Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl...

by Nicole, Jamie

  My mind is hung-over from the fantastical voyage it’s been on today. To recap the events/tragedies in order: the hangover, aka, barfa-palooza (I hate barfing on a normal day but it’s a particularly bad experience without Ashton and his handy back rubs), my brother shocking me with our long-lost mother’s imminent return was pretty awesome (are you laughing? cause I am), the heroing experience of standing on the front porch with not one but two whole feet, and then the subsequent meeting of an awesome-dancing/very hot-butted stranger, followed incidentally by a horrifying text from my best friend/wanna-be de-virginizer and his brand new “fav” gal. This would be a lot to take in for any run of the mill Joe Blow but for me, the agoraphobic, apparently schizophrenic, virgin, it’s a mutiny of mayhem on my already extremely fragile psyche.

  Answering this text will require at least eighty angry words in order for me to be able to spew out all of the crazy I am feeling. But, since I’m not stupid and I have manners, I understand that the polite response is either a simple smiley Emoji or the five simple-yet-impossible-to-write words “can’t wait to meet her,” but that smiley and those words would both be gigantic lies and honestly, I am completely incapable of any more bullshit today. Instead I come to the very wise decision to call this day a wash and go to bed. Hopefully once there I’ll be safe from encountering any more issues I’m helpless to handle by myself and then I can finally get some of my writing done. Seriously, for someone who has maybe two friends in the world and has been barricaded indoors for several consecutive years, I sure do encounter a lot of crap.

  Thirty minutes into writing my outline, all cozy in my bed, I feel as if I’m actually being therapied. Wait? Um… bad word choice. What I mean to say is while writing this outline I’m learning so much that it feels like I’m actually being rehabbed? No. Brain mended? What’s the damn word? GOT IT! Cured (let a girl dream).

  My thoughts of healing are rudely interrupted moments later by the sound of one of Master’s loud huffs coming from the back door. Throwing on my now legendary pink robe I make the bold decision to let Master “go” out front. The worst already happened today and I survived that and interestingly enough I was just reading about a therapy technique called cognitive rehearsal and it happens to be exactly what I did today already and I didn’t even know it.

  What you do in a cognitive rehearsal therapy session is listen and follow along as your counselor walks you through a typical situation that makes you feel uncomfortable, fearful, anxious, whatever. Then, together you work out a plan that can help bring you peace should that situation actually arise. Today was a sort of trial run for the front porch and since I survived and made a friend I’m going to count that session as a success and try again to work out the ol’ panic muscles if you will. Now seems as good a time as any to try to stand on the front porch with both feet while simultaneously not dying.

  “It’s your lucky day, big guy. Momma’s decided to put on her very pretty and lacey, big girl panties and take you out front.” His eyes lock with mine in a show of solidarity where her e.s.p.’s me into hearing his extremely enthusiastic and supportive encouragement. He’s all (think Scooby Doo or The Jetsons’ dog, Astro’s, voice here) “wrate a ro” and “ro for ru”, all your typical doggy pats on the back.

  My plan seems solid and possible until I’m actually at the front door and I freeze. The signs of a pretty intense anxiety attack begin to show themselves one at a time in an attempt to stir up a panic party we can all enjoy. But, since I’m here to employ my new technique I must first remember that I survived this door once already today and that I can do it again. I refuse to become a one-hit wonder.

  Starting with a little positive reinforcement I go all Nike on my ass and encourage myself to “Just Do It”. “BOOM,” I shout, turning the knob and throwing the door open with reckless abandon, striking the wall and making the fresh hole I put there earlier even bigger (Seriously?). Not only have I broke my house with my insanely loud and enthusiastic shout out, I may have also just broken my dog. As soon as that door hit the wall Master leapt (it was adorable) behind my back and is now pressed tightly against my thighs trembling. If this is going to happen I must not project my fears onto poor Master. I’ll show him that I’m okay and just tone down my positive reinforcing a bit by using a more appropriate level of enforcement instead.

  “Boom,” I repeat, this time in a more subtle, adult voice. That helps, master peeps his head around my knees to get the all clear and looks up at me in shock when he sees what I have done. I wink down at him and say, “You’re not seeing things Master. That door is open.” He’s in shock, his tongues hanging out of his mouth and everything. Then, to show him I mean business I begin the one-step, two-step, out-step, in-step volley it takes to get me onto the actual porch. It’s like someone lit hot coals under my feet the way I’m jumping in and out, trying to solidify my choice. I accidently scare us both again when I shout out, “Be a MAN (Totally meant WO-man!)!”

  Master, finally sick of my antics, pushes past my dancing feet and breezily walks outdoors on all fours where he proceeds to flaunt his easy gate. He appears to be laughing at the two-footed dance-off dilemma I’m engaged in between my porch and small foyer but one can never be too sure of what really amuses one’s dog. While I watch him walk away with such assuredness to his step the solution to my problem pops to the forefront of my mind! There was a section on modeling behaviors in the cognitive behavioral research I was doing. You’d be absolutely correct in presuming that normally you’d follow/model the actions of your therapist using this method but since Master’s all I’ve got on hand I suppose modeling him will just have to do.

  This is where things start to get weird (I know, who am I kidding? My whole life is weird). Anyway, mind made up, I drop down on all fours and go for the same easy go lucky attitude that Master walks through life with and guess what? I’m OUTSIDE! Yes, I am on all fours but who cares, I won the battle! For someone in my position (the all fours position) a positive outcome consists of only one thing: me on the outside. So mark this little experiment down in the column as a WIN and call me Charlie because gosh darn it, I’m a winner! Wait. What? Call me Charlie? Who the hell is Charlie? And why is he a winner? I don’t know and I don’t care because… I’m outside!

  The railing in front of me is the barrier responsible for separating this side, the porch, from everything else, also known as, the way outside. (Point of reference. From my perspective I’m just on the regular to basic outside. The way outside is an entire other therapy session.). It’s the difference between the back and the way-back for all you ‘80s kids.

  Anywho, given that I’m still on all fours, I have a great view through these handy slats to watch Master and all of his antics out there in the way outside. He’s pee’d no less than five times in as many minutes and shows no signs of letting up any time soon. It’s his own sort of “rain” of terror on the yard (see what I did there?). Surely he assumes this is his last chance of way-outside peeing because he’s taking serious advantage of every last square inch of unsoiled grassy yard. I myself am just enjoying the pre-pee smell of the fresh air. I’m sad to say that after his fifth pee though the air quality is starting to take a turn towards the ammonia side of fresh and outside has officially begun to lose its luster.

  After he finishes his rounds, he makes his way back to the porch and finds me exactly where he left me.

  “I did it buddy! Look at me, I’m outside!”

  He pushes his muzzle up under my chin in an attempt at hugging me and I take full advantage and latch on, soaking in all of the furry comfort he has to offer up. I’m on my knees now and halfway to standing so I decide that this is the moment to take advantage of my humanness and do just that.

  “Ha! I’m up!” Says the formerly incapacitated, currently outdoorsy, agoraphobe! “You did real good, Chief. Real good! Way to let the yard have it! Man, I had no idea you could go so many times in a row. Seriously, I’m impressed.”

  As I’m talking, he rubs
his head into my outstretched hand and dutifully follows me back inside, into the wilds of the great indoors, thus ending tonight’s mission of me becoming an outdoorswoman (This new “fav” gal-pal of Ash’s better watch her back. Soon, she’ll have nothing on me except maybe that whole guitar playing, rock-chick thing she has going on. God, she really is so cool!). Now that I’ve been “out” it strikes me just how stifling it can be on the inside. I’ll have to add that positive thought down in my therapy log. Matter of fact, I’ll go write that in my journal under the heading, Things that make going outside feel safe: 1. Good air quality.

  “Come on, buddy. You deserve a treat for not running off on mommy and I want some chocolate. We earned it. I grab my favorite ice cream coffee cup (everyone has one of these, right?) and fill it to the lip with some leftover chocolate-chocolate chunk that I have and a healthy dose of chocolate syrup for flavor. After I’ve drowned the ice cream with its syrupy counterpart, I open the locked up stash of doggy treats for Master. We stand before it, deliberating on which treat to choose for this very special occasion. He looks up at me and gives me the ‘I want the good stuff’ look. You’d know this look as the deliberate head tilt, ears perked up, eyes open wide beggy-face so many dogs do. Okay, okay… liverwurst it is.

  As I’m setting down the sliced meat and his other favorite, a bowl of ice cubes, he knocks over a chair in his excitement to get to his favorite spot under the table. As I bend to pick it up I see the marks where my baby teethed as a puppy and I’m immediately transferred back in time to the day that I got him…

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes so be dressed… or not.” Morning douche alert.

  “Ash, it is eight o’clock in the morning… on a Saturday. Leave me alone.” He cuts me off before I can say my final goodbye.

  “Like I said, thirty minutes. By the way, keep in mind that I know you sleep best in the nude so if you don’t want to get up that’s cool. See ya soon, Hotpants! Or shall I say, No-pants.”

  And just like that, I’m up and at em’. This better be important, because since my Dad’s funeral last week I have slept a total of maybe ten hours. My mind’s been jumping all over the place fighting between the sadness I feel over his passing and the guilt I feel for finally being free of the nightmare that was his Cancer. Either way, the point here is that for the first time in a week I am actually in a beautiful, sound sleep, having a lovely dream about being at the beach, free, warm and relaxed. Now I’m not.

  Thirty minutes pass and I’ve showered, put on the pants Ashton suggested and am currently waiting on the couch killing time by playing Halo with an online gang of frat boys I met during the one month I was away at school. Now we’re in a strictly long distance gaming relationship, but it works great for us all. Someone is always online and ready for a match, night or day. I wonder sometimes how they’re getting anything done, but then again, who am I to talk. I’m hanging on by a thread in my online courses and hope, with any luck, to graduate with my degree in creative writing at the end of this fall semester.

  After explaining my dad’s situation, most of my professors have been lenient with my deadlines, which I’m beyond grateful for since I’ve been his sole care taker until recently when we had no choice but to finally call in hospice. Connor came home from law school whenever there was a long weekend and Aunt Joanie would fly in from Seattle as often as she could but otherwise it’s just been me and dad. Whenever I had extra hands around I’d take full advantage and work my hardest to catch up on all my upcoming papers and projects so that when it was just the two of us again I’d be back on track with school and able to give my father all of the attention he deserved. Helping to keep my father alive and comfortable had become a very tricky game of Jenga, where one wrong pull of a primary-colored block could bring the whole damn thing crashing down to the ground around me, capable of obliterating both my life and mental health in the process.

  Turns out the block that was capable of destroying me was the one that had “dad dies” imprinted on its underbelly in invisible ink. All the time he was sick, I was back and forth praying for it to be a good day or for it to just end already. You’d think after he finally took his last breathe that I’d be able to pick up the pieces like Connor has and continue moving forward at long last, free from my caretaker’s burden. It’s funny how things work out. I mean, we knew what was coming for the last four years. The doctors never handed out any false hope. I thought I was prepared. Yet, it turns out… I wasn’t.

  I’m twenty-two, turning twenty-three in a month, and have no parents to speak of. I did however have a parent who loved me unconditionally and for that I consider myself blessed because I know firsthand that not everybody does.

  Before my dad died, Ashton’s mom tried to be helpful. She knew how much my father had been there for her son over the years and wanted to show her gratitude. So from time to time she’d bring us over delicious homemade soup or offer to do the laundry. But, unfortunately her gratitude and time were unsustainable resources. It wasn’t long before giving to us became yet another burden for her to carry.

  Her husband’s abuse only got worse as we got older and when she finally had the nerve to kick him out things changed. At first it was great. She was around more and appeared happy for the first time that I can remember. But then Mr. Stevens started calling and harassing her and when she’d hang up on him he’d just show up and beat on the doors drunk with furry and booze at all hours of the day and night.

  She was scared all the time and her visits became fewer and farther between. Ashton and her rarely spoke anymore and it shouldn’t have surprised us when she announced one day that she was leaving to go back up north to live with her sister but it did. Unfortunately she never once asked Ashton if he wanted to go with her and that was the nail that pinned shut the proverbial coffin on Ashton’s trust. Since then it’s been locked away and he will never allow his heart to be broken like that again.

  He won’t admit he was heartbroken when she left; he has this thing about never wanting to look weak. But I know him and I can see his pain. When he sings, his emotions and his heart bleed out through his words and that is the very reason why people fall in love with him. His words and his pain are relatable and they are real. They’re part of the human condition that we all experience in one form or another throughout our lives, and in his music these truths are visible, palpable, and able turn the ugliest feelings into things of beauty.

  I’m about to call him when my cell ticks to life in my hand.

  Meet me at the park

  by your house

  Ash

  ---

  On my way

  Cee

  Before Connor left yesterday to go finish his last semester of school he expressed to me his worry that I haven’t been leaving the house. He wants to see me get “back up on that horse” but I don’t work like that. Trying to explain to Connor that not all of us are good at saddle riding and prefer walking is like talking to a giant haystack. My gait in grief is more of a slow trot while his started there but is already on its way back to a gallop. His grief lies like a loose noose around his neck while mine tethers me tightly to home. We just process it differently and until this morning’s pushy text’s from Ashton, I thought that at least I had one person who respected my process, but apparently I was wrong. Now I’m getting a swift, firm kick to the hind quarters and it’s done nothing but piss me off!

  Reining my fury in, I climb into my dad’s old turquoise VW bus and head to the park. It may be old and slow but it gets me where I need to go safe and sound every time. I also love driving it because it’s a place that dad was never sick and, because of that, everything in its interior is still happy. The old cracked leather seats still hold his spicy, clean smell; the grease stains on the steering wheel reveal the size and depth of his large fingerprints and his favorite Beatles album will forever be in the self-installed CD player. It’s a comforting sanctuary for my senses and I will always love and care for this bus, just like
I did my daddy.

  Off in the distance I see Ashton sitting on the ground in the sun beneath the monkey bars. A little girl with a head full of golden curls is seated next to him, talking and demonstrating her enthusiasm with their topic using her tiny, animated, overexcited arms. He’s being a patient and attentive listener, and in that moment I’m able to see the man that he is capable of becoming one day for a daughter all of his own. He has a huge heart to give someone and, I hope when he finds the right girl she appreciates him and the gift that he is. P.S. If not, I’ll cut a bitch. Just sayin’.

  The little girl’s mom calls her to leave and as she dutifully gets up to go, a little black ball starts to go after her, nipping at the bottom of her cute little summer dress. I almost pee my pants in excitement (I hate that that’s even a thought, but I’m known to do it). Ashton turns and catches my eye and instantly a huge grin spreads across my tough rocker’s face. Only one song could be used to describe the power of that smile, and it would be “Here Comes the Sun” by, of course, The Beatles. I can’t help but light up my own in reply and shine it back on him.

  “Watcha got there?” I say taking in the precious bundle of black fur that’s leaping toward me through the deep wooden chunks of mulch.