Deidra Alexander's Blog

June 21

I could hardly crawl out of bed. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but I refused to let myself believe it was going to be this hard. It wasn’t just hard for me, but Charlie too. He spent the first few days of my treatment trying to coax me to drink and eat, then watching when everything came right back up. I can’t remember having spent so much time in bed.

I feel bad for Charlie. I thought he’d be able to continue working on his project in spite of my illness, but now he seems to spend most of his time taking care of me. At least he has a break when Allie stops by.

“Do you remember when you first found this house?” she asked, lying next to me as if we were just taking a little nap instead of lying here because I can barely hold my head up.

“Do you remember the look on Gordon’s face when we brought him here?” I asked.

“He thought you’d lost your mind buying some house that would be better off condemned.”

The old house had fallen on hard times. The walls were covered with peeling layers of browning wallpaper. The settling foundation had opened cracks that had torn through the wallpaper, leaving holes large enough to put your fingers through. A beam had cracked breaking through the living room ceiling. The backyard was filled with waist high weeds.

But under all that was a stone farm house built in the eighteen nineties. It was a one story structure that had been added on to over the years. Deep cool porches lined both front and back offering shade from the hot Texas summers. The backyard was almost forested by trees and beyond the weeds was a small creek. I had fallen in love with the tall ceilings; the dark wood floor with planks wider than my hand; and the long windows set into the thick stone walls.

“Remember how you spent almost every day here helping me tear this place apart?” I reminded her.

“And then putting it back together.”

“I thought we’d never finish.”

“I wish we hadn’t. How did we wonder so far apart?” Allie asked, taking my hand.

“We aren’t far apart. We see each other every week.”

I knew what she meant, but wanted to feign innocence.

“That’s not what I mean. How could we see each other every week and not see each other?” Allie asked the question I had been asking myself.

“Just life I guess.”

People continue marching along as if they have all the time in the world, never letting themselves think that their time here is limited. No one can guess how long they have, but we all live as if that day will never come. We all know we should live each day as if there will be no tomorrow, but we don’t. We think that applies to everyone else except us.

There are so many days I regret now. Days wasted in mindlessness. How I wish I had made better use of those days.

June 16

My mother use to take me to a gallery called Olla Podrida. Artists had studios there and the public could watch them working, sculptors carving or casting molds, painters layering paint on canvases, or potters throwing pots from raw clay. As a child, it seemed all types of artists were represented. It made my heart race to watch what I thought of as masters plying their trade. I think my Mom was happiest there among kindred spirits.

Olla Podrida was an old factory in the downtown area that had been renovated with old timbers salvaged from churches and government buildings being torn down in Mexico. The massive timbers supported the high ceilings in a lattice work of beams. I guess we weren’t the only ones tearing down the old to make way for the new. And as fate would have it, Olla Podrida was torn down several years ago to make way for a high rise office building.

Mom once had a painting hang in Olla Podrida. She dressed us all up to go see her painting there in the gallery in the building’s center. It was the only time she and Dad took us all to a gallery together. Afterwards, Dad took us to a Mexican restaurant to celebrate – chips, salsa and enchiladas. Mom was glowing. She had her day. A day she probably thought would never come.

I was more than a little surprised when a table made of thick planks with a finish as dark as espresso was delivered to my house. The note simply read – Made from beams salvaged from Olla Podrida. Bryan

Why was Bryan sending me anything let alone a table made from the old gallery’s timbers? The gallery that meant so much to me and Mom. The gallery that was so tied up with our childhood.

June 15

When does it happen? When do you close the door you always knew you’d take? You lock it away, so firmly you won’t even allow yourself to remember it’s there. Afraid if you open it again, the memories will be so painful you won’t be able to stand it. So, you’d rather let the truth of who you are remain buried.

I opened the door today. I was back there again in that dark place, between death and nothing, surrounded by darkness. Only this time there wasn’t numbness and shock to carry me through. This time I was overwhelmed with the grief I hadn’t experienced after my parents and my grandmother died, when we were left alone in the world.

*****

Charlie unpacked my easel and I began painting again. I was amazed at how quickly I fell into a pattern of painting and organizing, attempting to bring order to my life, now seemingly filled with uncertainty. My paintings weren’t exactly what I’d hoped for. I found myself drawn to blacks and grays with slashes of angry red. No matter how hard I try each painting echoed a mournful loneliness.

Perhaps I’ve waited too long. Perhaps this is something I can never complete. Perhaps my time has passed.

I was contemplating another painting of depression and anger when Allie came by.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, perhaps for the first time in her life.

“I’m feeling ok, more scared than anything else.”

Honestly, my symptoms had been few which was why’d I let it go for so long.

“Everything’s going to work out fine. I talked to Margo, she said Dr. Goldschmidt’s the best. He’ll handle it. It’s going to be fine.”

“Yea, I know,” I lied, not telling her about my fifty percent chance.

I didn’t want to say it out loud. I didn’t want to have to hear it again. I didn’t want to hear myself argue against my own survival.

“I’ve been thinking about what I’ve done with my life,” I continued.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been wondering what might have been, if I’d gone back to art school.”

“What might have been? Why do you care? You have a job your good at, a good kid, a good husband. All that adds up to a good life. You don’t need anything else,” Allie said.

I was amazed. She just didn’t get it. You could have a good life and still not be happy, not be doing what you loved. I’m not sure I could explain it to her.

“I need more, not more really different.”

“Different. What are you talking about?”

“I’ve decided to start painting again.”

“Painting? Why?” she asked.

“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Since when? You gave that foolishness up years ago and rightfully so. Do you know how ridiculous this is?”

“It’s not ridiculous. I saw Bryan and I realized I might as well be spending my time doing what I love.”

“You saw Bryan? Why? After everything he did to us,” Allie asked.

“I wanted to give him a chance to apologize.”

“And did he? Was he sorry?”

“Not really.”

“He could care less then and he could care less now. Why would you listen to him?” she asked.

“He’s a sculptor.”

“He ruined our lives then and he’ll ruin your life now,” Allie shouted, grabbing her purse.

I wasn’t the only one angry with Bryan.

Was she right? Perhaps it was foolishness to hope that after all these years I could regain some childhood dream. But wasn’t it worth trying?