Home

I have never been described as conventional.  I blame my father.  From as early as my memory will go, I can remember him encouraging me to buck the norm.  He did this with everything.  So, it was no surprise to anyone when I decided to live in a storage barn converted into a tiny house.  I was in undergraduate school, and I had limited funds.  When I say I had limited funds, I mean that I was broke.  I had a budget of $200 a month.  This had to include everything--EVERYTHING.  One of my close girlfriends helped me start my search.  We went to a rental company, and I told them my budget.  There was only one possible place for me to see because I flat out refused to have a roommate.  Oh, and the place also had to take animals because I had a fabulous dog named Nola Jane and a very naughty cat named Annadel.  205 Central Road.  This was going to be it!

We pulled into the tiny commune of houses.  Yes, I said commune.  The "houses" started with my tiny house and got bigger as the houses continued.  And?  They were all shaped like barns.  Maybe they were barns at one time.  Who knows?  Anyway, there were about five houses on this piece of land.  Each house had a tiny driveway and a tiny backyard.  My tiny house was going to cost me $150 a month.  This also included water.  We walked in, and there was the living room/kitchen.  Next, there was a tiny hallway where the bathroom and the bedroom were across from each other.  The bathroom was the only normal size room in the place.  The bedroom was the length of the tiny house and the width of a single bed.  My closet was a bar that was installed at the end of the bedroom.  The entire space was 200 square feet.  Yep.  You read that right.  200 square feet.

Tiny House

I took it on the spot.  I was terrified, and my friend was giddy.  Of course, she didn't have to live in it.  It was all mine, and this was the most important thing.  Plus, no one had ever lived in it.  It had been used as cheap storage space.  So, the carpet was brand new, and no one had ever used the appliances or bathroom.  It was like living in a doll house. Well, a doll house that used to be a utility barn.  My family came to see where I was going to live.  I think my parents were a bit taken aback.  My father had  never wanted me to be conventional, but I don't think he expected his youngest to be living like this.  My brother-in-law immediately decided that my bedroom could use a loft.  Because the tiny house was shaped like a barn, there was a ton of space in the ceiling.  He set to working on a loft for me.  The room was the width of a single bed, so the loft would be the width of a single bed.  It took him one long night, and it was complete.  There was even a handmade ladder that Nola Jane and Annadel could scurry up.  Nola Jane just couldn't scurry down.  No worries.  The tiny house was complete and ready to move in.

I never felt like I was at home anywhere.  I moved into my college dorm, and I didn't miss home.  I missed my friends and family, but I didn't miss where I grew up.  I only lived in two different houses growing up and both of them were in the same school district.  There was no connection to these houses for me.  After my dorm days, I ended up in a great house with two unique and fantastic roommates.  This house wasn't home either.  When I found the tiny house, I found home.  It was the first place I was responsible for.  I could come home from a long day at school and work, and I could do anything I wanted.  These were the leanest years for me financially.  I couldn't run my window AC because I couldn't pay for it.  My favorite movie became Urban Cowboy because it was the only movie that was playing on the only channel my rabbit ears could pick up.  My friends would come over, and we had no choice but to sit right on top of each other in the tiny living room.  This made us laugh, and I love that memory.  I don't want to go back to the tiny house.  Life has been good to me, and I like where I'm at.  The tiny house is one of my most cherished memories.  Even as I continue Marching Fourth, I take the tiny house with me.  Home. 

Down the Rabbit Hole

November 2009: "I think I need new glasses.  Maybe I'll get some vintage frames."  This is what I was thinking as I drove to my eye appointment.  Al was with me because no one can pick out frames when his/her eyes are dilated.  I get to my appointment, and the doctor comes in to take a look.  One look.  The doctor immediately stands up and leaves the room.  No words for me.  He comes back in and says I have an appointment with an eye surgeon that same day.  What the hell?  He tells me there is a large mass in my left eye and that's all he knows at this point.

I got to the surgeon, and I am poked and prodded.  Hours and hours later I get to go home but with no information.  I have no idea what is wrong with me.  I wish my biggest problem was finding some vintage frames.  A few days later I get a call.  I have cancer.  I will have surgery immediately to remove the mass.  My vision should be fine after surgery, but there are no guarantees.  No guarantees...

You would think that this is when I would find myself falling down the rabbit hole, but I wasn't.  I handled it fairly well.  In fact, sometimes I could forget that I was sick.  I would go for my "chemo days" on Fridays.  Great way to start my weekend, right?  I would listen to music.  Most of the time I listened to The Avett Brothers.  Probably not the best choice because these guys can write songs that mainline right to your emotions.  During my last battle in 2013, "Winter in My Heart" became my theme song.  I never wanted to talk.  I never took anyone with me.  Al was always waiting on me when I was finished.  I guess I didn't want anyone to see me be vulnerable.  I shed a few tears while sitting in that stupid recliner, but mostly I just snapped at people.  Cancer made me angry.  I wasn't a warrior.  I wasn't a survivor.  I was just pissed off.  

Four years later and the impact of what I went through is hitting me.  I think I stomped on my feelings and buried them deep inside my gut.  They've started to bubble up in the last few months.  I didn't die.  I could have.  I still might.  It's not like you hear very many stories of people fighting cancer, winning, and moving on to a life that doesn't involve cancer.  It's always there.  I always have to be checked out.  I will always have a tiny scar on my left eye.  You can see it when the light is shining a certain way.  I make fun of it to my friends.  It's a battle scar!  It's not.  It bothers me. 

I can still remember people saying some of the most horrible things.  I don't know if they realized it or not.  Does it matter?  I was told that since all of my hair didn't fall out then I must be feeling great.  Yeah, that's exactly how this works.  I have chemo gushing through my veins, but I have hair!  Hair=health.  I was having lunch with one of my bosses at the time, and she said that people who have cancer know that's what will eventually kill them.  Any energy I had left just drained right out of me in that moment.  I wasn't hurt.  Her words hit me and exploded. Would I eventually die from this?  What if it doesn't go away? 

My first short haircut.  I guess I did look healthy.  I wasn't.

It wasn't all bad.  Al and I realized that we actually did want to be married to each other.  So, after 7 years together, we had a private ceremony in our backyard.  He never wavered on anything.  Anything.  He still doesn't.  I also realized just how much my sister loves me.  She sent me a photo of her after I texted her to tell her that my chemo had worked.  I was doing well.  The photo was her bursting into happy tears.  I didn't know until that moment that she was terrified.  I lost some friends during this process.  I do think that they were my friends, but they couldn't be the friend I needed.  They moved on, and so did I. 

Last week, I had to go in for a check-up.  I do have one benign tumor that continues to grow.  It will need to be taken out at some point.  No cancer, though--for now.  I left that appointment and just sobbed on the sidewalk.  People continued to walk by and act like I wasn't sitting there.  Probably for the best.  I collected myself and went home.  In some ways, I'm more scared today than I was when I was wheeled into surgery.  There isn't anything a doctor or surgeon can do for me now.  I wait. 

I'm just starting to peek down the rabbit hole, and it is scary.  I see all the outcomes swirling around down there.  What will mine be?  I don't think anyone can answer that question.  I try to March Fourth.  In fact, I thought I was Marching Fourth.  It looks like I'm just going to sit and peek down the rabbit hole for a bit.  I wait.