My Biggest Fan

It comes for all of us. If we're lucky. Right now, I'm not sure I feel lucky, but I know in the days, weeks, months, and years to come, I will come to realize that I am. Or I was. My parents are elderly, eighty-four and ninety-two. From where I'm sitting at the moment - my mother's hospital room - it's doubtful that my mom will reach tomorrow, much less eighty-five, So here I sit. And write...while  my biggest fan lays a few feet away snoring like a freight train. Her snores mean she's still alive so rather than drowning them out with music, I listen, Intently. Because each one could be her last.

It's the drugs - her pain was pretty severe - making her sleep so soundly. These same drugs, the ones that keep the pain at bay, may also hasten her death. Her decision. She's been kicking cancer's a** for the past seven years. My mom's no sissy; she can endure. But this isn't the cancer, the known quantity. This is an aneurysm, a ticking time bomb she's had almost as long as the cancer. This morning that bomb went off. It was supposed to kill her, the rupture. That's what she always said, always thought. It wouldn't be a bad way to go, she'd say. Immediate if nothing else. One minute I'll be watching "Ellen" and thinking about dinner and the next I'll be gone. It didn't quite work out that way.

Mom's still here, palliative care only, no DNR. She's done, over it. And I'm here to be with her when she goes. There was a time today when we weren't sure I'd make it in time, but I did. Now we wait. She hasn't woken up since I've been here; I don't know if she knows that I'm here. I wish she would wake up, have a lucid moment. There's so much I need to tell her. It's not like she'll be around to read my next series of blogs - that's honestly how she's learned (way too much) about my life over the last almost fifteen years. She needs a preview, an advanced screening. Maybe I'll get my moment, maybe she'll bounce back.

It's doubtful. Even if the pain in controlled and she can wake up, there's still the aneurysm. It's either clotted or still slowly bleeding. And it could still rupture completely. There's apparently no way to tell.

So, when I finish this blog...when I post it...she won't find it in the morning while drinking her coffee. That's what she's done for ages, especially when I was writing a lot more than I do now, daily at least. She'd sit down with her coffee and pull up my latest blog on MySpace (She was Stacee's Mom). Mom likened it to reading her favorite column in the newspaper back when the morning paper was "the thing." Once upon a time, she called me "the next Andy Rooney." She was a fan of his, too. I doubt she ever emailed Andy or her favorite columnist to tell them to delete something, like often she did me. She chasten me and tell me that I shouldn't write drunk and that I did NOT need to write everything that popped into my head nor did I need to post everything I wrote. Over the years, she learned a lot about the lesbian lifestyle and once commented that she knew more about lesbian sex than she ever imagined there was to know. You're welcome, Mom.

She read my novel bit by bit, chapter by chapter, every short story, every everything. The good, the bad, the borderline inappropriate. And now...it's impossible to imagine - my biggest fan is fading away.

She's resting as comfortably as she can be, I guess. She looks relaxed. Her snoring is more regular, breathing consistent. That's good because the little stoppages, the hiccups are torture. Has she breathed her last? Was that it? She doesn't have monitors. When you don't want any extreme measures they dispense with all that. She has a med pump and a fabulous nurse. And me. I'll be the one who'll have to tell, know. I'll push the call button. Set it all in motion. She brought me into this world and I will be here when she goes out. I suppose that's the way it's supposed to be. If we're lucky.

I've often I wondered about my luck. But, you know, not everyone can say their mom is their biggest fan. I can. At least for tonight.

Free Soloing and the Edge of Possibility

On long flights, I watch movies. I always say I'm going to read, then I see the movie screen and my book or Kindle goes into the seat pocket in front of me and I begin perusing the video catalog. I start with new releases. On my most recent United Airlines flight from Amsterdam to Houston, "Free Solo" leapt out at me. I'd wanted to see it on the big screen (It honestly would have been dizzying in IMax), but I happily settled for the tiny screen in the seat back. Before we even began taxiing, I'd hit play. It was an easy choice - I'm a fan of rockclimbing and, after seeing "Meru," I'm also a fan of Jimmy Chin's talents as a climber and documentary filmmaker. I expected soaring visuals and a physical and psychological study of the feat in question (a 'free solo' - no ropes, no belay, no net, no nothing - of El Capitan) as well as a portrait of the man - Alex Honnold - doing the climbing. I got all of that and more.

Alex Honnold and I have little in common. He's a genius and clearly not afraid of heights. I'm ok smart and I started bouldering to challenge my fear of heights. As an illustration: Alex climbed 3,000-plus feet without ropes or anything to catch his fall. I still haven't recovered from barndooring off a bouldering problem last October. I fell maybe eight feet. Onto a mat. In a gym. I wasn't injured. At all. So, please, as you continue reading, know that I am in no way equating myself to Alex Honnold. I will say that we are both goal directed. Again, let's qualify that. Alex is several standard deviations ahead of the curve while I'm merely sliding down it. He dreamed, set the goal, planned, studied, and achieved something that no one may ever replicate. Ever. I'm putting together plans to travel to Poland in the fall and I'd like to run a forty-seven minute 10k this summer. Obviously, I'm no Alex Honnold.

All that said, Alex and I do have something very important in common. And until I watched "Free Solo" and listened to Alex talk about himself and his psychology, I could never quite find the right words to describe that part of me. It's the free solo. We are both at our best when we are alone, in our own space, doing what we love to do, no ropes, no net, no one to catch us if we fall. Granted, Alex's free solo is a bit more dangerous than mine; I don't travel to places with "extremely high travel risk," like Yemen or Libya (Invariably, though, someone warns me about the dangers lurking in Scandinavia...). Still, when he talked about his comfort zone, the only thought in my head was "YES!!"

"My comfort zone is like a little bubble around me, and I've pushed it in different directions and make it bigger and bigger until these objectives that seemed totally crazy eventually fall within the realm of the possible."

Because that's truly where life begins. Right at the edge of your comfort zone. The key - the goal, really - is pushing that edge little by little until the zone expands and you find yourself doing something you never thought you would do. For Alex, it was climbing higher and higher. Free soloing was just a natural progression. For me, it began with a cross-state move and progressed to a solo trip to Europe. Alex didn't become a daring rockclimber overnight, just as I didn't become a daring solo world traveler in one trip.

It's process. All of it. Even Alex and El Cap. He didn't go out one day and scale it. He climbed it the traditional way over and over, tried out different routes, and perfected the "problems" (bouldering-speak for the series of moves a certain section of rock requires). Then he studied and studied until he had memorized every inch, every move, and every hold. With each practice, he expanded his comfort zone. Yes, the danger still existed. One slip, one missed foothold, one finger off the mark and he would plummet thousands of feet to certain death. But, he felt in control and confident. Each and every risk was a calculated one.

For me, solo travel is just part of the process. Every trip I take expands my comfort zone. I encounter new challenges (a late plane, a migraine on a train, confusing, discomfiting streets that look like alleyways) and find my way. Alone. Yes, my goal is to travel the world solo to more and more challenging places (not more and more dangerous places....just so you know), but I have grander goals that that. Or maybe it's grander challenges. One lurks on the horizon. Next month, after nearly a decade, I will move away from Austin.

I remember how hard it was and how much I struggled nine years ago when I left Texarkana. It was a huge adjustment. I went from a large number of friends and a massive support network to next-to-nothing. When I arrived in Austin, I knew two people. That's it. Gradually, I met people and made friends, but before that happened my introversion was stretched to its limits. I was used to "safe people" and suddenly I had none. I struggled, nearly broke, and begged to go home. I ended up seeking counseling and learned a lot about myself, about managing my introversion. Slowly over the years, I expanded my comfort zone and, while having a safe person is still the ideal, it's no longer necessary. My hope is that my solo travel - my love of the free solo - will make this next move, and every subsequent move, easier.

It all remains to be seen but, like Alex Honnold, I feel like I'm at my best when free soloing, out there on my own, fighting the fight, pushing my limits without anything or anyone to catch me. It's been a long road; none of this happened overnight. Challenge and practice, challenge and practice. Finally, though, I've come to a beautiful place. I love what I bring. I love my strength, my hope, my determination, my fearlessness. There is truly no one in the world I'd rather step out into the unknown with than me.

Yeah, I may blow chunks and end up in the fetal position. Like I always say, it's a possibility. I think, though, that I'm decreasing the probability of it. I'm sure I'll continue to respect that part of myself. I've learned to take nothing in this life for granted. Not my strength and certainly not my fearlessness. Chunks can blow when you least expect them.................but regardless I have to take the risks, push the limits, and keep on fighting. Otherwise, what's the point? Life begins on the edge of possibility. The probability of success or failure notwithstanding.

~

Ok, ok.... Las Vegas isn't exactly a free solo. I have people. My niece has assured me of this fact. Twice. I'm sure she will again. And maybe even again. So while I'll be on my own, I've got a support network in place, if I end up needing it. Truly, though, I see this move (and probably the next), as practice, an expansion of my comfort zone. One day the move won't be a nineteen hour road trip to a new home. It'll be a nineteen hour plane journey to a new country, a new language, a new almost everything. And I'll have no one there to peel me out of the fetal position. That'll be the free solo, the moment when I stand at the edge of possibility and know that everything - absolutely everything - I need lies within. 

On Being Pretty ****ing Great

"I love your vulnerability...your honesty and most of all how aware of your surroundings you are... Keep sharing your truth! We live in a world of appearances... I adore how transparent you are."
~ a reader comment on my blog post, "So, About Last Night..."

I've been doing this a long time. Blogging. I've been far more popular than I am now. A decade ago in Texarkana I had people come up to me in bars, restaurants, etc and ask if I was Stacee Harris. They'd read my blog on Myspace (it was all the rage in the day) and thought they recognized me. That was before Facebook and Notes from the Red Birdhouse. I wrote as therapy. My very first blog was an all-too-personal diatribe about my latest break-up. I quickly lost the anger, but I kept the honesty. I was an atheist lesbian living in the geographical center of the southern Bible Belt which made life pretty interesting at times. Needless to say, I wrote a lot. My following grew. Readers didn't always agree with what I had to say, debate occasionally raged, and my words resulted in more than a few fractured friendships. During one of the worst moments, when actually considered quitting the blog, one of my friends told me that I had to keep writing. Someone had speak for the ones (the majority) who weren't brave enough or eloquent enough. Stand and speak your truth, Stacee. I believe those were her exact words.

I've toned it down in recent years. I stay away from religion and politics. Being an atheist and a socialist, it's just easier. I don't mind debate, but hate? No, thank you. I also rarely speak directly about my sexual orientation (News flash - I'm gay). Oh, it's readily apparent; I'm beyond hiding. Besides, why would I try to be anything except who I am?

I think I've arrived at the crux of my writing. People often ask what I write about. Lordy, in the day, I wrote about almost everything, including 'tossing salad', watching porn with straight women, Barack Obama, the Christian hegemony, shaving habits, and so much more. Now, I'm a bit tamer. Running, aging, travel, courage, my tenuous mental health, writing, and women are fairly common subjects. Regardless of the topic, my readers have always gotten a huge dose of Me. For better or worse, assuredly. It's a personal blog for a reason, so why would I write about anything else? I always hope that someone out there reads my words and sees something of himself or herself. We aren't alone in this, not by a long shot, and if I can let even one person know and understand that, the time spent has been worth it.

~

I've been told by numerous people that social networking is exclusively about creating appearances. People post things - pics, memes, etc -  that present the persona they desire others to see. I'm not going to deny that's out there. I'd even be willing to argue that my friends are correct. I don't know if it's just American society, but we are very much about appearances. Think about why you live where you live, pursue the career you're pursuing, drive the car you drive, married the person you married, chose the sexual orientation you chose? Now think about why you posted that meme or that pic? Am I right?

I imagine that there are people who look at my posts and read my blog and think I'm just putting up an appearance. Stacee wants to be seen as a positive, funny, runner, tennis player, writer, and world traveler. Who is she trying to fool? Oh, wait... Stacee is a positive person, funny too. She runs, plays tennis, and writes. Hey, and doesn't she leave for her fourth trip to Europe in two years in less than three weeks?

And it's not like I only post the good stuff. All of my followers know I'm not above making fun of myself. I'm the first one to point out my short comings. Hell, we all have them. Why not parade them for all to see? I'm introverted, occasionally anxiety-ridden, often cowardly, hopelessly single...just to name a few.

Regardless, this is me. It's all I get so it's all the world gets. Why lie? Why try to be someone or something I'm not? The truth eventually bubbles to the surface. Besides, I actually like who I am.

And who I'm becoming. I may be almost fifty and pretty enamored of the person I am, but I am still in process, still working, still pushing, still trying, still improving, still learning. That's also a key part of who I am and what I write about. I'm a work in progress. We all should be. Maybe I'm too vociferous about it, too insistent, but damn... I'm halfway-ish done with this life. For as far as I've come, I have that far to go. Why stop now? Why coast? Personally, I can't and I won't.

~

Transparency. Truth. Being decisively and unabashedly who I am. There is no higher compliment, no higher praise. I'm glad people notice, but I wish they weren't as in awe of it. I wish more people lived as I do - Open and out, loving themselves and their truth, being vulnerable, honest, and transparent. Maybe it's my age. Or maybe it's that I've been surrounded by people most of my adult life who encourage me to be exactly who I am and love me insanely for it.

One quick story. A night that changed my life. I used to not speak openly about my sexuality. I didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable. It wasn't that I lied, I just didn't speak the whole truth, My Truth. I talked around it, but never about it. I've lived in smaller places in smaller times. Plus I'm an introvert who would rather hide than be the center of attention. Anyway, this one night during a happy hour at Zapata's someone I didn't know asked me how I'd ended up in Texarkana (Next to no one moves there of their own accord). My stock answer used to involve the weather in Michigan and a friend who needed a roommate. That night, just as I was about to trot out that old stand-by, the woman sitting next to be thumped my leg HARD under the table and loudly whispered in my ear, "Tell YOUR story! Tell it!" So I did. Girlfriend, bad break up. All of it.

I've never turned back. Look, y'all... What if my truth helps someone else see theirs? What if my truth becomes a mirror?  What if just one person decides that who they are is pretty fucking great, even though they're far from perfect? Because, Christ, nobody's perfect but everybody has the ability to be pretty fucking great. And what if I inspire one person and that one person inspires another and that person inspires another...? What if the world became a kinder, gentler, more honest, more vulnerable place? For one, I wouldn't have to write blogs like this, because no one would think I was all that special. I assure you, I'd be more than ok with that.

~

So, to my friends and readers who see me, truly see me - my truth, my honesty, my vulnerability - in my writing and love me anyway...Thank you.