The Half Life

When Brooke Lee won the Miss Universe pageant way the hell back in the day, she famously answered the interview question “if you could do anything, what would you do?” with “I would eat everything, twice.”  

I didn’t wait that long.

A few years ago my beloved Aunt was diagnosed with cancer.  It was the damnedest thing.  She has no real symptoms until one day she fell in the shower, which resulted in a strange swelling.  Turned out to be cancer.

Fucking cancer.  

There was hope.  Chemo.  Remission.  Joy.  Recurrence.  Hope.  Chemo.  Hope.  Desperation.  hope.  hope.  hope.  

Then she was gone.

Then there was just grief.  Despair.  Disbelief.  Sadness.  Anger.  Bargaining.  Despair.  There is still despair.  

and food.

I’ve been thin.  It wasn’t much different than being fat, except the food wasn’t nearly as good.  I remember an off comment I made once in our kitchen on Christmas about eating less, getting thinner.  My aunt, in remission at the time, commented kindly but firmly that size and weight were the last things someone on chemo, who could barely keep any food down, worried about.

I remember feeling guilty.  (The default feeling for Catholics.)  But she was in remission.  There was no cancer.  

Joy.  Joy.  Joy.  

Eight months later we were in a hospital room.  My aunt was no longer talking.  She certainly wasn’t eating.  We kept bringing food, just in case.  (hope)  We brought vanilla cream soda.  She loved vanilla cream soda.  We brought every brand.  Because maybe if she could get one sip in…  

She never did.  She wasted away.  Then she died.  

So I decided to live now.  Enjoy everything now.  Eat everything.  See everything.  Do everything.  

Turned out fat was better.  I (re)met my husband.  Fell in love with him.  Never worried he was here for the wrong reasons, or ever wanted anything but me.  I never worry he’ll leave if I can get sick.  

So there’s food.  Hope.  Laughter.  Hope.  Beauty.  Hope.  Music.  Hope.

And once again, almost, nearly, there is joy.  

Wanna get along in Hawai‘i?  Here’s how:

1.  Hemo da shoe wen you go someone’s house

2.  Anyone old enuff to be your mom is “Aunty” and anyone old enuff to be your dad is “Uncle”

3.  No talk stink unless you like get punched in da mout

4.  No be pilau.  You not only make-a for yourself, but your whole family

5.  When kupuna, disable people or moms with babies (or hapai) are around, be helpful, be respectful and if you sitting down and no more chair, get your ass up and give dem your seat (unless you like get cracks)

6.  No go so fricken fas’

7.  No cut in line

8.  Someone invites you to their house, take something (always)

9.  No be piggy- no take more than what you need

10.  You only honk your horn for two reasons in Hawai‘i: something is about to get banged or you like fight

So I can to a revelation when I turned 36: I was essentially at my half life (assuming I’d live to a nice, ripe 72 or thereabouts).  

The revelation resulted in an emotional crisis.  I really didn’t have much of a plan to as what can next.  Everything seemed so damn pedestrian.  

Now, seriously, it was the epitome of #whitepeopleproblems if ever there was one.  I had completed all my big goals.  Kid.  Marriage (albeit one that worked about as well as the maiden voyage of the Titanic).  Lots and lots of education.

Now what?

Add to this I was a serial kamakazi pilot of relationships.  If it wasn’t so horrifying to my devoutly Catholic mother, I’d turn my series of crashes and burns into a sitcom.  

Now, 14 months later… there’s a husband, a bunny that craps all over my house, angelic step kids, my kid, and a whole range of new things that make this the weirdest, fullest half life in existence.  

It’s ridiculous…  and somehow a story worth sharing.