Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Poison probate

Over the course of my paralegal career, it amazed me the level of ever-lasting, pure hatred born of inheritance disputes. 

It always seemed so easily preventable, just a predictable result of a simple mistake - the decedent not putting their affairs in order whatsoever; or thinking they had done so when in fact the documents only lead to confusion, and/or a cockroach of a second spouse taking full advantage of any such lapses. 

I  always thought, that will not happen to us.

How I miss those Halcyon days of fantasy. And while I’m bitching about dreams, by now, I should be a stupidly wealthy, lovingly eccentric writer living on a massive estate in Maine with the Mikester and barn full of animals, donating money to worthy causes and writing yet another bestseller when not tending to my organic orchards. My father would still be alive and well, fit and happy as any Octogenarian could be. He’d live on the estate too, in his own little condo, with the absolute best round-the-clock care and never need for anything.

No matter how lovely and ordinary your dreams may be, sometimes you wake up and realize you actually are simply to endure another real-life nightmare. I’m nowhere close to that estate, my father died penniless, rabid with dementia, and sick with a cancer that mutated faster than anything the seasoned oncologist claimed ever to have seen. And now, after going through cancer myself and all its wonderful drama, guess what?! Estate feud.

The details are not unusual or important. Expensive, extensive legal maneuvering is now required vs. the easy, non-dramatic turning over of assets to the beneficiaries, as the decedent had intended and tried to ensure a full decade before dying.  

I’m not in the mood for drama these days. Anything remotely related to it sends me straight into rage mode. And it cannot be escaped, it must be dealt with. Like another cancer-all-consuming, a soul-sucking dark monster that is going to make you cry. It keeps me up at night and concerned for the future.

Well, at least chemotherapy isn’t required this time. 

Friday, May 13, 2016

Dollar Store Mojo

It’s been a long and difficult journey from diagnosis, treatment and post-cancer recovery, a road trip laden with bad things-a sudden life-threatening sickness, strange foreign places and people, unfamiliar beds and that painful longing for home.

Blog-wise, it’s been a period of total absence of creativity and passion. My torn hamstring had me hamstrung (ha!) as did the subsequent tear to the front leg muscle. Walking, bending, stretching, sitting – all of it, for the past 2 months, has been painful, difficult or impossible, and frustrating.

So, imagine my wonder this week at the inexplicable return of my Mojo. It’s just...back. I feel strong, capable, mentally with it for the first time in, well...years. It’s hard to describe it really.

That bitch has been gone a long time and as bitches are wont to do, quit that shit when I needed her most. Left me alone in that ruin of poison, scars and burning, financial chaos, uncertainty and complete destruction of life as I knew it. She’s spirit mostly, but her powers are tangible and legendary. She’s all white light and pure, healing protection. We’ve been through so much together. Always, she saves me. Her absence leaves an oily, seductive void which never stops pulling. In my damaged shell-shocked state, I rage. Where did she go?

My mother used to have one of those dime-store pictures on the kitchen wall. It hung beside the 70’s green behemoth of a fridge, on the wall beside the jalousie windows. You know the one – it’s still popular and sold at any Dollar Tree. Footprints.

In 1977, though too young to know what a platitude is, I still resent that picture. It seemed silly that some poor soul survived whatever horrors only because a divine power was really there, carrying them through the very worst parts.

Now, and maybe for the first time, I understand that stupid picture.