We were 42

My mantra, my compelling reason … Gilda Radner’s story was a bonus.  Thank you Joanna Bull for this invention … “I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.”

Gilda as expected was not  as brilliant as compared to most established and prolific novelists.  But her  spontaneity, honesty and sincerity  brings you to the exact threshold of pain, angst, mortality, her clinginess to hope, positivism, life, love, fame, and how quick she melts down when face to face with reality .   Her ovarian cancer  metastasized, and most likely she will die from it, really really soon.  Afraid to leave the life she adores and just not about ready to be given up and everything in it --- and may be,the lack of memory of it, in her life beyond, and lives left behind without her. To this day, cancer remains to massacre the human spirit.  And Gene Wilder, the love of her life, re-married, two years after her passing.  Life goes on …

I was 19 years old, when Gilda Radner, 42 years,  slipped into a coma and never woke up.  She had cancer, fought it fiercely, but eventually killed her.

I still write my pages. Impatient with an ending, a story i don't even know how to begin again. This Sunday, I will be 43.




***a no nonsense review of my recently finished, It's Always Something by Ms. Gilda Radner ... this Friday, I'm running to a bookstore nearest to my office, and grab my next cover :)

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/523469837    --- of course, it's in my goodreads :)  ... goodreads.com/irmavanta

Rocketwoman

Tonight I will try.

Could be the perfect timing.  Is serendipity.

Reading Gilda Radner.  Just in time.  A week before I cancelled (but re-sked) my appointment for an ultrasound.  Friday was preps for Monday SalesComm.    Monday, of course, was always SalesComm day.    So there ...

Gilda and I and our seemingly parallel lives.  Wit  a catch-all successful cover up.  Yet that obvious fear that grows and crawls in us.  For not knowing, and knowing and not wanting to know. 

Our matriarchal geneology.    Her silent travails as a young girl seeing women in her family massacred in different cases and stages of reproductive cancer.   My innocence as a 9-year old taken away as I came face to face with mortality seeing my  maternal grandfather’ s acceptance of his losing battle against esophagus cancer.

Our once young carcinogenic lives.  Living them in cliffhangers and fast lanes.  She stuffed herself to throw up.  I remember starving myself to death in my early 20s.

Her success in second chances was a happy memory she brought to her grave (thanks to you Gene Wilder).  Mine was a lesson and a price I wake up to everyday, day in day out.

I, a stranger to her.   Who tries to measure up /catch up with her humor, her spunk, her desires, her SWOTs.

Kindergarten days.  Rocketgirl @ 5.  Tanza, Cavite, 1975.

She, who inspires me to chronicle my journey as little miss sunshine (set aside as a mere memory of  a brief rosy life as a child), going through bends in that ol’ dusty yellow brick road, those (painful and boring nonsense)  games in a puddle of mud,  counting my winnings away, cutting losses, drawing issues, and (planning) an intimate celebratory closure for a limited edition life.

To me it’s just a round mass of extra flesh adding up unwanted pounds to what I consider one of my most fave parts of my mortal body.  That one has to go before the Tattoo Festival.  I won’t let it spoil those fresh red berries.  

Friday afternoon, musculoskeletal ultrasound.  Saturday morning I will know.  September I’m pink ready for those strawberries. :)  Can’t wait.   

***

Earlier in the night … on my way home … before getting myself that little blue cupcake Tee (my daughter is envious of but wouldn’t admit heheh) … lovers busy beside me …

I was itchy to text Nanat … and seriously contemplating of talking to Dognuts in our FB group.

“Hell, not sure if I still remember how to smooch.  Or even want to smooch.  Or remember how to hold hands.  Or even want to hold hands.”

See, that’s me waiting to exhale … something waiting to happen, or is happening or has happened.  Excuse me for my tenses, my conjugation, and my broken dirty French. 

A lazy cynic.  I lost interest.

That makes me a freak.  Who knows better now.  For not knowing, and knowing and not wanting to know. 

Such an expensive price to pay for a lesson.

(So if I get the chance to ask God, I'd ask, "is this really the lesson you want me to learn?" ... I bet I know His answer.  I bet twice my own bet ... I'm too stubborn, this is me and skyrocketin'  rebellion against God ... and me getting even with you. ... See now ...)

The recluse and The rebel.  

Amen.