Suburban life is hella nice, but the convenience of the city in the current situation trumps all options; I’ll take the 5 minutes from our medical home base and the comfort of the freeway being 60 seconds from our front door via horse drawn chariot. I have spoken too much, too little, and likely extremely sloppily. Good night and good luck. Salud. If you’ve gleaned any knowledge from my haphazard words, please paraphrase and explain to the author when it seems convenient, because selfsame persona is about to pass out and likely not peruse the verbage laced above for at least 24 hours. My world is love, the people that surround me are rocks, and I am still the luckiest man in the world. No challenge is presented that I cannot handle, and that strength is part of my luck, I’ve created it, but it could not have been without, hmmm, something, someone, that which oversees such matters, I suppose. Aloha & film at 11.