#imagine making a delivery and not knowing where tf to enter and youre on the phone with them and theyre like ok yeah no

[gudakko]

my absolute favorite thing about resident evil games is that the goofy architectural contraption puzzles are just a universal constant no matter the time or location

#i think about them so much #infinite comedic potential #ok i think maybe re6 kind of didnt have them nearly as much?? its been ages since i played it but it seemed much more fast paced than the #rest so #imagine making a delivery and not knowing where tf to enter and youre on the phone with them and theyre like ok yeah no #you need to go to that place and retrieve this bas relief piece #yeah theres a couple more in other places after that- wait no dont leave ill tip extra #also the ever constant question of who the fuck builds them #my main theories are 2: either its 1 guy/guy and his descendants or smth that just made that their line of work and got a name in the field #so every mansion-owner antagonist wannabe knows who to rely on if you want to get your shit done well #or 2 its always someone different and they just get lured to each remote ass place with the promise of a huuuge pay for #very specific silly requests #they probably just get axed or worse at the end of the job but itd be even funnier if they didnt #they just do it and get a nice pay and that just becomes a funny story to tell their buddies #like yeah man this one time i got a job in some backwater ass village asked me to built some stupid doors with puzzles and shit but hey #the pay was good #but yeah tldr its the best thing ever i wish irl buildings had that shit

[quaintlouise]

#thequinneffect

I spent the morning of Quinn Harper’s birthday angry.

I'd been thinking about how to make the significance of my contribution to #thequinneffect worthy of the importance of Amber in my life. That's not shade at/on (which is correct? I don’t really care, do you? Lololololol. Be Best.) anyone else's participation, it's just that Amber and I share a bond born of tremendous grief. Loneliness. Loss.

We both know that pulsing sternum when people remind us of God's plan.

Thanks, random coworker/neighbor/third cousin on FB who has an affinity for minions (???). But God's plan for this chapter of my life is so sad/hard/cruel that I haven't yet had time to reconcile with all that seeing as this death/diagnosis/devastation hit me three days ago, or three weeks or however long it takes for me to understand, or never understand, or until FMLA runs out.

We know the confusion and sadness at the disappearance of loved ones you'd never imagine would leave your side. The annoyed satisfaction when loved ones act as poorly as you would have predicted. The friends and family who stepped up beyond belief and the acquaintances who did the same and became family. We also know the loneliness that descends once you realize those loved ones need to deal with their own BS that continued or began during your crisis.

Anyway, I was angry at the world. Angry that the Ruszkowski’s have been denied the type of family that seemingly everyone else gets. Angry that my little girl will grow up without her twin. Angry that I got cancer. Angry about the heartbreaking cruelties that leave mothers with empty arms and children without the arms of their mother to hold them. Angry that instead of pinning ideas for Quinn Harper’s first birthday party, Amber is instead bravely trying to find ways to honor her daughter's sweet soul while managing her own sorrow.

I grew surlier as I walked past the windowless steel door at the OBGYN, the one they usher you out of when things go terribly wrong.  

I’m sorry to tell you I have very sad news.

The heaving sobs subside a bit when you are hit with the fresh air from a door you didn’t know existed. Best to keep the waiting area free of the weeping formerly expectant parents, I suppose.

I'm sorry to tell you that you have cancer.

We’ll need to fill you with poison...just enough not to kill you; poison with ingredients of mustard gas and platinum. Then we will take your breasts, uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes and cervix. You’ll need thirty rounds of radiation on those fresh scars. This might keep you alive. There’s also a special pill you can take that will shut down all the rest of your estrogen production! This may be the hardest part of treatment. Surgical menopause at 38 is gonna f with your head. There is no way to relieve the symptoms. Antidepressants might help. Oh, I see you take some. Wow, you’re on a lot of meds. Perhaps that’s part of your problem.  

Nah. My problem right then, on Quinn's birthday? Was the gynecological nurse who read my chart, looked me dead in the eye, and said

I’m not sure what you’re here for?  

Me neither, lady. Me neither. But actualllllllly the surgeon (y’all referred me to) built a cuff (TF? Can they come up with a better word?) down there so my insides don’t fall out and this is the place you go to get that looked at?  Also, thank you for the offer of the lap gown, however, I’ll just leave my skirt on and take my panties (old maternity underwear) off. Oh? Oh yes, thank you for correcting me that it is a breast gown I’ve turned down. Fitting!  

It was an easy walk across the street to get another blood draw after a full round of bloodwork three days earlier.  

Your white count is low. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about but we need to check that again and call me this afternoon for results.

Awesome.

I asked if I was going to be one of those rare cases where the chemo causes leukemia. The neurologist deadpanned that I was funny.  

I proceeded that day to my psychiatrist and managed to overwhelm her with all my new diagnoses, calendar of appointments, and general complaints of apathy, mania, obsessions, rage, malaise, guilt, forgetfulness, indecisiveness, impulsiveness blah blah blah.

She upped the valium.

I drove around for a while. I sang sad and angry sounds at the top of my lungs in the car. I contemplated buying a pack of smokes.

I pulled into Little Flower and felt hopeful that just sitting in a pew listening to the quiet would spark something.

The door was locked. (When did they start locking church doors???)

I wept. I stood in that parking lot scattered with cars and I wept tears of just pure despair.

But then I looked up and I saw the prayer garden. Circular, with small benches surrounding a statue of Our Lady. Or maybe it was St. Therese. It doesn’t matter. Behind it was a small labyrinth with instructions to enter with an open heart, meditate while walking the labyrinth, and exit it with a peaceful thankfulness. I sat on one of the benches to try and clear my head. I figured I’d pray the rosary and then it occurred to me that it was Tuesday. Of course.

The Sorrowful Mysteries. Eyeroll. I couldn’t get glorious or joyful? Something uplifting? (See what I did there????)

I said my rosary. I was cold (wearing a skirt, remember) and weepy and feeling like I was too screwed up to get it together to honor little Q.

But something happened as I fell deeper into meditative prayer (I know, I know, who am I?).  A peace fell upon me at the fifth mystery.

Woman behold your son. Son behold your Mother.

The sun at that moment hit my face. I looked up to the sky and saw the moon as the clouds swirled.

I smiled. Took a deep breath. Because it was then that I knew.

I knew that it was in the arms of the Blessed Mother where Quinn Harper is safe and loved.  

As am I.

As is Amber.

As is my Bridget being my earthly life to end.

As are all the motherless babes and the babeless mothers.  

A droplet of rain glimmered in the brief warmth of the sun as I entered the center of the labyrinth. I felt hopeful. I turned to exit the labyrinth and saw my body cast a long shadow through a row of boxwoods in the shape of the cross. Make of that what you will.

Rather than me doing something to honor Quinn that day, she helped me. Helped me acknowledge some of my grief, helped me find solace in prayer, helped me look for other ways to find peace when the obvious path of day drinking alone at the View lost its appeal when I remembered you couldn’t smoke in bars anymore.

I blew Quinn a kiss and made it through the day.

However, I knew I wasn't done and I left my heart open looking for a way to pay it forward.  

On Saturday I received a text from an old friend that I hadn’t talked to in a while. The kind of friend you can not talk to for a while or months or years but is still family.

He and his husband had signed up to be foster parents and had been (long-term? permanently?) placed with two little girls, 3 and 4. Sisters.

And then I knew. I knew how to pay it forward in honor of one little girl to two others that so desperately needed it.

That night I sent a Target delivery of cabbage patch dolls, coloring books, crayons, fruit snacks, juice boxes, cereal bars, pajamas, cuddly blankets, bath toys, kiddy spoons, forks, bowls and plates, goldfish crackers, pudding packs, mini muffins, peanut butter, honey, uncrustables, raisins, bubbles, a bubble machine, bigger kid sippy cups, shampoo, tangle spray, string cheese, mandarin oranges, mac and cheese, smoothies, pull-ups, wipes, fridge magnets, Rapunzel, Cinderella, peanut butter crackers, and stickers.

I felt joy. Joy that these little girls had warm beds and a loving home. Joy that my friend had been gifted this experience. Joy that a contentedness had befallen me as I felt my contribution to #thequinneffect was complete. Joy that even though I knew all too well that contentedness is temporary, so is sorrow.

For years I've been saying "When I start my blog...". I think this is it. Post #1. Could be the first of many, could be the last. Whatever, I did it.

Thanks, Q. I owe you.