Deidra Alexander's Blog

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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May 23

Charlie was ensconced in the little back room he’d converted to an office. There was floor to ceiling bookshelves, a large desk, three computers and stereo equipment that made me wish we’d sound proofed before he moved in. I was itching to make it my next project, but he had me swear not to touch it when he’d first moved in. There were boxes in there whose contents hadn’t seen the light of day since he was in college, but now were off limits to me. I should never have made that promise. How long after you’re married do you have to wait before you break a promise?

It had been a little over three years since Charlie first rang my doorbell. He was the new youth minister. The youth group had been meeting in my house since my son, Logan was nine.

The attraction wasn’t instant for either of us. Whenever I was around he seemed to be explaining lawn maintenance. I had a lawn service, why did I need to marry one?

Our friends were always trying to set us up. Finally I asked him out for coffee to shut them up. We met at a little coffee shop. He was discussing black hole theories. I realized he was smarter than I thought.

He explained how that affected his theory of predestination, whether God already knows if you’ll choose Christianity. Then I realized he was smarter than me.

After that we started seeing a lot more of each other. I hadn’t intended to remarry after one failed attempt. But when I looked into his eyes, there was an intensity there I’d never seen anywhere else. I was captivated by him, his intellect and his sense of purpose.  We were married less than a year after we began dating.

I have to tell Charlie. But what am I going to say? Hey Charlie, we’ve only been married for a year and I have an illness that’s probably terminal. I need you to stop what you’re doing and play nursemaid. How’s that fair?

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May 22

I had fallen in love with my house as surely as I had with any man. It wasn’t a house of aluminum or vinyl siding and a tidy little lawn. It was a strong stone house with a large meandering lawn shrouded in the shade of old oaks and pecans. It’s strong, rugged appearance appealed to me.

The deep shade of the porches wrapped the long, low house, providing the perfect retreat from the hot Texas summers. The old tin roof had seen almost a hundred summers. Unfortunately, it was the first thing to go, replaced by a rusty red version.

The wood floors were worn smooth from generations of feet padding through the large rooms under the high ceilings. The plank and beam ceilings had been blanketed with thick white paint when I moved in. No amount of caustic chemicals or scraping was able to completely lift it. The white still clung to the pores and cracks of the silvery wood. The old owners could never be completely erased, each generation leaving something for the next. I liked that thought.

In the early morning I was alone, barefoot on the porch, looking out over the lush green carpet down to the little creek. Pink and white azaleas lined the near bank with hostas, ferns and ivy on the far side. In back was a workshop painted a paling sky blue. The tall gables and large windows beckoned to me almost as much as the house. It would be the perfect guest house. But that was a plan for someday.

The main house wasn’t in the best of shape, but I was eager to bring this country remnant from the past back to life. And now listening to the rain on the roof, relaxing on the long deep porches, or sitting within the whitewashed stone walls, under the planked ceilings it was home.

I watched the tree branches waving slowly in the early morning breeze, the play of light glinting off the creek. Sitting in the aderondike chairs, I realized this house was the only thing I’ve ever really planned in my life. I spent months and months deciding every move that would be made. I hadn’t spent half that much time, figuring out what I wanted to do with me.

Once you have a family, you have responsibility you can’t just quit work and do what you want. You still have to earn a living. With a child to put through college, I had to be practical. I should want what I’m good at, what I can make money at. That would be the easy course.

Allie found me in my contemplative state, sipping tea. Margo says I need to hydrate, to get ready.

“We did a good job out here,” she said, plopping down beside me.

“Yea, this part is mostly your work.”

Allie came by almost every day when I first bought the house, painting, scraping and scrubbing. I ran out of ideas when it came to the garden, so she took over. She put the plan together. I hardly knew the names of any of the plants. She had been the one at Grandma’s side helping in the garden.

We sat for a while in silence.

“What did you want to be when you were a child?” I finally asked.

“Malibu Barbie,” she replied without hesitating. “You?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been thinking maybe I should start my own property management company.”

“You should, everyone says you should,” Allie agreed.

“I just don’t feel it’s enough.”

It was enough until a few weeks ago. Why doesn’t it seem to be enough anymore? So I’m sick, that doesn’t mean I still don’t have forever, does it?

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May 20

When I went in to work, everything was the same. The candy dish was still on the counter. The receptionist was still answering the phones. The coffee was bubbling away as usual. Everything was the same except me.

I normally love the dark wood paneling and the logo, a sailboat superimposed over a compass, etched in the glass doors. The etching sparkles in the morning sun, sending prisms of light across the front of the reception desk. The counters covered in dark granite with streaks of green and aqua lights are cool to the touch during the hot summers. Usually the office looked rich, successful, stable. Today it looked dark, oppressive, ominous.

I sat at my desk looking at the report I spent ten hours putting together Friday. Why did I spend that time away from my family? No one cared if that report was finished Friday, today or tomorrow.

My reports that were so important last week, helped people make decisions. Decisions about whether to buy, sell, or develop properties. That’s what we did, develop and manage properties. At least, that’s what they did. I wasn’t sure what I did anymore.

This report listed all of the vacant space that needed to be leased. There was a couple of suites in a medical building, the fourth floor in a downtown office building, and an empty retail space two thousand square feet next to an anchor tenant in one of our strip shopping centers. Good space, should lease easily. The list went on.

Taking numbers and data and turning it into pictures and graphs. That’s what I did. I spent time from my husband and son writing a report about empty space, air, nothing.

All morning my office door kept opening. People coming and going, complaining as they always do. A salesman felt his territory had been encroached on. The receptionist didn’t get her break. Someone was taking lunches out of the refrigerator again. Everyone was looking to me to mediate the complaints. They came to me expecting understanding and solutions. But like the empty report on my empty desk, today I could only looked at them with empty eyes.

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