Several things of note have happened since I last posted. My brother PT was home for the weekend, which was lovely. We watched Stranger than Fiction, which I would watch again, and Nacho Libre, which I wouldn’t. No, it wasn’t that bad, just, not my cuppa tea. The American version of “humiliate the main character” humour is not something I find funny most of the time. I say American, because I find Fawlty Towers hilarious, and Chef (the first episodes), and that humour is not the gentle kind, I’m afraid. Anyhow, I also loved the special effect at the beginning of STF, where Harold’s life is being narrated, and white explanatory symbols keep popping up while he does things. Hmmm, that was a stunningly bad description. If you’ve seen it, hopefully you’ll know what I’m talking about.
So that was the weekend. Then on Sunday Mommy and Daddy and Gideon went to St. John’s for Gideon’s assessment. If the drug was working, they would continue treatment, and be back on Saturday. However, they came back on Monday evening. The drug wasn’t working. It was the last treatment option. So as soon as they came through the front door, I knew what had happened. It’s funny. This doesn’t come as a surprise, but it still hits very hard. The world feels curiously unreal, so that I’m not quite sure how people and things will react this time. I suppose that is from the fact that some people do react differently to me, and also since death is such an incomprehensible thing. What was that quote? “Death is an insult to life. We rage against the cessation of existence.” So when it is obviously inevitable, and previously known, the foundations which direct your actions are shaken ever so slightly.
My mind has been working constantly since Monday evening. It’s as though I have about four levels of thought going on at any one time, and as soon as one is resolved I fall through into another one. Yes, if there was any doubt about how I react to emotion, it’s rapidly disappearing. I analyze. Given that I’m also rather tired from work, I don’t necessarily analyze very efficiently, but still I pull apart my reactions and look at them from new angles all day.
Its interesting. From my past experiences, some things which would really freak out other people I can view completely sanguine. For example, I can look at the spectre of living without hot water, or lights, or an oven, without undue distress. I mean, I would grumble, but still, I know it’s perfectly doable. If my dad was to say tomorrow that we were moving across the country, or out of the county, next week, I would be excited and looking forward to the new place. This is probably due to the fact that I had my first cross-continental move at 6 weeks of age, and my first intercontinental move when I was two. By my family always came along. Even when I moved out on my own I knew what was happening at home to an extant.
But the death of a family member is something completely outside of my experience, and it’s weird. You have to keep living, without them. WEIRD. The doctors say that we won’t have him for Christmas. He won’t see his fifth birthday. Not learn to read. Not have kids. Not be taller than me. Not… Oh my. But the Doctors have also said that they will give him the finest drugs out there, and it won’t be painful for him. Not everyone is so lucky, I suppose. I do believe that God has this ordained. Gideon’s cancer did not take place because God looked away for a moment, or Satan won the coin toss. It was planned, and Gideon has lived and will live the exact life that was laid out for him. And he has a happy life, despite the needles and procedures. He’s a lovely cheerful boy, though I won’t get to introduce him to my classmates, I guess. I’m rambling. no good to hover in that line of thought. Okay.
Anyhow, one of the things that has changed in the plans is that Gideon’s Wish is taking place at the end of this month. He wants to ride Snot Rod, from cars, so we’ll probably go to Disney World. The details are being finalised today, actually. I was voting for Disneyland, in the hope that I could meet up with Third World somewhere, (It’s only a 13 hour drive. NOTHING! ) but it appears that my devious plots will not come to fruition. I guess, since it’s supposed to be family thing, I shouldn’t go gallivanting off to meet my friends, but come on! It’s THIRD WORLD!
Oh, one more thing before I go. As we’ll be going out of country for the wish, we all have to have current passports. So we’ve been filling out forms madly, and on Tuesday we went into Gander to have out pictures taken. On the way out of town, my carload received a phone call from Daddy. The photographer at Wal-mart had just called, and we weren’t allowed to wear white, black, or sleeveless shirts for our picture. (No one knows why…) This is where things started going pear shaped, since I was wearing a white shirt.
Once we get to Wal-mart, the photographer lady informs us that my shirt is indeed white, not cream, as I was hoping, and I would have to find another shirt. Cue me descending on the markdown racks. I grab five shirts whose colours I like, and dash off to the changing rooms. Of the five summer shirts, four were cut low enough, that, let’s just say that they were showing skin that never sees the light of day. Just basic summer tops, too. Odd. But the fifth was decent, and it had some kind of strange ribbing on the shoulder and neck. I looked at it and thought it looks kind of deviantart-ish. Sea nymph webbing style. I’ll take it! And yes, most of the clothing I own that I really like was chosen for its character inspiration qualities. For example, I am currently wearing my assassin shirt. But Fraulein said that it looks medieval, and nice, so fear not!
I buy the shirt, and arrive at the photographer, after quick-changing in the bathroom. I sit down on the stool, and the photographer starts to have a hard time getting the camera to work. She, with a grin, says that the camera just doesn’t like me. I grin in response, and the picture is finally taken. On the way back in the car, Mommy and I realise that she spoke truth in more ways than one. That was a BAD picture. Incredibly bad. I mean, I never need fear that I will look worse that my passport photo. I could be totally hungover and I’ll still look fresh and alert next to that picture. It takes bad to a whole new level. The nice new shirt is hardly visible, and every trick of the light works against me to open up a new realm of awful.
Oh, you say, it can’t be that bad.
I look like a sleazy drug addict. Greasy stringy hair; check. Unsteady posture; check. Glazed eyes that don’t quite line up; check. (I had to take off my glasses, and couldn’t really see the camera.) Nasty molestache; check. Unnatural pallor; check. Bad skin; check. Shadows under the eyes; check.
This is not a good photo.
And I live with it for five years…