Yeah, that whole Katie Couric thing? I know it's only a few days old, but nevermind. I quit.
You know, from the time it crossed my mind to put it out there it felt ... odd. Like totally-against-everything-I-stand-for odd. I actually wondered where the hell I was going with it and, frankly, I'm surprised I let me get as far as I did.
Oh sure, I could have found a way to weave some gems into the fabric, like using "I Can Hear Russia From My House" as a post title, but at the end of the day that whole celebrity stalker thing? Smokescreen. And not one that I'm particularly adept at keeping up, either. (I knew Bloggess, and you, sir, are no Bloggess!).
Truth be told, I don't give a rat's ass about Katie Couric (no offense, Katie). In fact, I consider her to be part of "the problem" -- part of a machine that intentionally blurs news and entertainment together to make we poor shitheads think that by following the Balloon Boy story loosely we're sufficiently invested when actually we've just been distracted from shit that would make us bleed from the eyes if we bothered to watch (offense, Katie). But that's a breakdown for another day. This isn't about Katie Couric and it never was. No, this is all about Ethan and DAMN me for diluting that for a single second. DAMN me for putting my own internal conflicts ahead of the needs of my child. And in classic circus format, too. What the fuck is wrong with me?
You know what the hardest part of this whole trip is for me? It's not the waiting. In fact, there's safety in waiting. Because when you're waiting, distractions are OK -- welcome, even. The elephant is free to roam about some other area of the room. Hell, you may even busy yourself in the Oncologist's office by reading a magazine while waiting for your next chemotherapy treatment -- maybe something about the Top 10 Places to Retire in Style because, for just a moment, you forgot.
No, what's hardest about this is NOT waiting. Because every time I'm NOT waiting -- every time I'm forced to regard the whole fucked up thing in all its glorious fuckedupedness -- I have to remember to forget the three most dangerous words I know: IT'S. NOT. FAIR.
It's not fair that Ethan was born like this. There I said it. That seems like such a natural, organic thought, doesn't it? But follow along as my mind attempts to put the ARG!!! into argument, and it does this EVERY. FUCKING. TIME: The genesis ... This was just a random thing. So there's technically no one to blame. And if there's no one to blame, there's no one to get mad at. And if there's no one to get mad at, then anger is a waste of time. Well, that makes sense but the fact remains that I do feel anger. So there must be something wrong with me. And if there's no logical place to direct this anger, what the fuck do I do with it? Maybe I should just cry. Again. Oh, I know. I can stalk Katie Fucking Couric!
I understand that, at least in part, my anger is just a redirection of my fear. Like when you corner a wild animal and said animal responds with some expression that looks an awful lot like anger. Perfectly understandable in my case since Ethan's going to have to go through 2 pretty intense surgeries in a very short time after all. There's a lot to be fearful of. Phew, finally some negativity I can embrace!
Meanwhile, every time I have to make a phone call or get an e-mail or think about this at all, I get a knot in my stomach. I feel the adrenaline jetting through my body. Dread. Fear. Anger ... and they all crash full force into the Inbox on the desk of my mind's editor, who's no doubt sitting there just shitting his pants at the magnitude of his job. Poor little bastard has to take all this raw emotion and bundle it into something digestable. And I'm thinking that the fact that you're reading this now may be a sign that he quit. Otherwise you'd no doubt be entertained (?) by my follow up note to Katie Couric where I attempted to pressure her by suggesting that she could be replaced with Dustin "Screech" Diamond, whose birthday also happens to be on January 7.
No. No. No. My goal for this space is to provide Ethan with some insight as to what these times were like. And I failed miserably. I'm sorry, Ethan. It won't happen again. And for the record? During these times? If you ever wanted to know how I felt? I was scared out of my fucking mind.
"One need not be a chamber to be haunted:
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place." -- Emily Dickinson