Godammit, I’m Mad!

Last night I went to see Amanda Palmer, aware that I might feel emotional, since Max loved Amanda and introduced me to The Dresden Dolls in the fist place.

I couldn’t get as close to the stage as I’d hoped, but we managed to find a pretty good place to stand. Before the opening act started, a girl directly in front of me felt compelled to dance theatrically to the piped in music. I turned to my companion and said: “This is a test from god. He put her in front of me to see if I can take it.” I added that all I really wanted was to not get my nose broken by her flailing elbows.

We managed to move closer to the stage and away from the dancing girl. In a break between the two supporting acts, I got something in my eye and asked a big friendly girl to hold my drink for a minute. She was adorable, like an enormous puppy but I can’t remember her name. She works at Trader Joe. I felt happy about our camaraderie and excited about seeing Amanda.

Suddenly, I experienced the shock of being whacked in the face by a plastic bottle that some fucker had thrown in my direction. The people next to me had seen it coming and I turned to see them cringing in horror. I felt my nose to see if it was still there. I wanted to cry but decided not to. You can’t believe the force of a flying plastic bottle! When I got home, I saw that there was a small bloody cut on the bridge of my nose. (see above)

Why did I have a premonition about my nose? Did I manifest a blow to the nose by Putting Out a negative thought? Does everyone get hit in the nose if they go to enough concerts?

Amanda was terrific, as always. Her embodiment of both male and female energy is so mesmerizing, and luckily, marriage has done nothing to tame her.

One of Amanda’s rituals is to answer personal questions from fans, selecting them randomly from a basket. She started reading one that didn’t make sense. It was just a name, like Quinn Something. She threw it aside, but someone in the audience yelled that Quinn was asking for a middle name. She said “Oh, sorry, I guess I didn’t read the whole thing.” Then she paused for a moment and shouted: “MAX!”

Suddenly everything became surreal. I expected Max to appear, summoned by Amanda Palmer. My jaw dropped in wonder. It was only a second but it was amazing. I was thrilled, freaked out, then tearful.  She added. “It’s one of my favorite names.”

Was it a sign? Say yes.

And what about my nose?

Community gardens in all of New York City’s five boroughs, many begun in the late 60’s and early 70’s, were the product of grass-roots activism. Residents who were unwilling to wait for the city to clean up abandoned lots, moved in themselves and created cloistered, vernal retreats in the middle of some of New York’s worst neighborhoods.

However, under Mayor Rudolph Giuliani, the city finally decided to do something with these lots. The city began the process of bulldozing many gardens and auctioning off the land to developers. Giuliani argued that the city needed the lots for additional low-income housing, and that while the destruction of the gardens would be be distressing, in the long run area residents would benefit.

The residents didn’t want to wait for the long run, and pulled together to protest.

The city moved forward with plans to auction off 112 garden lots to developers on May 13, 1999.  On May 12, Bette Midler in cooperation with the Trust For Public Land, purchased all 112 of the lots from the city, for a combined total of $4.3 million.

‘Today I’m prouder than ever to be a New Yorker,’ said Midler, who moved to the East Coast after an earthquake in California. ‘We’re thrilled. This is a joyous occasion and means that these gardens will stay in perpetuity.” You can learn more about her work here.

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With this in mind, please enjoy blasting the anthem “Thank You Bette Midler” by the great Max Wolf :  ThankYouBetteMidler.

Spending most of his last 6 months in bed, Max starting using Facebook, and sent friend requests to everyone else who had his name. He was so pleased by the visual effect of Max Wolf leaving a comment for Max Wolf. He told me he’d started a Facebook group called People Named Max Wolf.  I loved this; it was so Max of him to think of this.

I didn’t even look at that page until after he died. I love the purpose of the group – “Exploring what it means to be a Max Wolf.”  I love that all those Max Wolf’s were able to appreciate  his gentle wit.  As a tribute to Max, I sent 37 friend requests to Facebook users who share my name. Only one of them accepted.

No one had a mind quite like Max’s. One of his college professors once wrote, “I am always eager to know what Max has to say.” I think all of us felt that way.

Sometime I wonder what he would think about something and I try to hear his voice. The one thing I can hear distinctly is that he forgives me. I don’t know why this is and I know how self-serving it seems but it’s still true.  And when I play the CD mixes he made for me, I feel his love.  I hope more than anything that he can still feel mine.

The What band at some club in NYC featuring Max Wolf on guitar and lead vocal – covering his favorite song of all time.

When Max and his friend Jonas were around 20 and living in New York, they made a bet on who could go longer with shaving only one side of his face.

As you see, they committed fully to their bet. In the end, they decided to call it a draw, since neither of them would ever give in.

I’d like to say that Max got his stubbornness from me, but his dad is still the most stubborn person I’ve ever known. Once, he sat for hours in his car, on a scorching summer afternoon, trying to prevent another driver from pulling into a parking place that he thought was rightfully his. Max and I went into a cafe to wait it out. I explained that Daddy was playing a game. I assured him, sadly, that Daddy would win.

In my own life, being stubborn has been a quality I considered an asset, or at least a strength. No one can fuck with me and get away with it. I will never back down. I will never compromise my “honor.”

Lately, more than one friend has urged me to let something go….and I find it’s an alien concept.

When do you decide to “let something go?” Are there some things you refuse to “let go,” even if it would make life easier?

Today some woman called from the medical supply company to talk about Max’s wheelchair. She wanted to schedule a pick-up time, since the insurance company won’t pay for the rental “once the client has passed.” I don’t want to hear the word “passed.” People die, even though we don’t want them to. Passing is a euphemism that seeks to downgrade the truth. Let us speak of death openly.

The woman says that we already owe $400 for the chair but guess what? I looked up the exact model and it sells for $325. I am not giving them the fucking chair because it’s still at the dining table where it belongs. When the woman calls back, I plan to tell her that I’m keeping the wheelchair and she can take me to small claims court. It’s staying here no matter what.

But nothing  is ever enough. My dad was admitted to the hospital yesterday after losing 25 pounds. He can’t swallow or talk. He’s 89 years old and they wanted to send him home. They had no idea they were dealing with a hardened veteran of hospital chicanery. Fuckers. Now the whole group of my father’s 7 children are assembling to handle the situation. Some of us barely know each other. None of us can bear to see him suffer, now that he’s old and helpless.

The man in the next bed was telling his imaginary friend about 1933. He was incensed at times, ranting about ten children, and then slipping in and out of Word War II.  At one point, he said, “Why, thank you!” with such graciousness that I wanted to cry.

I’m not close to my father but I was grateful to have someone to care for, a hand to hold, a head to stroke. I just want to take care of someone again.

Max and Luke became friends when they were 6 and played on the same soccer team. In the photo above, they were 8 year old headbangers. I can’t remember why they’re wearing those wacky outfits but I do recall being horrified when Luke’s mom let him get a bleached mohawk. In fact, she is an amazing mother.

Max and Luke started a band in our garage, and it lasted until they were young men and had a falling out that broke both their hearts. When Max was hurt last year, Luke came to the hospital and cried at his bedside. Max pulled through and their beautiful friendship was repaired.

I know that this was part of Max’s unfinished business to complete. Luke knows it too.  Last week, he wrote this song and I asked him to record it for me:

“The Gift”

Under the name Lucas Revolution, Luke will be hitchhiking around the US performing his songs and documenting the experience. You can learn about it here.

Thanks universe, for bringing Luke into Max’s life, and mine.

The What band in 2003. Max on lead guitar.

The firstborn Wolf is having surgery, so send him blessings and play nicely among yourselves until I get back. You can listen to his music here.

xo

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* Thank you so much, everyone who sent good wishes! Everything went well and we are expecting a successful recovery.  xoxoxo

A trusted advisor told Max last week,”Wallowing in self pity is a choice.” Ha, I beg to differ.

Sometimes, self pity is the rational response to one’s situation. Just as depression, anger or grief are rational responses to heartbreak, betrayal, and loss, for example.

Our culture insists that we have the power to change things by being positive, and inherent in this thinking is the disapproval of “negativity.” If I were in Max’s position and someone had delivered such an inane assessment of my mood, I hope I would sock him in the face.

Barbara Ehrenreich has written a book about the pressure to be positive, and I couldn’t agree more. She recalls being admonished at a cancer support group, soon after she was diagnosed with the disease. At one point, she was even offered a book called “The Gift of Cancer.” Having hope is one thing. Denying fear, rage or self pity is unhealthy at best, and it’s often just another way to blame the victim of disease or tragedy or unlucky circumstances.

Me, I am full of negative emotions. When things are hard, I freak out. But I know I will keep fighting. That’s why I like to identify with the samurai, and I guess that part is a choice. I could choose to identify with Sylvia Plath, or Joan of Arc, but there is no resonance there for me.

I like the idea of staying on my horse no matter what. I intend to plunge into any battle with total commitment, even if I’m outnumbered.

In the case of the pretend “hospital,” they told me once again that Blue Cross had denied further treatment there, even though Blue Cross denied this. I told the case manager at the “hospital” that we would refuse any discharge plan and appeal any refusal of payment by Blue Cross.

Meanwhile, Max’s current roommate, the one with the noisy oxygen machine, now has an infection from his PICC line. His family has not returned after one visit. I’m afraid he won’t get out of there alive. I ask him every day if he needs anything, and he shakes his head, No. A social worker came to see him last week and asked him to rate how tired he was on “a scale of 6 to 20.” I swear I’m not making this up. Where are numbers one through five??

Today, Max stood up for the first time in nearly ten weeks. Hallelujah. I’ve found a great hospital with an Acute Rehab Unit, but he’s not quite strong enough for their program.

Everyone who has sent their blessings and good wishes, the saints who donated to the Sister Wolf Fund, and the people who made purchases from the Sister Wolf Museum of Hoarding, you have given more comfort and cheer than you can imagine. My sword would be so much heavier without you.