God knows how many welfare dollars Rita saved the County of Jefferson.
Rita passed from her society's lives before I became a psoriatic and that was my misfortune. I'm sure it took me longer to come to terms with my psoriasis than it would have if Rita had been around to mock me. I can just imagine her, sitting across her kitchen table from me, sipping brandy and swaddled in one of her luxurious Afghans, saying, "Geez you're lucky, Ed. I can barely remember what it feels like to itch. And to think, you can just reach down with your hands and scratch the little sucker until it bleeds. Is it fulfilling?" And then she'd laugh and ask me if there was a hole in the bottom of my snifter.
Rita had no use for people who felt no affection towards her. But she was quick and decisive about the difference between sympathy and affection. "Anybody who feels more sorry for me than I do for myself bores me to tears," Rita would say. "Anybody who has to feel compassionate on my behalf hasn't got enough meaningful things to do."
The last time I saw Rita she was finishing a fourteen-month stint in the hospital. She had just commanded to be discharged despite her doctor's prognosis that she would die if she went home. She smiled at me and reminded me of all the Sundays neither one of us went to Church because she had to bathe and I came to help her. She snickered and said, "I've been discussing those years with God, Ed, and I think my case is pretty well mitigated. You, on the other hand, ought to be worried." I sat there dumbfounded, incapable of the laughter she was trying to engender. Eventually she laughed herself and said to me, "Ed, I'll try to put in a good word for you."
Whenever I get to feeling too sorry for myself, and there's no member of my society on hand to help me think of other things, I talk to Rita. Oh yes, we have conversations as visceral today as we used to have when she was alive.
"You're pissed because you can't go snorkeling in Bermuda anymore," Rita says, harumphing with condescension.
"Well? I only got to go once, and I loved it," I cry.
"Well, shit," Rita says. "You were in the water for twenty minutes, got to see colorful coral and noisy parrot fish, didn't have the nerve to dive deep enough to panic, never scraped your knees on rock outcroppings, didn't have a run-in with a moray eel, weren't traumatized by curious sharks, and came out feeling like Mike Nelson reincarnated. Right?"
"Yeah—"
"Well then, quit bitching. You have a perfect memory of a perfect experience. Who knows? If you'd have gone a second time all those bad things may have happened to you. You can go to your grave with a pristine recollection of the joys of snorkeling."
"But it's not fair—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's not fair that you get to walk around the rest of your life thinking snorkeling is God's gift to humankind when those that do it all the time, and who have run into all the bad things, want nothing more than to die on horseback in the desert."
After a conversation with Rita, I'm inclined to think that psoriasis might actually be enabling. That's a bit perverse and too easy; something akin to a crucifixion complex. Rita's point is that our disabilities and our deformities are only as handicapping as we and the society we keep deign to make them. These days my best friends—those whose homes I stay in when I'm on the road—let me know as a matter of course where they store their vacuum cleaners. Good but unafflicted houseguests will have the manners to strip their beds and deposit the linen, as well as their bathroom towels, in the dirty clothes. Good houseguests with raging psoriasis will sweep up after themselves, too. Sympathy? No thank you. Functioning vacuum cleaner? That will be very much appreciated.
For two months I didn't see my best friend, the only one who understood everything I felt and thought. For two months I could only hear the loving energetic voice put a smile on my face. Like hearing the radio, but not being able to see the singer, I only heard the lyrics. I wanted to be with my dad but he was being kept a thousand miles away. As I fell asleep, I could smell him, his cologne and cigarette smoke that were dear to me. Sometimes I'd even dream of him so deeply that I would wake up thinking he was there.
Not many girls can say their father is their best friend, but I can. My father is far beyond the typical parent who is full of rules and regulations, which makes me feel like the luckiest daughter in the world. Most dads don't take the time to learn about their daughters, nor do they help with their frustrations, but mine does. We talk about everything and he helps me with any conflicts. I respect his judgment, and listen to everything he says.
From 10 p.m. till 2 a.m. we often relax outside and talk about when he was a teenager. He always makes me feel better. He's truly a great role model, and has taught me much more than how to ride a bike and be respectful. From him I have learned about the little things in life that truly count. I've also become a better person, striving to be original. Through him I've realized that it's perfectly fine to take risks even if you don't succeed at first. Whenever I'm afraid to take a chance, my dad says, "It's best to take the chance and be afraid, then not to take it and regret it later."
My dad has taken lots of chances and experienced many things, even some foolish ones. His wrong choices only make him a better parent. He knows how kids can be pressured, but at the same time he understands that as a parent you can't always protect your kids. Of course he wants me to be safe, but that doesn't mean he's going to keep me trapped. He lets me go many places because he trusts me to make good decisions.
Even though my father doesn't live with us (since my parents are divorced), he's still my father. He's still the same person as when he lived with me and just as loving. After he left, we became even closer. The past two months have felt weird and confusing, like being in a maze. Talking with him was the way out for me. He makes every night become a bright morning.
