It's not about the money, it's about what it means

I sent my dad last week, before all this, a spreadsheet with my projected expenses and the total I thought my loans were at with him for school.

I was kind of worrying. I'm down to my last 500 Euros or so. Not enough for rent for the upcoming month. I had kind of worried, in a selfish way, what would happen if he died. How would mum know how to transfer funds to my account to get me out of the country and back home? For all my whorish tendencies, I still seem to have a line drawn when it comes to dancing or sex work. I'm not sure what that line entails. I've often dreamed of being given money in exchange for my blowjobs, instead of some other half-assed interest or champagne or taxi fare. But something keeps stopping me from pursuing this avenue. Or, perhaps, I'm not driven enough.

Regardless, I had kept a reserve in the US bank and knew I'd get by on it for the coming weeks, despite the horrible exchange rate.

I don't live a life of luxury, but there are certainly things I can do without. And I feel constantly guilty and beating myself up for not making income. I hate debt. Never had it until now. Never wanted to be that kind of American.

And, here I am... being so goddamn selfish and worried about my own survival. I was just now sitting on the balcony thinking, well, now's a good a time as any to start asking for payments. If only I were actually fucking people. Now's as good a time as any to go get a job at Breakfast in America or Shakespeare & Company. It's not that I couldn't get a "real" job, it's just that the track was on for this film thing. I was aiming to push it around and had been doing the leg work research for this goal.

There I am. Thinking this. And thinking about how every little daughter still sees her Daddy as Superman, despite his faults. (Or the potential of Superman.) Yet, now, he'll be my Superman with a pee bag on his saddle. Or, with his hair falling out. My dad's lovely salt and pepper hair, that when it grows a bit too long starts to wave and curl.

I never meant to write about cancer. But there are 200 registered cancers. "Hello. Are you new? Let's register you into this book for posterity sake." It's more common to die from cancer, I bet, than a bus hitting you. It seems like it's become a fact of life. I wonder if the previous 500 years had its own cancers that just weren't treatable with a CT scan, dye, chemo, and surgery. We just, well, died back then.

And there I am. Thinking this, between thinking and trying not to think of it by watching Pirates of the Caribbean 2. And I send off a random SMS to my dad because I heard from a friend that it's good to send messages when you can't be present physically: I love you dad.

In return, I get an email:
From: my dad
Subject: Money
Message: Have you checked your bank account this week? Just some to keep you going. Love, Dad

Of course, I cried. I'm a selfish little girl.

Of course, I checked the account. The money was transferred on Monday, the day we showed our parents the photo reenactment, the day before the surgery.

In return, I send the email (after many, many tears and sobbing and deliberations under the stars):
From: me
Subject: RE: Money
Message: I'll need it to settle things here and come home. :)
It's time, and I know people and job offers in Chicago and Minneapolis.. DC, NYC, SF... it's good to be connected to the world.

Thanks.

I miss you and I love you.
xoxoxo



I lied about the job offers. But it doesn't matter. It might be good to be the one without a demanding job, spend some time with my mum during dad's chemo. Capture their stories - because, boy, do they have 'em! Figure out next steps as we see my dad through transformation.

Maybe. Just maybe. This is a chance to not be so goddamn selfish.

(Move: ahead one space.)