soopastryheart

I was talking to a friend the other day, who told me something that truly surprised me. He didn’t confess he was getting a sex-change operation or that he secretly married a 50 year-old mother of 6 (two things that would have shocked me less). He simply told me that after the marines, he hoped to be a better man, a better human being.

And that left me quite confused, because in the near 13 years we’ve been friends, I’ve never considered him otherwise. He has always been someone with strong character; kind and considerate, patient (enough to tolerate me for over a decade), and as loyal as a mom for Team Edward.

I didn’t press him to elaborate, partly because I didn’t think that fast, but mostly because I was trying to understand how he couldn’t see everything I’ve seen in him. We grew up together, shared laughs, tears (and occasional snot- on my part), and love for diarrhea-inducing foods. He was the crutch, the brace, and the bandage during my most damaged days. Even with my incessant bullshit and stubbornness, he stuck with me, even when I always stick him with the bill. I watched him (with a little push of my own), tap into the limitless potential I always knew he had. I watched as he took responsibility, owned up to his mistakes, and tried earnestly to correct them at every turn.

And over time, we’ve managed to build this incredible friendship, one with the ability to carry on a conversation with 12 different topics, and an impressive level of trust. I consider him family. And it was that trust that I had to believe in the most when he announced that he would be giving up the comfortable, even enviable life he had established, to join the military. I didn’t understand it, and I didn’t support it. In fact, I was so angry, I wanted to hit him in the face with a folding chair.

Eventually, I accepted it – I trusted his judgment, his instincts. I knew who he was. And that was enough for me to believe that anything he did, there’d be a reason, a purpose, a truth.

But then he threw me off with his “better human being” comment. How could he not see everything I’ve seen, everything I continue to see? I’ve never seen him do one malicious thing, or even, carry an evil-spirited thought. He’s always been open and honest, and never judged anything or anyone carelessly. He’s selfless, generous, and loves his mother (and his ugly ass poodle, rest in peace, Rusty). All I saw, all I’ve ever seen in him are good – so how could he possibly think anything less than that?

I think there’s a clear disconnect from who we see ourselves as, and who everyone else sees. I’m talking about all the qualities that our friends and families know us by, but ones that we rarely allow us to admit for ourselves. We don’t allow ourselves to accept our best features, the characteristics the people around us recognize us with, because it just seems like too high of a compliment to earnestly deserve.

Yet, those who love us, those who knows us best will continue to convince us otherwise. And if we trust our family and friends with their answers to “can you see my back fat in this?” then why do we choose not to believe them with things much more substantial to the heart?

Sometimes, during our attempts to be modest, we resort to self-deprecating tactics. We don’t mean to come off as having the confidence of a 14-year-old, but it just doesn’t feel right to acknowledge the praise being offered. Sure, we could try to be gracious, but the psyche works in such devious ways, that sometimes the only response we’re able to spit out is one that vehemently denies the pleasant offering.

Some days, I like to pick fights with myself, warranted or not. I poke at the squishy part of my stomach, question the genetics that gave me my nose, or wonder why I bother with a bra at all. When it comes to applications, I cringe most at my answers under “describe your personality”, but I have no trouble listing off every redeemable quality in each of my friends (they make it easy). For every six pages I write, I delete four. And it always, always looks better on the mannequin.

I think the trick is to not misinterpret personal insatiability with self-uncertainty.

Sometimes our insecurities can take us down really narrow and twisted roads (google pro-anorexia or “why is Avril the one who gets me?”). We manipulate, torture, and completely obscure who we are in the name of self-improvement. But self-growth is one process that should never reach an end. Don’t allow yourselves to become complacent, to idle in being content. You should never not want to do better, be better… ah …I get it now.

What I’m trying to tell you friend, is that I trust your instincts and judgment (with the exception of the asphalt incident and Pita Pit – where were you on that one?). If you say there’s room for improvement, I will continue to support you in any endeavor you seek in achieving this task (unless you know, you start reciting Miley lyrics as your personal motto). You have never been anything short of amazing when it comes to supporting me, regardless of how idiotic the plan sounded. And the fact that you want to continue to evolve, continue to strive to be better, speaks loudly for your person.

I will always be curious to hear what kitchen utensil you identify with most… you know, as long as you continue to pick up the check.

There are very few things in this world that invoke the type of anger that makes me want to put my fist through a wall (or someone’s face): desecration of religion, Michael Vick, and perhaps Target copying the exact design of a bag that I purchased at Anthropologie for 5x the price are included in that exclusive list.

But every once in awhile, I come across something that is so enraging, so incomprehensible, that it makes me question and worry about the sanctity and future of human existence.

To understand what I am speaking of, please take time to read this:http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/11/12/men-more-likely-to-leave-spouse-with-cancer/?hp.

Being diagnosed with a serious illness is difficult news to bear. Being told you have the big C can feel like the emotional equivalent of being hit with a pillowcase filled with bars of soap. Such news can be devastating, shake the faith of the most devoted, and send the eternal optimist into a spiral of depression.

When I worked in the hematology/oncology department at Harborview, I watched as the team treated mostly low or no-income individuals without families or a support system. Having cancer can give you less reasons to smile, but I was convinced these folks were in worse spirits than families I’ve seen come in together. There have been plenty of studies that advocate the importance of having a support system when going through major diseases and surgeries. I believe in science, I believe in facts, but I also believe in the intangible components of the human body, the parts that can’t be shrunk by radiation, or removed by surgery. I believe that the human spirit is an equal and integral part of the process, the cure, and I don’t care that it can’t be measured or quantified.

Cancer has the ability to strip down the emotional barriers of the world’s most composed, imperturbable people. When my grandfather’s condition with stomach cancer worsened, we all flew to Seoul to see him for the last time. What I saw was a man I barely recognized. His body had whittled down to almost nothing; his skin resting on his bones like a thin bed sheet, desperately hanging onto anything it could grip. The treatments were not only unresponsive, but they had caused a severe decrease in appetite – and thus making him too weak to eat anything at all. His veins were so prominent that I felt the urge to poke at them, to see if they were still fluid or if they were as brittle as they appeared. As I reached for his hand, a nurse warned me that he was too weak and ‘fragile’. Fragile? My grandfather? The man who rode a motorcycle even when he was limited by a cane? This man, who punched a doctor for running too many blood tests on me when I was a newborn? He could barely open his eyes to look at me now.

I couldn’t believe this was what cancer had done to one of the most dauntless men I have ever known. But what I saw next knocked the wind out of my thirteen-year-old body. I stood in the hallway with my mother and brother at my side as we watched my father collapse into my grandmother’s arms. She held up all of his weight as they both cried into each other’s shoulders. Here was my father, the very symbol of masculinity, a man who had been perpetually stoic through everything else in his life, breaking down before my very eyes.

This is what cancer had done.

I’ve been around serious illnesses and cancer diagnosis for most of my life. I was too young to understand the complexities and mechanics of my grandfather’s battle, but I always understood the importance of my dad having been there, to say goodbye, and to hold my grandmother (or rather, have her hold him). I knew my grandfather lived a life that should be written about, and left it surrounded by those he shared it with.

When my friend Becky’s breast cancer returned, I visited her in Venice Beach and we cried together, cursing out loud how unfair it all was. We then proceeded to drink three bottles of wine, and I listened to her as she told me how much she enjoyed freaking out little kids with her Sinead O’Connor look. Even after losing her son and her marriage years before, she told me she had never felt more loved and supported by her friends and family. She never spoke about the medication. She occasionally complained about her lack of energy, but mostly talked about how much supplemental strength she was gaining from her friends. She told me she couldn’t even think about going through it again without the people around her, that it was their optimism and prayers that got her out the door each day.

And that night, in my loopy, drunken state, I silently promised myself that I’d be there for Becky, that even after my short visit, I would call regularly, and visit again when I could. I told myself I’d be stronger this time around, so I could really be there for her, in all the ways I wasn’t with her son.

But I called less than I promised. I didn’t visit. I found reasons: midterms, papers, trying to adjust to my first year in college. With every excuse, I tried to convince myself that a phone call wouldn’t do much anyway – nothing I could say would change the fact that Becky had cancer. I couldn’t make it disappear by holding her hand.

I’ve spoken to Becky several times throughout the years, and each call has always been filled with laughs, encouragement, and advice – mostly from Becky to me. She listened patiently as I complained about my latest melodrama, and joked about my inability to keep a boyfriend. We argued about sexy CNN anchors, and talked about her bizarre neighbors – they had a tendency to yell obscenities at their plants in the middle of the night. I tried to explain to her the breakdown of carbohydrates in the body so that she could lose her muffin top(disastrous), and she spent an hour trying to instruct me how to bake a pie from scratch (catastrophic). We talked about everything and anything, but we both deliberately avoided talking about her cancer, or her recovery, or anything remotely related to the subject. I had a hunch she suspected my discomfort, and I was grateful she never confronted it.

It wasn’t until this article that I realized why I stopped trying to support her, why I chose to avoid it entirely, and how I convinced myself it was for the best. As angry as I was with this article, I understood. I understood because…really, was I that much different?

The first time I read the article, I shook my head in disgust. The second time, I caught myself clenching my jaw and fists.

And I was so ready, fueled by disbelief and rage, loaded with angry words, thoughts, and opinions forming a tornado in my head, to spit out a self-righteous rant on how royally messed up this is.

But as I set forth to type out the words, my hands stopped dead in their tracks, frozen and hovering above the keyboard like I was suddenly facing a firing squad. Because the third time I read it, I didn’t feel angry.

I felt ashamed.

For some people, it just too much. For some people, the fear of loss is far greater than any amount of love they may have. For some, denial and the guilt of desertion is more tolerable than the acceptance of reality. For some people, loss becomes incomprehensible. So we run. We run when every fiber of our beings are screaming to do otherwise. When our conscience is ordering us to stay, when our own voices are screaming at us to balls up, we run. We run when our feet want to stop, when we hate ourselves for the betrayal, and even when our hearts hurt so much they don’t seem worth having.

Or at least, that’s why I ran.

It’s why I couldn’t bring myself to visit Cody during his final hospitalization. It’s why I ignored the chance for redemption with Becky.

I ran because I was a coward.

It’s not my place to assume the situations of the couples in the article. Relationships are difficult, they are complicated, and most times, can really only be understood by the two parties that create it. I don’t know anything about the couples studied. I don’t know how they met, when they got engaged, or where they were married. There are numerous variables that probably factored into their dissolution of marriage, and I don’t have any of those facts.

I was quick to become angry and brand these husbands (or ex-husbands) as cowards and asses. I became angrier and angrier each time I read the article, but it wasn’t until I really delved into my own experiences and history that I realized I was mostly angry about how much the article resonated with me – because no matter what reason these men had for leaving their wives during a devastating diagnosis, I couldn’t blame them, not completely, not the way I really wanted to… without admitting my faults as well.

I hope that one of these days, I will gain the courage to explain to Becky – to apologize – why I bailed when I knew better. And god forbid if I ever get another chance to redeem myself, if I am ever thrown back in that scene, I will take it. I won’t be selfish. I won’t run. I won’t even shift my feet.

Because forgiveness is a lot harder to grant when you’re asking yourself.

Ay carumba, the scarcity of actual writing being done for this blog is downright pitiful.

Usual excuses set aside, and at the risk of sounding like a total spiritual fruitcake, I have been hard at work trying to recollect my center as I formulate a new plan for the current detour I am on. Without saying much (because really, there’s not much to be said), I am excited, nervous, and totally freaking out about the year ahead. Sure, it’s a scenario I never really envisioned, but one I inevitably chose at this particular moment in my life.

And no, I will not be elaborating, at least, not quite yet.

So please excuse the absence of the terribly insightful ramblings of a borderline crazy for now. I will return with writing – as sorry as ever – in due time.

The truth is, I fell in love a long time ago. I fell completely and totally in love, without a sense of how far and how strong that love would grow. It was a love introduced by Hans Christian Andersen and Dr. Seuss, nurtured by public libraries and book fairs, and continuously supported by Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com. It is a love that keeps me insatiable and obsessive, fulfilled and collected. It is an all-consuming yet totally unselfish love, one that I never see leaving my heart.

Let me tell you something about my life.

When my parents decided to move to the US over two decades ago, they only brought a handful of things over. Moving can be expensive business, especially if you are crossing continents, and we weren’t particularly rolling in the dough at the time. What did make the cut however, were sets of books in Korean – a 50-set collection of some of history’s most important (Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln, etc), and a set of children’s most popular fables (Sleeping Beauty, Arabian Nights, the Ugly Duckling). Both sets were for children, and despite the fact that I had only spent one year in the Korean educational system, my parents brought the heavy mother-effers over. I read each and every one of them, repeatedly, until the hinges began to appear battered and bruised.

In grade school, we lived half an hour outside of town. We had limited proximity to other children and with my parents being as overprotective as they could be, Ki and I were stuck in the house quiet often. Did we suffer unfathomable boredom and depravity of our childhood? Absolutely not. Twice a month, my dad would drive us to the local library, where we would check out the maximum books allotted out (25). And in between each visit, I would finish all 25 books, awaiting anxiously for the next visit. One summer, I read the most books for my age group in the summer reading club at the library, that I won an autographed copy of “Wayside Story Gets a Little Stranger” by Louis Sachar. The book remained within arms length for nearly an entire month.

But of course, every love goes through trials and tribulations, testing you, challenging your allegiance. In college, I took a series of classes required by my major that really tested my patience. For a short period, I felt abandoned by the very books I thought would strengthen my love (coughromanticpoetrycough). Even with all my dedication in trying to understand, I was often left confused, frustrated, and utterly betrayed. Still, we worked through our differences, and came out of our rough patch with out love renewed and stronger than ever. And after the quarter was over, I thought if we could make it through Blake and Wordsworth, we could make through anything.

You aren’t a nerd if you enjoy reading. In fact, you should be reading. Newspapers, magazines, books, pamphlets, nutrition facts, road signs. Reading, like vitamins, are good for you. Your vocabulary improves. So does memory. And like vitamins, they come in a pretty good variety. So if one leaves a bad taste in your mouth, you can always try the gummy ones. I’ve never understood those who say they hate to read, or can’t name a book they’ve read since high school. I would feel utterly unfulfilled and malnourished.

I will admit that I have strayed on many occasions. There have been droughts where I had not turned a page or marked a corner. There have been times where pretty pictures in a magazine took priority over a new chapter. And even through it all, the light remains on, and I am always welcomed back with open arms, no flowers or apologies required. It accepts me without judgment, no matter how much I’ve changed or strayed.

It’s nice to know that such a love exists.