Deidra Alexander's Blog

May 30

I told Charlie I have cancer today. He stopped in mid-stride and sat in his chair staring at me, his shoulders slumped. I had done the only thing that could defeat him right now. I was sick, as sick as the people he was trying to save.

He began silently rolling up his designs, notes and parts sheets, taking the most promising designs down from his walls.

Charlie wanted to resign immediately. This is exactly what I didn’t want. I would not be the reason he gave up his dream. I would not do to him what was done to me.

I was finally able to convince him to keep working at least for a while. Besides, I’ll have Allie. I won’t need him every moment of every day. I promised to be there when he takes the first prototypes over.

I didn’t want to take away his hopes, his work, and his dreams. I know what it’s like to give up on a dream to accept responsibilities and I didn’t want him to give up so easily. Perhaps I shouldn’t have given up so easily.

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May 29

I dreamt of the bronze lady last night. She was still hugging her baby close, but there was another little girl clinging to her skirts. The woman wasn’t calm and serene. She was begging for someone to watch over her babies, as the flames consumed her. I was helpless to help her, to ease her mind. And then she was gone and the two children were left behind clinging to each other.

***

Charlie was filled with hope and excitement. I was beginning to worry that this project would defeat his spirit, but the old Charlie was back. He was pacing his office, with Tom and several younger men, rifling through his designs and parts lists. He was making notations in red, taping the resulting sheets on one wall. His office was a flurry of activity when I came in.

Tom in the mechanical engineering department at the university had signed on to the project. He was even talking about going over personally to install the first prototypes with his graduate students. Tom had suggested that they speak to Martin, a professor in the biochemistry department, researching alternative energy. He was also excited about the project, seeing it as an opportunity to demonstrate a practical application of some of his theories.

The three older men brought together the best and brightest from their fields. Charlie’s office was filled with young engineers eager to save the world. He had inspired this newly formed group with his stories and pictures.

I’m glad he spent this last day in a euphoric state of activity and anticipation. Tomorrow I have to tell him no matter what. After all, what difference will a day make?

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May 28

I went to the radiologist today, my first big appointment. I haven’t told Charlie or Allie, so I went alone. I decided I could handle these first few appointments on my own anyway. No need for everyone to start worrying, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.

I hadn’t intended to stop, but there was an art gallery a few blocks from the medical center. I thought it might be fun to stop in and I was already there. So I decided, why not?

The walls were pristine white with lights shining on the carefully placed art and sculptures, huge, modern paintings with bold slashes of color and bronzes soaring into the air. The furniture was as beautiful and sleek as the art, modern lines, black leather, Lucite tables and soft music playing in the background.

My shoes echoed on the sleek stone floor. I found myself holding my breath. It was nothing like the art galleries Mom use to take me to. Those galleries seemed warmer, the people friendlier and less stuffy. I was on the verge of turning to leave, when a severe looking woman all in black, her dark hair drawn back, seeming it emphasize her sharp features approached.

“May I help you,” she asked, looking me up and down as if I looked as out of place as I felt.

“I was driving by and noticed the gallery and thought I’d stop in and take a look.”

“Well by all means, let’s take a little look then,” she simpered, as if making some joke.

We spent the next twenty minutes strolling around the gallery, my guide pointing out various pieces of art, explaining the technique, describing the artist and telling little stories. It was a well rehearsed stroll.

“This piece is from a notable Aborigines artist, Ginger Namatjira,” my guide said, pointing to a painting.

It was at least four feet by six feet, too large for any room in my house, but it was fascinating just dots in rows sliding down the canvas. All colors of blue and purple. The entire canvas was covered in these dots made with thick paint. From a distance, it looked like water running down the painting. There was another just like it of reds and oranges that looked like liquid fire.

“We’ve just shipped two of these to the Sultan of Dubai for his country palace. Of course those were much larger then these and were one hundred thousand each.  These smaller pieces are only thirty thousand. Would you like me to have them delivered?”

Was she kidding thirty thousand dollars?

“Shipping is free,” she coaxed, with the Cheshire cat’s smile spreading across her face.

I had stepped through the looking glass into Wonderland in this world where sultans bought hundred thousand dollar paintings for their country homes.

As I was leaving, I noticed a sculpture of a woman rising from swirling flames, clutching a child tightly against her. Her face looked almost familiar. The child was a little girl. It reminded me of Mom holding Allie. It was a glorious bronze with a hint of hand rubbed patina. The sculptor’s name was Alexander, my mother’s maiden name. Perhaps that’s why I liked it so much.

It held me captive for a moment. I simply stared at it for a long while, until my guide coughed.

I turned to go, but not before glancing once more at the bronze woman and child.

***

The oncologist said he thinks he won’t have to use a strong treatment of chemo and radiation. That’s something I guess. He gave me a fifty-fifty chance. He said those were good odds, but I can’t stop thinking it’s just the flip of a coin. It could go either way.

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May 26

I was sitting in the weathered leather chair in Charlie’s office, trying to decide how best to approach this. The chair belonged to his mother’s father. The great captain of industry had sat in this chair amassing a fortune. He was a financier. He bought, sold and traded companies, like pieces on a chessboard. He was born wealthy, so I didn’t think acquiring more wealth was necessarily any great accomplishment. But to hear Livia, Charlie’s mother, tell it the man walked on water.

Charlie was a theology professor by trade and volunteer youth pastor. He’d come to Christianity late in life, a confirmed atheist and bachelor. His views on the world and his faith were different from most. He held degrees in Chemistry, Physics, and most recently Theology. So his faith was founded in math and science. I admired his ability to debate the existence of God without ever quoting the Bible.

“You can’t use the Bible as an argument if your opponents don’t believe in it,” he’d say.

He’d spent years studying math and science, sure in his believe that God didn’t exist. He felt a sort of quiet superiority over those of “faith”. But after all those years of study when he was graduating with his first PhD, his convictions become less clear.

Charlie decided to take an extended trip to clear his head. He was really looking for answers he couldn’t find in a classroom. He didn’t travel to Europe and the civilized world as his mother would have liked, but to primitive areas. Places that could only be reached by the heartiest jeep, horse or on foot. His travels took him to remote villages in Latin America, Asia and Africa. Places no one had heard of, that weren’t in travel guides, where five star hotels and post cards didn’t exist. It had started as a spoiled kid looking to “find himself”. People without money don’t have time to find themselves. They have to be happy with whatever self they have.

Early in his trip, he met up with some missionaries bringing medicine to the remotest of villages. At first they tried to convince him of God’s existence, to save his soul. But after several unproductive arguments, they gave up, though they still let him tag along.

In many places, the number one killer was starvation, but Charlie was surprised at how many people still died even with enough food. Impure water was another big killer. Even though the water wasn’t clean, the people had little choice but to use it.

Something happened during that trip that math and science guy was never quite able to explain. All of his questions and doubts, all of the quiet whispers in his head began to come together and he knew. For the first time since he was a boy, he just knew. God existed and had something for him to do.

He came back ignited with a passion to find a way to clean the water of villages like these around the global. His parents were excited about his new found passion, though they felt it would be better directed at his career, but at least it was something.

This trip did more to Charlie than create a passion, it turned him from a spoiled kid with too much time on his hands and no direction into a man of compassion and purpose.  It would be nice to have that kind of passion and certainty in what you’re doing. At times I envied him. Why couldn’t I feel that same certainty in what I was doing?

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May 25

The end of the year program was held at the school. It was the same red brick building I’d gone to all of my childhood, K through twelve all in one building with the high school upstairs. Before I was in high school, I longed to ascend those stairs but grade school students weren’t allowed upstairs.

I would run my hand along the banister, when I passed by waiting, always waiting. Finally the day came. I remember getting my first locker upstairs. Then one morning I was climbing the stairs and realized I could see out to the distant horizon from the first floor landing. I was sure I could see to the edge of town. I use to imagine I could see all the way to Dallas and maybe even beyond. One day, one day I would go that far and further. I knew my future lay out there somewhere beyond that distant horizon.

All the parents and grandparents gathered in the cafeteria. The hard plastic chairs were lined up in rows facing the stage. The decorations were handmade, tissue paper flowers of every color, shape and size.

Margo’s orange skirt slipped up to show the scar on her knee as she sat down. I remember how she got that scar, when she and Allie were children. Allie always had some brilliant plan and poor Margo followed. I remember the time they climbed to the top of the oak on the big hill in Parlet’s Field. Allie was sure they’d be able to see all the way to Dallas.

Margo got stuck at the top afraid to come down. I climbed up after her, helping her place her feet in the right spots. I got her safely to the ground except for a scrapped knee. I treated the scrape with hydrogen peroxide and a bandage. I was her doctor then.

Here at the school, Margo was just a mom like me. She had traded her lab coat for a blue jean jacket.

“You haven’t told Allie yet,” she hissed.

“Well hello to you too.”

“You have to tell her. Have you told Charlie?”

The first graders filed on stage, singing John Jacob Jingle Himer Schmidt.

“What did I miss?” Allie asked, wheeling in her baby carriage. Luckily her son was in the second grade.

“You’re late,” Margo whispered.

“Couldn’t find anything to wear,” Allie replied with her standard excuse.

Allie had on a black, short sleeved a-line dress printed with large white flowers. The wide scoop band at the neck gave it a retro look. She could have fit in anywhere, elegant as always. I hadn’t given it much thought pulling on a pair of jeans and my old twill jacket.

We sat through several rounds of I’m a Little Tea Cup, Bingo and Farmer in the Dell. Finally, it was time for the fifth grade awards.

The principal, Ms. Howard, stood on stage handing out “awards” printed from the school computer. Logan’s name was called for Excellence in Mathematics. I knew as well as anyone else those awards were just color printer paper from any office supply store. But I also knew once my son’s name was printed on them, they became more than plain old office paper. They would be something that I, like all the other parents, would keep for years.

I managed to escape another lecture from Margo. Perhaps if I don’t take this whole thing too seriously it won’t be too serious. But she’s right and I know it, I can’t keep waiting for the right time to tell Charlie and Allie. I have to face reality, there isn’t a right time.

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