Now, I know what you're thinking, because my mom said it this morning. "No you didn't. You didn't!?!"
Yes, I did. I'd read a little bit of Cormac in grad school, which featured trees full of dead babies and a dude who liked to do it with corpses, so I knew it would be grim. But Oprah picked it, people, Oprah! (I will confess her that I did not read the book. And I won't. Two hours of that was enough.) And this isn't to say it was a bad movie, as really, in terms of Apocalypse movies, it's a solid A-/B+. And I know this might sound naive, but I just didn't think it would be so, well, apocalyptic.
This photo would be a taste of the mood and lighting of the entire film:
Um, Dad, I know we don't have food, but couldn't we get just a splash of colorsomewhere in this new hell-on-earth world?
I will say I've never been a fan of the end-of-it-all movie, given that I feel there's enough horror right here in front of us every day and that it seems like overkill to spend one's time watching a tidal wave swallow NYC. But I sort of understand now why people do watch - life may be bad, but it's not holy-shit-there's-nothing-left-on-the-planet-but-some-crazy-rapist-cannibals-and-me-and-my-dad bad. And there is something to that, although this backdrop provided me no escape from thinking about my mother, because at its heart, The Road is about the enduring power of love, especially that of family. So there I am, watching *spoiler alert*as the father dies, this kid's only hope and humanity in the world and he is left to go on alone and find something to hold onto. The interesting part? He's got one bullet left, and he doesn't use it to kill himself. And I guess in that sense, he carries his dad and his love with him into the unknown.
It haunted me, those images, that idea, especially given that I will have to do just that when my mother dies, and I am terrified some days as I wonder what that will look like, how that will even be remotely possible. The world without her in it, and me, somehow continuing to exist. We are a little over two months out from surgery, and she is doing so well right now it's hard to imagine we aren't in some kind of magical remission, that she will just be disabled but will live on just fine, for like, well 40 more years. But then, when she is tired, or seems a little less with it, I panic, I think, "Is this it? The beginning of the end?" and I imagine watching her slow decline and eventual death, role playing it in my mind, making a feeble attempt to prepare.
When I get too far into that little game and suddenly find it hard to get out of bed or up off the floor, I remember the people in my life who will still be here to help me carry on. My amazing friends, her amazing friends, all of the people that have rallied around us. Then I call or text my boyfriend,Matt, who, like no one else in this world, understands. We spent Thanksgiving together, which was also the anniversary of his father's death two years ago from the same brain cancer my mother has. Watching him grieve, I was hit with the reality that I will have my own anniversary, my own enveloping sadness, and like he had to, I will have to go on into the unknown without the person I loved most in this world. Except there is this: I will have him, which provides more comfort than I ever thought possible. I sort of believed that having someone to help you through the impossible was a hollow promise, that in the end, you still do it alone. In five short months, he has proven me wrong time and again, more all the time. And that, along with the outpouring of love that has come to my mother since her diagnosis, is the hope I hold on to, the love that propels me into the next day.
All that said, I even managed to shake off my Road hangover today, in part by downloading some of the photos Matt and I took over the weekend - I hope you find them a splash of color in this sometimes gray world.

It haunted me, those images, that idea, especially given that I will have to do just that when my mother dies, and I am terrified some days as I wonder what that will look like, how that will even be remotely possible. The world without her in it, and me, somehow continuing to exist. We are a little over two months out from surgery, and she is doing so well right now it's hard to imagine we aren't in some kind of magical remission, that she will just be disabled but will live on just fine, for like, well 40 more years. But then, when she is tired, or seems a little less with it, I panic, I think, "Is this it? The beginning of the end?" and I imagine watching her slow decline and eventual death, role playing it in my mind, making a feeble attempt to prepare.
When I get too far into that little game and suddenly find it hard to get out of bed or up off the floor, I remember the people in my life who will still be here to help me carry on. My amazing friends, her amazing friends, all of the people that have rallied around us. Then I call or text my boyfriend,Matt, who, like no one else in this world, understands. We spent Thanksgiving together, which was also the anniversary of his father's death two years ago from the same brain cancer my mother has. Watching him grieve, I was hit with the reality that I will have my own anniversary, my own enveloping sadness, and like he had to, I will have to go on into the unknown without the person I loved most in this world. Except there is this: I will have him, which provides more comfort than I ever thought possible. I sort of believed that having someone to help you through the impossible was a hollow promise, that in the end, you still do it alone. In five short months, he has proven me wrong time and again, more all the time. And that, along with the outpouring of love that has come to my mother since her diagnosis, is the hope I hold on to, the love that propels me into the next day.
All that said, I even managed to shake off my Road hangover today, in part by downloading some of the photos Matt and I took over the weekend - I hope you find them a splash of color in this sometimes gray world.
It's a little known secret that Mimosas really help with cooking. It's kind of amazing.
Matt's cat, Miles. She's had him to herself for 10 years, and wasn't super thrilled about me, but this visit I got some purring action and even a little leg rub, not to mention some curling up at my feet.
I think we are going to be just fine.
I think we are going to be just fine.
underneath its skin. What did I do? Made gravy.
Gravy, baby. And buttermilk mash.




