My cousin, D, has a great life. Three gorgeous children, suburban home, husband that is her true life-mate. I'm sorry. HAD a great life. Until last night. Last night was the night that her husband complained that he wasn't feeling well.
He was going to go and lie down for awhile.
D stayed downstairs with the kids, cleaning up the dinner dishes, doing homework, giggling over silly jokes. She thought she heard a noise upstairs, but she just figured it was HIM...snoring again...and she probably thought nothing more of it.
Then around 9:30pm while the kids were getting into bed, she checked on him. He was lying on the floor. His color was not good. She screamed for 911 to be called and she and her 15 year old son began CPR. One of her daughters ran up the street to fetch a doctor that lived 2 doors down. The doctor came quickly to help.
It was too late. Dead, at 48 of a massive heart attack. In a matter of a couple of hours, D's whole life changed. The dream of growing old and enjoying her grandchildren with this man, was now gone. Harsher new realities are coming.
That's how it is, you see. Life changes on a whim. There is no rhyme or reason. Bad things happen to good people every day. These are very good people. They give generously to charity, one of their daughter's has Cystic Fibrosis and was the poster child for the disease a few years back. Their children write thank you notes for every birthday gift, every christmas present. They are members of the community in every sense of the word.
HE was a nurse, had saved countless lives, brought babies into the world. why? Why them?
I don't get it. I just don't
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
If I knew then... 11/07
Current mood: annoyed
It seems that parents are silly creatures. When I was 18, my own were going through a divorce and I had just started dating a guy 6 years my senior. This guy was divorced and had a 4 year old son. My parents, silly creatures that they were, encouraged me to RUN not walk away from this person. They forsaw major disaster in my future. I scoffed.
As it was....the marriage was not the major disaster that they forsaw. Thats not to say that it was Cinderella's happily ever after, either. It was the relationship between two very different people who grew in different directions.
Maybe, just maybe, if I had waited till I was a little more mature and had taken the time to have some adventure and independence(like my parents had wanted me to....huh..novel concept...parents with wisdom, who knew?) things may have worked out differently. I doubt it, but you never know. One thing is certain. The daughter and son I have now would not be the people they are. For that reason, alone, I choose not to regret those early years.
It does surprise me that I apparently did such an awful job at being a mother. hmmmmm. It seems my daughter(20 years old...knows EVERYTHING...about EVERYTHING) doesn't remember any of the good times about her earlier years. She doesn't remember the first four years of her life that were spent in a two bedroom drafty mobile home.
She seems to have blocked out the fact that she and I were constant companions during those years. I even had her half-brother over every weekend, whether their father was there or not. Her father was an over-the-road truck driver. He was home once a week, maybe. Sometimes, every couple of weeks.
She definitely doesn't recall how she and her half-brother would play outside. How he would jump things on his bike and she would clap and laugh. They would go down to the pond and catch frogs. They played with the dogs and made snow forts in the wintertime. So entertained and, yes, even happy. It was a chore just getting them to come in for lunch.
I, of course, was lounging around eating bon bons....riiiiight. No, I was doing laundry and cleaning house and feeling so completely isolated that my soul felt like a black hole. She doesn't remember that part.
But we were such awful parents. I signed her up for tap dance and ballet and her brother played baseball and hockey and if they wanted or needed something, we would try to find a way to make sure they had it. We moved into a real three bedroom house with a basement and a garage when she turned 5.
She started kindergarten. Dad got a local job. He worked straight midnight shift. Constantly. When he wasn't working, he was sleeping. This is the life of a truck driver. I worked days at a bank. We had another son. The children all had warm food..clothing...a roof over their heads, video games and electronic gizmos galore. Christmases, and Halloweens and Thanksgivings. But we were reprobates. We failed as parents.
Every bad thing that has happened in our childrens lives..is traceable to us. We are to blame for everything. Every traffic ticket. Every failing grade in a college class. Every missed opportunity. hmmm. I don't suppose it is possible to take responsibility for your own choices? Your own actions? I don't suppose it is possible that every choice you make has a direct link to the consequences of your life? hmmmm. Nah. That couldn't be possible, could it?
Maybe, just maybe. if we just stopped blaming every one else for the things that are wrong in our lives..and we TOOK SOME ACTION to change things, you know what the absolute worse thing that could happen would be? Things wouldn't get worse. You know what might happen? Our lives would become richer, and maybe...just maybe our dreams would become reality. We might even....perish the thought, be happy.
Huh. What a concept.
It seems that parents are silly creatures. When I was 18, my own were going through a divorce and I had just started dating a guy 6 years my senior. This guy was divorced and had a 4 year old son. My parents, silly creatures that they were, encouraged me to RUN not walk away from this person. They forsaw major disaster in my future. I scoffed.
As it was....the marriage was not the major disaster that they forsaw. Thats not to say that it was Cinderella's happily ever after, either. It was the relationship between two very different people who grew in different directions.
Maybe, just maybe, if I had waited till I was a little more mature and had taken the time to have some adventure and independence(like my parents had wanted me to....huh..novel concept...parents with wisdom, who knew?) things may have worked out differently. I doubt it, but you never know. One thing is certain. The daughter and son I have now would not be the people they are. For that reason, alone, I choose not to regret those early years.
It does surprise me that I apparently did such an awful job at being a mother. hmmmmm. It seems my daughter(20 years old...knows EVERYTHING...about EVERYTHING) doesn't remember any of the good times about her earlier years. She doesn't remember the first four years of her life that were spent in a two bedroom drafty mobile home.
She seems to have blocked out the fact that she and I were constant companions during those years. I even had her half-brother over every weekend, whether their father was there or not. Her father was an over-the-road truck driver. He was home once a week, maybe. Sometimes, every couple of weeks.
She definitely doesn't recall how she and her half-brother would play outside. How he would jump things on his bike and she would clap and laugh. They would go down to the pond and catch frogs. They played with the dogs and made snow forts in the wintertime. So entertained and, yes, even happy. It was a chore just getting them to come in for lunch.
I, of course, was lounging around eating bon bons....riiiiight. No, I was doing laundry and cleaning house and feeling so completely isolated that my soul felt like a black hole. She doesn't remember that part.
But we were such awful parents. I signed her up for tap dance and ballet and her brother played baseball and hockey and if they wanted or needed something, we would try to find a way to make sure they had it. We moved into a real three bedroom house with a basement and a garage when she turned 5.
She started kindergarten. Dad got a local job. He worked straight midnight shift. Constantly. When he wasn't working, he was sleeping. This is the life of a truck driver. I worked days at a bank. We had another son. The children all had warm food..clothing...a roof over their heads, video games and electronic gizmos galore. Christmases, and Halloweens and Thanksgivings. But we were reprobates. We failed as parents.
Every bad thing that has happened in our childrens lives..is traceable to us. We are to blame for everything. Every traffic ticket. Every failing grade in a college class. Every missed opportunity. hmmm. I don't suppose it is possible to take responsibility for your own choices? Your own actions? I don't suppose it is possible that every choice you make has a direct link to the consequences of your life? hmmmm. Nah. That couldn't be possible, could it?
Maybe, just maybe. if we just stopped blaming every one else for the things that are wrong in our lives..and we TOOK SOME ACTION to change things, you know what the absolute worse thing that could happen would be? Things wouldn't get worse. You know what might happen? Our lives would become richer, and maybe...just maybe our dreams would become reality. We might even....perish the thought, be happy.
Huh. What a concept.
Tis the Season 11/07
Previously published- November 26, 2001-The Telegraph
Current mood: contemplative
Now that Thanksgiving is over, and the turkey and all the leftover fixings are tucked securely in the fridge, it's time for the Christmas shopping season to officially get under way. Groan. Okay. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and lets get on with it. Time to make your list. Who are you buying for? Do you have any ideas at all for any of these people? Well, write this down because I'm here to help you.
Grandparents love pictures of the grandkids in brand new frames, gift certificates to their favorite restaurants or maybe, if they are particularly handy, power tools. The mothers or ladies on your list would love anything from Bath and Body Works, an expensive bottle of her favorite perfume(it's a good idea to ask what that is if you have no clues) or, if she's really cool, a gift certificate to the local tattoo/piercing parlor. Christmas is NOT the right time to buy her household cleaning implements. That is, if you are trying to score any brownie points with her at all.
A lot of fathers or men out there are into sports, the great outdoors, or cars. If you are really lucky, all three. This opens up a wide variety of gift-giving opportunities. You have a HUGE array of gadgets and gear to choose from in those categories. If all else fails, tickets to a concert or sporting event is usually the perfect item.
Kids. They are a really tricky bunch. Advertisers are really pushing all their buttons very hard at this time of year. Listen very carefully for this phrase: "Mom, I want THAT!!!" This usually signifies that some commercial has just caught their attention and they simply MUST have whatever it is that is being advertised. I do have some ideas, even in the off-chance that you have not heard that phrase. If the child is a girl under ten, I have two words for you: Barbie and Bratz. Trust me, you will be loved. If the boy is the same age the words are TONKA and sporting equipment.
Any teenagers on that list? Boys are tough. Try a gift certificate to the local electronics store, a year's supply of hair gel or maybe some outrageously expensive yet completely useless accessory for their car. Teenage girls, on the other hand, are a different species completely. Don't try to predict what is going on in their heads, let alone what they might want. It can't be done. Run, don't walk to the nearest shopping mall and get a gift card or certificate. All those stores to choose from? She'll love you forever.
Are you ready for the actual shopping now? Well, before you hit the mall, or store, you should know a few things. First of all, and this is crucial, do you have your cash, debit or credit card handy? Better check now, because , trust me, you will need it.
When parking, it is customary to circle the lot at least 40 times so that you can find the optimal parking spot. When you do finally find a car that is pulling out, you should pounce on it immediately like a pack of hyenas on a wounded gazelle, because it is the last space you will see for another 20 minutes or so. I should warn you, however, that this space is usually at the northernmost corner, approximately three miles from the entrance.
The crowd inside will probably be thick, so maybe you should head straight to the food court and fortify yourself for the battle ahead. You probably worked up an appetite on the trek from the parking lot.
Okay, enough stalling, time to face the madness. Here are a few little known rules of mall etiquette: Beware the "mall walkers". They will be traveling in packs of two or three and at a high rate of speed in their quest to get some exercise and have been known to run right over small children and never even break stride. When riding the escalator, you cannot share a step with anyone unless you are actually with that person. It's considered an invasion of personal space. Please leave at least two steps between yourself and the person in front of you. Face forward at all times.
Watch out for the "Perfume Guerrillas" posted in the cosmetics departments of the major department stores. Their sole purpose is to spray you with some fragrance that you cannot possibly hope to afford. It probably smells horrendous and you will find that a nuclear explosion is the only thing that will remove the scent from your clothing.
No matter what you do, try to avoid taking small children into the toy store. I know its elementary, but you'd be amazed how many people actually forget this rule. There is no way to escape the establishment without a big struggle and probably a major tantrum - and that's just from the sales clerk behind the cash register. Then you have to deal with the child as well. Just don't.
Last of all, please remember that the salespeople are people too, and its not going to make your shopping experience any more pleasant, faster, or less expensive, if you scream at them about something that is probably beyond their control anyway.
You should know by now that this season only comes once a year and you won't have to go through it again until next year. Just try to picture all the joy your gifts will bring to your loved ones and how much fun you had finding them and the act of giving.
Most of all, let us all try to find the true spirit of goodwill to all mankind and carry that giving spirit with us throughout the coming year
Current mood: contemplative
Now that Thanksgiving is over, and the turkey and all the leftover fixings are tucked securely in the fridge, it's time for the Christmas shopping season to officially get under way. Groan. Okay. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and lets get on with it. Time to make your list. Who are you buying for? Do you have any ideas at all for any of these people? Well, write this down because I'm here to help you.
Grandparents love pictures of the grandkids in brand new frames, gift certificates to their favorite restaurants or maybe, if they are particularly handy, power tools. The mothers or ladies on your list would love anything from Bath and Body Works, an expensive bottle of her favorite perfume(it's a good idea to ask what that is if you have no clues) or, if she's really cool, a gift certificate to the local tattoo/piercing parlor. Christmas is NOT the right time to buy her household cleaning implements. That is, if you are trying to score any brownie points with her at all.
A lot of fathers or men out there are into sports, the great outdoors, or cars. If you are really lucky, all three. This opens up a wide variety of gift-giving opportunities. You have a HUGE array of gadgets and gear to choose from in those categories. If all else fails, tickets to a concert or sporting event is usually the perfect item.
Kids. They are a really tricky bunch. Advertisers are really pushing all their buttons very hard at this time of year. Listen very carefully for this phrase: "Mom, I want THAT!!!" This usually signifies that some commercial has just caught their attention and they simply MUST have whatever it is that is being advertised. I do have some ideas, even in the off-chance that you have not heard that phrase. If the child is a girl under ten, I have two words for you: Barbie and Bratz. Trust me, you will be loved. If the boy is the same age the words are TONKA and sporting equipment.
Any teenagers on that list? Boys are tough. Try a gift certificate to the local electronics store, a year's supply of hair gel or maybe some outrageously expensive yet completely useless accessory for their car. Teenage girls, on the other hand, are a different species completely. Don't try to predict what is going on in their heads, let alone what they might want. It can't be done. Run, don't walk to the nearest shopping mall and get a gift card or certificate. All those stores to choose from? She'll love you forever.
Are you ready for the actual shopping now? Well, before you hit the mall, or store, you should know a few things. First of all, and this is crucial, do you have your cash, debit or credit card handy? Better check now, because , trust me, you will need it.
When parking, it is customary to circle the lot at least 40 times so that you can find the optimal parking spot. When you do finally find a car that is pulling out, you should pounce on it immediately like a pack of hyenas on a wounded gazelle, because it is the last space you will see for another 20 minutes or so. I should warn you, however, that this space is usually at the northernmost corner, approximately three miles from the entrance.
The crowd inside will probably be thick, so maybe you should head straight to the food court and fortify yourself for the battle ahead. You probably worked up an appetite on the trek from the parking lot.
Okay, enough stalling, time to face the madness. Here are a few little known rules of mall etiquette: Beware the "mall walkers". They will be traveling in packs of two or three and at a high rate of speed in their quest to get some exercise and have been known to run right over small children and never even break stride. When riding the escalator, you cannot share a step with anyone unless you are actually with that person. It's considered an invasion of personal space. Please leave at least two steps between yourself and the person in front of you. Face forward at all times.
Watch out for the "Perfume Guerrillas" posted in the cosmetics departments of the major department stores. Their sole purpose is to spray you with some fragrance that you cannot possibly hope to afford. It probably smells horrendous and you will find that a nuclear explosion is the only thing that will remove the scent from your clothing.
No matter what you do, try to avoid taking small children into the toy store. I know its elementary, but you'd be amazed how many people actually forget this rule. There is no way to escape the establishment without a big struggle and probably a major tantrum - and that's just from the sales clerk behind the cash register. Then you have to deal with the child as well. Just don't.
Last of all, please remember that the salespeople are people too, and its not going to make your shopping experience any more pleasant, faster, or less expensive, if you scream at them about something that is probably beyond their control anyway.
You should know by now that this season only comes once a year and you won't have to go through it again until next year. Just try to picture all the joy your gifts will bring to your loved ones and how much fun you had finding them and the act of giving.
Most of all, let us all try to find the true spirit of goodwill to all mankind and carry that giving spirit with us throughout the coming year
Storyteller 11/17/007
Everyone has stories. They are what define us, shape us. Its our history. Who we are and where we've been. They tell other people what to expect when they get to know us.
Stories. How wierd uncle Al got the scar. My first car. My first kiss.
Who we choose to tell our stories to is almost as important as the stories themselves. Can you trust anyone with that information? Whom do you trust?
Will they use the information against you? Will they understand? Its a risk.
Take it. Show someone a piece of you.
We each take different paths in life, but no matter where we go, we take a little of each other, everywhere
Stories. How wierd uncle Al got the scar. My first car. My first kiss.
Who we choose to tell our stories to is almost as important as the stories themselves. Can you trust anyone with that information? Whom do you trust?
Will they use the information against you? Will they understand? Its a risk.
Take it. Show someone a piece of you.
We each take different paths in life, but no matter where we go, we take a little of each other, everywhere
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Mom Called 7/07
Mom called
Mom called. I can picture her now, walking around her kitchen, the phone plastered to her ear. The summer sun streaming in through the window bathing the room in its golden light. She does small tasks while she talks to me. (Have you talked to your sister lately?) Splash, clank, the sounds of running water- she's doing dishes. (What's new at work?) Sizzle, pop, crackle, scrape - she's cooking dinner. (Your grandmother went into the hospital this week) silence- she must be folding clothes. She talks to me every day. Without fail. Every day.
I remember the summer I began dating my husband. We were still in that lovely "togetherness" phase that happens so often at the beginning of a relationship. I got into the habit of turning the telephone off on Saturday mornings because we liked to sleep in. Mom just couldn't understand that I didn't wake up at 6:30 a.m. every day of the week like she did. I told her not to call till after 10:00 a.m. She didn't hear that part of the conversation.
The next Saturday, just like every one previous to that, the phone rang at precisely 7:00 in the morning. Yes, I answered it - successfully breaking 'the mood'. The next weekend....the phones(even my cell phone) were shut off on Friday night and not turned on again until around noon. Apparently mom had tried to call and received no answer.
She was incensed."What if some emergency had occurred?" There had been none. "What if something had happened to your grandmother??" Nothing had happened. 'What if someone had died?" No one did, and even if they had, I reminded her, I would NOT be the first person on anyone's list to call. When I was reachable, the person in question would still be, I am sure, deceased. Silence on her end. "Well, if that's the way you feel about it, well that's the way you feel about it." Silence broken.
As punishment, my mother did NOT call me for forty eight hours. I'm sure I was supposed to feel guilty and chastised. Strangely enough, my future husband and I went to a movie and had a wonderful time. We went to dinner. No guilt in evidence, anywhere. Two whole days worth of guilt free life. I finally relented and called her. Tuesday.
She acted as if nothing negative at all had occurred and so did I, we fell back into the routine of our daily calls about nothing in particular. However, she never again called before 10:00 a.m. and I no longer felt the need to turn my phones off on a Friday night.
Mom called it was a Thursday. Her voice sounded strained and thin. "Are you sitting down?" she asked. I giggled a little and said that I was at my desk at work, so I was, of course, seated. A weird feeling passed over me. Like someone was walking across my grave or something spooky was about to happen. "I have some news," she said in that strange shaky voice that I had not heard before. "I have to have some tests tomorrow....don't worry I'm sure everything will be all right."
We talked for a few minutes more, I assured her that I just knew it would all be just fine. Bad things happened to other people, they didn't happen to me and they didn't happen to my family.
I called mom the next day. Test results not in yet. I called mom that night. Yes, she got the results and she was trying to work up the courage to call as soon as she figured out how to tell me and my sister. How do you tell someone you have cancer? It's not something you can write in an e-mail. Telephone conversations don't seem adequate either, but since she lived a few hours away, that was going to have to suffice.
Mom had passed out at work earlier in the week and was taken to the emergency room, where she had been admitted to the hospital. My sister and I had wanted to come to her but she insisted that it would be stupid, considering she would probably be released by the time we got there and we both had our jobs and families to attend to.
Her blood count was very abnormal. She thought she was just anemic. Her white blood cells outnumbered her red blood cells by about 1000 to 1. She had lymphoma and she just thought she had a bad cold. According to one of her nurses she was a legend on that particular floor of the hospital. Usually when people were admitted with blood counts of that caliber, they were already dead.
She had ignored the various signals her body had been sending her for weeks and even months. The swelling in her ankles and the fatigue were just passed off as minor ailments. She put her feet up a lot and rested. The anemia was treated with Iron tablets. Little things to be dealt with and quickly forgotten.
During the months of her treatment my sister and I would take turns going to visit her every couple of weeks. That way mom got to see us and we her, but we didn't have to take too much valuable time off from our jobs and families. She was one of the bravest people I had ever met. During this same period of time her own father (my grandfather) as well as her sister-in-law (my aunt) were also battling terminal cancers of their own.
My grandfather had bone cancer, my aunt had cancer of the liver and pancreas. Mom was single at that time. She had no husband or boyfriend to stay by her side. My parents had divorced ten years earlier. Between working her own job and going for chemotherapy and medication, she was also visiting hospital floors for her father and a woman who was as close to her as a sister. Watching them die was like looking into her own possible future she told me, and it frightened her.
On one of my extended weekend visits that summer, I took mom for her chemotherapy. I wanted to see what she was going through and I felt powerless to help in any other capacity. The poison they pumped into her system to kill the cancer cells made her nauseous and dizzy and she couldn't drive. This was toward the end of her treatment. She had lost weight, she was pale, her hair was gone and she was never seen outside the house without her wig(a horrible creation that looked nothing like her own hair at all) or a colorful scarf wrapped as a turban covering her head. She nicknamed herself "suburban turban". She was tired a lot and napped frequently when she could.
We went to the treatment center and the nurses there explained the whole procedure to me, I spoke to her doctor and he explained that her treatment was progressing very well.
Apparently if you are going to get cancer, the type to get is the type that she had. It responds well to treatment and the survival rate is very high. I never thought, in all my life, that the words, 'high survival rate' would make me happy, but on that day, I was ecstatic. I couldn't wait to get back to the house and tell my sister what I had learned.
I sat next to mom in one of the comfy recliners in the treatment center and watched as the medication dripped into the shunt that they had implanted into her chest. I watched a soap opera as the treatment went on. It would last for at least an hour, they had warned. I watched the other patients there. I thought about their various illnesses and I thought about how brave they were and how grateful I was that I was not one of them.
When mom was about five minutes into her treatment she fell asleep. Her face took on an almost childlike innocence. Her breathing was deep and regular as her body rested and her mind relaxed. I smiled a little as she snored lightly. Strange that I should find a moment of any kind of joy in that place. The nurse smiled at me and told me that she does that every time. I watched her as I know I have watched my own children sleep. Marveling at the peace that slumber gives us, watching her breathe, praying.
When we returned from the hospital, my sister and six year old daughter greeted us.
Catie drew grandma a picture and she asks if she can lay down with her when she takes a nap. Mom gratefully obliges, the treatment had made her very dizzy and she is looking forward to the rest. She takes off her wig while preparing to lay down and we all watch her. Her head is fuzzy, like a newborn chick, and her green eyes are huge in her pale porcelain face.
My daughter, in all her six year old wisdom, hugs her and tells her that she looks beautiful and should always wear her hair that way. My sister and I and our mother all laugh at that and Catie just smiles.
After that day, the wig and the turban were retired. If mom was going anywhere in public she wore a baseball cap to prevent her scalp from being burned by the sun or to keep her head warm in the wind. If she was indoors she wore her fuzzy head proudly as a badge of honor for the trials she was going through.
Her hair began growing back that fall. It came in very curly- unlike it was before. She was thrilled and said she would take anything that would cover up her head. My Grandfather died that winter. My aunt about a month later.
That long weekend in August was the last time I would ever see either of them.
Mom made it through that year, and the year after that, and the year after that. In fact, after her annual check up last year she was officially declared "in remission". Her doctor said that the chances of recurrence are very low. Again, a phrase I never dreamed would be a reason for any feelings of joy on my part.
I called mom today. I didn't really have anything of any great consequence to say to her. I asked after her husband(my step-father, her high school sweetheart and first love - they married a few years ago). I told her how her grandchildren are doing. She asked after my husband.
Most of all, I was just glad she was there to pick up the phone. I know that one day she won't be. Today, she is.
Mom called. I can picture her now, walking around her kitchen, the phone plastered to her ear. The summer sun streaming in through the window bathing the room in its golden light. She does small tasks while she talks to me. (Have you talked to your sister lately?) Splash, clank, the sounds of running water- she's doing dishes. (What's new at work?) Sizzle, pop, crackle, scrape - she's cooking dinner. (Your grandmother went into the hospital this week) silence- she must be folding clothes. She talks to me every day. Without fail. Every day.
I remember the summer I began dating my husband. We were still in that lovely "togetherness" phase that happens so often at the beginning of a relationship. I got into the habit of turning the telephone off on Saturday mornings because we liked to sleep in. Mom just couldn't understand that I didn't wake up at 6:30 a.m. every day of the week like she did. I told her not to call till after 10:00 a.m. She didn't hear that part of the conversation.
The next Saturday, just like every one previous to that, the phone rang at precisely 7:00 in the morning. Yes, I answered it - successfully breaking 'the mood'. The next weekend....the phones(even my cell phone) were shut off on Friday night and not turned on again until around noon. Apparently mom had tried to call and received no answer.
She was incensed."What if some emergency had occurred?" There had been none. "What if something had happened to your grandmother??" Nothing had happened. 'What if someone had died?" No one did, and even if they had, I reminded her, I would NOT be the first person on anyone's list to call. When I was reachable, the person in question would still be, I am sure, deceased. Silence on her end. "Well, if that's the way you feel about it, well that's the way you feel about it." Silence broken.
As punishment, my mother did NOT call me for forty eight hours. I'm sure I was supposed to feel guilty and chastised. Strangely enough, my future husband and I went to a movie and had a wonderful time. We went to dinner. No guilt in evidence, anywhere. Two whole days worth of guilt free life. I finally relented and called her. Tuesday.
She acted as if nothing negative at all had occurred and so did I, we fell back into the routine of our daily calls about nothing in particular. However, she never again called before 10:00 a.m. and I no longer felt the need to turn my phones off on a Friday night.
Mom called it was a Thursday. Her voice sounded strained and thin. "Are you sitting down?" she asked. I giggled a little and said that I was at my desk at work, so I was, of course, seated. A weird feeling passed over me. Like someone was walking across my grave or something spooky was about to happen. "I have some news," she said in that strange shaky voice that I had not heard before. "I have to have some tests tomorrow....don't worry I'm sure everything will be all right."
We talked for a few minutes more, I assured her that I just knew it would all be just fine. Bad things happened to other people, they didn't happen to me and they didn't happen to my family.
I called mom the next day. Test results not in yet. I called mom that night. Yes, she got the results and she was trying to work up the courage to call as soon as she figured out how to tell me and my sister. How do you tell someone you have cancer? It's not something you can write in an e-mail. Telephone conversations don't seem adequate either, but since she lived a few hours away, that was going to have to suffice.
Mom had passed out at work earlier in the week and was taken to the emergency room, where she had been admitted to the hospital. My sister and I had wanted to come to her but she insisted that it would be stupid, considering she would probably be released by the time we got there and we both had our jobs and families to attend to.
Her blood count was very abnormal. She thought she was just anemic. Her white blood cells outnumbered her red blood cells by about 1000 to 1. She had lymphoma and she just thought she had a bad cold. According to one of her nurses she was a legend on that particular floor of the hospital. Usually when people were admitted with blood counts of that caliber, they were already dead.
She had ignored the various signals her body had been sending her for weeks and even months. The swelling in her ankles and the fatigue were just passed off as minor ailments. She put her feet up a lot and rested. The anemia was treated with Iron tablets. Little things to be dealt with and quickly forgotten.
During the months of her treatment my sister and I would take turns going to visit her every couple of weeks. That way mom got to see us and we her, but we didn't have to take too much valuable time off from our jobs and families. She was one of the bravest people I had ever met. During this same period of time her own father (my grandfather) as well as her sister-in-law (my aunt) were also battling terminal cancers of their own.
My grandfather had bone cancer, my aunt had cancer of the liver and pancreas. Mom was single at that time. She had no husband or boyfriend to stay by her side. My parents had divorced ten years earlier. Between working her own job and going for chemotherapy and medication, she was also visiting hospital floors for her father and a woman who was as close to her as a sister. Watching them die was like looking into her own possible future she told me, and it frightened her.
On one of my extended weekend visits that summer, I took mom for her chemotherapy. I wanted to see what she was going through and I felt powerless to help in any other capacity. The poison they pumped into her system to kill the cancer cells made her nauseous and dizzy and she couldn't drive. This was toward the end of her treatment. She had lost weight, she was pale, her hair was gone and she was never seen outside the house without her wig(a horrible creation that looked nothing like her own hair at all) or a colorful scarf wrapped as a turban covering her head. She nicknamed herself "suburban turban". She was tired a lot and napped frequently when she could.
We went to the treatment center and the nurses there explained the whole procedure to me, I spoke to her doctor and he explained that her treatment was progressing very well.
Apparently if you are going to get cancer, the type to get is the type that she had. It responds well to treatment and the survival rate is very high. I never thought, in all my life, that the words, 'high survival rate' would make me happy, but on that day, I was ecstatic. I couldn't wait to get back to the house and tell my sister what I had learned.
I sat next to mom in one of the comfy recliners in the treatment center and watched as the medication dripped into the shunt that they had implanted into her chest. I watched a soap opera as the treatment went on. It would last for at least an hour, they had warned. I watched the other patients there. I thought about their various illnesses and I thought about how brave they were and how grateful I was that I was not one of them.
When mom was about five minutes into her treatment she fell asleep. Her face took on an almost childlike innocence. Her breathing was deep and regular as her body rested and her mind relaxed. I smiled a little as she snored lightly. Strange that I should find a moment of any kind of joy in that place. The nurse smiled at me and told me that she does that every time. I watched her as I know I have watched my own children sleep. Marveling at the peace that slumber gives us, watching her breathe, praying.
When we returned from the hospital, my sister and six year old daughter greeted us.
Catie drew grandma a picture and she asks if she can lay down with her when she takes a nap. Mom gratefully obliges, the treatment had made her very dizzy and she is looking forward to the rest. She takes off her wig while preparing to lay down and we all watch her. Her head is fuzzy, like a newborn chick, and her green eyes are huge in her pale porcelain face.
My daughter, in all her six year old wisdom, hugs her and tells her that she looks beautiful and should always wear her hair that way. My sister and I and our mother all laugh at that and Catie just smiles.
After that day, the wig and the turban were retired. If mom was going anywhere in public she wore a baseball cap to prevent her scalp from being burned by the sun or to keep her head warm in the wind. If she was indoors she wore her fuzzy head proudly as a badge of honor for the trials she was going through.
Her hair began growing back that fall. It came in very curly- unlike it was before. She was thrilled and said she would take anything that would cover up her head. My Grandfather died that winter. My aunt about a month later.
That long weekend in August was the last time I would ever see either of them.
Mom made it through that year, and the year after that, and the year after that. In fact, after her annual check up last year she was officially declared "in remission". Her doctor said that the chances of recurrence are very low. Again, a phrase I never dreamed would be a reason for any feelings of joy on my part.
I called mom today. I didn't really have anything of any great consequence to say to her. I asked after her husband(my step-father, her high school sweetheart and first love - they married a few years ago). I told her how her grandchildren are doing. She asked after my husband.
Most of all, I was just glad she was there to pick up the phone. I know that one day she won't be. Today, she is.
My Turn 11/3/07
My Turn
Current mood: cranky
I woke up in the most horrible mood the other day. So tired of the day to day grind. Get up, go to work, come home, laundry, dinner...yada..yada..yada. I thought about it and realized....I've been in the work force for 25 years. Let me say that again. 25 FREAKING years.
In that time, I've taken very few vacations and the only real length of time where I was not working was the six weeks following the birth of each of my children. Basically....I've had.......6 months off...in 25 years.
I've spent all this time....doing WHAT? Making humanity safe for checkbooks everywhere?? Helping others(ex husband number 1...present husband) achieve their dreams (Truck Driver, Educator) respectively and...where did MY dreams go?
What was it that I wanted to be? When will it be my turn to be the one taken care of instead of the one taking care? How long does a person wait to find their bliss? When is it too late?
Has it already happened? Is "too late" already here?
Current mood: cranky
I woke up in the most horrible mood the other day. So tired of the day to day grind. Get up, go to work, come home, laundry, dinner...yada..yada..yada. I thought about it and realized....I've been in the work force for 25 years. Let me say that again. 25 FREAKING years.
In that time, I've taken very few vacations and the only real length of time where I was not working was the six weeks following the birth of each of my children. Basically....I've had.......6 months off...in 25 years.
I've spent all this time....doing WHAT? Making humanity safe for checkbooks everywhere?? Helping others(ex husband number 1...present husband) achieve their dreams (Truck Driver, Educator) respectively and...where did MY dreams go?
What was it that I wanted to be? When will it be my turn to be the one taken care of instead of the one taking care? How long does a person wait to find their bliss? When is it too late?
Has it already happened? Is "too late" already here?
Comfort in Silence 10/18/07
Comfort in Silence
Some people are uncomfortable in silence. The indeterminate amount of time passing, with no sound to mark it, bothers them. The quiet reminds them of their solitude. They need words to fill the space. They talk of nothing, so they don't have to think about everything.
I find solace in the silence. It reminds me of the times I've spent with loved ones and no words were needed. It reminds me of whittling. For those that are unfamilar with the term, to "whittle" is a southern thing.
Most of my family is southern. My great grandfather would sit with me under a HUGE oak tree in front of his store - he owned a tiny combination grocery store and luncheonette out in the middle of the country. When I say 'out in the middle of the country" I mean, MILES...and MILES from anywhere. If ten cars came through, THAT was a busy day.
My great grandfather would sit out under the oak tree..on a bench that he had built. He would sit there for hours, carving(whittling) with an old knife on a piece of wood he had picked up(usually that morning). He would carve on it all day long and whatever shape it turned out to be at the end of the day, is the shape it would remain in for the rest of it's existence.
He hardly ever spoke. I believe I heard ten words from him the whole time I knew him. He could convey more with one look, than most people said in ten sentences full of words. When we would go to visit, he almost always motioned me over to sit next to him while he carved.
He taught me that silence really is golden and that the sound of the leaves blowing in the breeze and the noise that a knife makes as it carves away a piece of wood from a branch, is sometimes all the conversation that is needed.
Some people are uncomfortable in silence. The indeterminate amount of time passing, with no sound to mark it, bothers them. The quiet reminds them of their solitude. They need words to fill the space. They talk of nothing, so they don't have to think about everything.
I find solace in the silence. It reminds me of the times I've spent with loved ones and no words were needed. It reminds me of whittling. For those that are unfamilar with the term, to "whittle" is a southern thing.
Most of my family is southern. My great grandfather would sit with me under a HUGE oak tree in front of his store - he owned a tiny combination grocery store and luncheonette out in the middle of the country. When I say 'out in the middle of the country" I mean, MILES...and MILES from anywhere. If ten cars came through, THAT was a busy day.
My great grandfather would sit out under the oak tree..on a bench that he had built. He would sit there for hours, carving(whittling) with an old knife on a piece of wood he had picked up(usually that morning). He would carve on it all day long and whatever shape it turned out to be at the end of the day, is the shape it would remain in for the rest of it's existence.
He hardly ever spoke. I believe I heard ten words from him the whole time I knew him. He could convey more with one look, than most people said in ten sentences full of words. When we would go to visit, he almost always motioned me over to sit next to him while he carved.
He taught me that silence really is golden and that the sound of the leaves blowing in the breeze and the noise that a knife makes as it carves away a piece of wood from a branch, is sometimes all the conversation that is needed.
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